What I Learned in College

Photo Credit: Google Images

“What am I doing here? I’m an idiot.”

That was one of the more positive thoughts I had as I found a seat in my first class at Saint Martin’s University. I just wanted to die. I was at least fifteen years older than everyone in my Religious Studies class, and they all knew each other so I pretended to be busy reading a blank sheet of notebook paper while they talked.

“Oh my gosh, they’re all geniuses. I’m dropping out, this was a mistake. A huge, mid-life-crisis mistake.”

Those thoughts continued until the professor, Sister Laura, took roll and started her lecture. We sat at rectangular tables which formed a square around the room. Sister Laura paced the floor, discussing historical figures who were killed for their beliefs. She brought up the holy triumvirate of martyrs: Jesus, Gandhi, and Martin Luther King, Jr., describing attributes they all shared. As Sister Laura circled the room, she asked the students, “Who else can we add to this list?”

A young woman raised her hand and answered, “Macklemore?”

She wasn’t asking a question, she was making a statement, but she was an uptalker, like so many of today’s youth, whose last word of every sentence rises in an insecure and hesitant finale.

“Okay... Macklemore. And who is he?” asked Sister Laura.

“He’s a rapper? And he like? Supports sexual preference?” said the uptalker.

A euphoric feeling rushed through my body; that was the moment I knew I was going to get along just fine at college. But at the same time, I felt sick to my stomach because holy crap, this girl was serious.

For two years, I worried and stressed and second-guessed my way through the required courses. I read 60 books, countless short stories, and dozens of essays, I wrote 49 papers totaling 369 pages, and I filled 8 spiral notebooks with notes and research. And I think I have the beginning stages of arthritis in my right hand.

I earned a Bachelor’s degree in English and I have no idea what to do with it, but at least I can cross “Go back to college” off my bucket list. There are actually only two things on that list, the other one is “Appear in an 80's sitcom." But since Diff’rent Strokes was cancelled, I’ll never get to realize my dream of guest starring as Mr. Drummond’s tom-boyishly feisty foster daughter, Tiffany, whose hilarious catch phrases put Arnold’s “Whatchu talkin’ ‘bout, Willis?" to shame. 

Perhaps it’s time to update my bucket list.

If you’re old like me and you're considering going back to college, but are intimidated by the mere thought of it, I’d like to share some things I learned that will serve as priceless nuggets of counsel for your journey.

1) The wisest, most intelligent human beings are those who, when challenged, resist the urge to announce how educated they are, or list the degrees they hold. Any time someone utters the phrase, “I am highly educated, I hold a [insert degree] in [insert field]...” the next words out of his mouth will likely be the stupidest thing you’ve ever heard. And I should know because I’m highly educated, I have a Bachelor's in English. 

2) There are four, and only four, topics that exist in Universities and shame on you if you ever try to discuss another one. Class, Race, Gender, and Religion. That’s it. Nothing else matters, you narrow-minded bigot.

3) If you’re lucky, you’ll encounter professors whose passion and excitement are so infectious that you momentarily consider pursuing a PhD until you realize that you want to spend neither the time nor the money required to earn it, and you actually hate research, not to mention you struggle with a severe lack of motivation. But those professors are fantastic. And few.

4) This is the most important thing I learned, so pay attention. No college degree, no amount of letters after a name, no pretentious academic-speak will ever impress me as much as my blue-collar family. I watch them build, fix, and labor every day and their skills are like nothing I ever saw in college. They read, debate, and grow their minds as they pursue wisdom, but can still build an entire house, or boat, or car. And yes, of course there is value in both fields; one just impresses me a little more.

While finishing college at 38 was one of the most satisfying and rewarding accomplishments of my life, it was also frustrating. I showed up with a lot of life already lived and real world experiences to bring to my studies, and those characteristics aren’t always welcome in a university where a specific doctrine is being instilled. Once, a guest-speaker told my literary theory class that many feminists believe stay-at-home moms perpetuate the oppression of women and cause more harm than good. How'd you like to hear that as a young twenty-something who doesn't have a clue what "oppression of women" even means other than what you learned in school?

There’s an excellent scene in Good Will Hunting where Clark, a braggadocious Harvard student, in an effort to show off, begins to regurgitate other people’s ideas as if they were his own. Will, a janitor, calls him out in a let’s-all-cheer-for-the-underdog scene, and he shares some knowledge with the phony intellectual that's incredibly apt. Will says to Clark, “See, the sad thing about a guy like you is, in 50 years you're gonna start doin' some thinkin' on your own and you're going to come up with the fact that there are two certainties in life: one, don't do that, and two, you dropped 150 grand on a [bleep]’n education you could have got for a dollar fifty in late charges at the public library.”

As great as college was, as enriched as my life has become because of it, I hope I never forget that it’s not the greatest. Nor is it the only way to knowledge, wisdom, or success. Whatever path my kids choose, whether college or a skilled trade, all I ask of them is they work harder then they ever have, and that they find joy in what they do. And maybe figure it out before they're almost 40. 'Cause I still don't have a clue.

How do ya like them apples?

The Need for "Creed" (or "Rocky VII" as I like to call it)

Getting punched by Rocky at Planet Hollywood, Times Square in 2008

I was exactly fifteen days old when Rocky won the Oscar for Best Picture. I remember watching Sylvester Stallone humbly accept the award and thinking, “We certainly have not seen the last of this film.” (I was a brilliant baby.) And now, almost 40 years later, Rocky is back for a 7^th time, and they can call it what they want but it’s still Rocky and we all know it.

In Creed, Adonis Johnson, Apollo’s illegitimate son, wants to be a fighter and is determined to prove himself without using his father’s name. Adonis convinces a reluctant Rocky to train him. Eventually, word gets out that Adonis is Creed’s blood and British light-heavyweight champion, “Pretty” Ricky Conlan, challenges him to a fight. Rocky fans will find no shortage of legendary training montages and a characteristic soundtrack that manipulates your emotions so that you want to jump out of your seat and cheer, but you don’t because you’re also crying. That’s the gist of the film right there, and it’s all you need to know.

But let’s get back to Rocky. Remember at the end of Rocky III when Apollo Creed calls in the favor that Rocky owes him? Apollo wants a private rematch, “No TV, no newspapers, just you and me.” The two fighters dance around the ring joking about getting older until, at the exact same moment, Rocky throws a left, Apollo throws a right, and the movie ends a split-second before the punches land. And for 33 years, the world has wandered aimlessly, wondering who won that rematch. In Creed, Rocky reveals the winner and now, breathing a huge collective sigh, the world can finally move forward. You wanna know who won? Go see Creed.

Let me caution you about reading reviews of the Rocky films. Stay away from pretentious critics who don’t possess the only quality necessary to enjoy a movie: The ability to suspend disbelief. Instead, go into these films blindly, with a child-like wonder, and you will never ever be disappointed. In Rocky IV, when Rocky defeated Ivan Drago and single-handedly ended the Cold War, I walked out of the movie theater with a new outlook on life because if he could change, and I could change, then everybody could change. It was the greatest film I had seen in all of my 8 years on earth, and I knew I would never be the same. When Drago beat Apollo Creed to death, as I watched Apollo lay there dying in Rocky's arms, I had to get up and move to the back of the movie theater because I was crying so hard. I hadn’t sobbed like that during a film since Elliot and Gertie said goodbye to E.T. three years earlier. I guess you could say I take movies seriously. So, when I tell you that these films are masterpieces, believe that I believe it. Critics be damned.

Like its predecessors, the new film deals with real life problems, and I was surprised how difficult it was for me to watch Rocky get sick (oh settle down, you see it in the trailer). There’s a scene where Rocky is laying in the hospital, and it made me think of when my father-in-law had heart surgery. As we stood around his hospital bed before they wheeled him to the OR, I experienced this ache in my gut and a tightening in my chest that I’d never felt before. I felt it again watching Rocky battle his illness in Creed. So maybe it’s all a little too real, but there’s a reason they’ve made seven of these films. They make them for people like me.

Creed has everything you can expect from a Rocky film; during his climactic fight against Conlan, Adonis wears the iconic red, white, and blue trunks (with a slight alteration) worn by Apollo and Rocky in the previous films. This installment is going to set a whole new generation on fire. For the next film, I hope Adonis travels to the Middle East and fights ISIS because, with Rocky’s help, he can put an end to radical Islam. Okay, that might be a stretch, but what I do know is that my infant-self was right, we certainly have not seen the last of this film. 

Dyeing to Bond

Dear Ali,

You dyed your hair blue today. You didn’t do it out of rebellion, you weren’t trying make a statement, you just wanted blue hair. Four months ago, you told me what you wanted; you showed me pictures on Pinterest of girls with beautiful hair in all different shades of blue and you were so excited. I said you could do it, but it probably wouldn’t look like the images on Pinterest, I said it would likely resemble the hair on the folks we see wandering through downtown. Your shoulders slumped and I immediately realized my mistake. 

Why did I even go there? When I was your age I hated when my parents questioned my style choices. I never ever felt beautiful enough. Apparently, thrift store flannels and Jimi Hendrix t-shirts aren’t flattering on a daughter who refuses to wear make-up. You just can’t show her off to your friends, I guess. I will not do that to you. I took back my words and encouraged you to experiment. It’s just hair but, more importantly, it’s your hair.

We tried a few store-bought colors: Leatherhead and Red Velvet; they both looked great. But eventually you spoke up. You still wanted blue and these colors weren’t cutting it. When you bought a jar of Manic Panic in Voodoo Blue, my heart soared because that’s the same color I put in my hair on April 5, 1994. I remember the date because my friends and I were in a head shop in Seaside, Oregon buying Manic Panic when the news broke that Kurt Cobain had killed himself. How does a 17-year-old Nirvana fan forget something like that? You chose Voodoo Blue and I felt like we somehow connected. 

A hairstylist quoted you $250 to bleach your hair. You made an appointment to be polite and then we all laughed and you called later to cancel your appointment. Yesterday, your aunt Leah saved the day (like she has done so often before) and brought her Kaleidacolors bleach to the house. You let us bleach your hair and every now and then, Leah and I glanced at each other over your head in amazement because you were letting us touch you. You hate being touched, but we relished every minute.

Today, you let me apply the Manic Panic. I was nervous but thrilled to spend time with you and show you that I support your style. Besides, I got to touch you and play with your hair and look at you. You sat in the kitchen watching Sleepy Hollow on the laptop, oblivious to the fact that you just made my month.

When it was time to rinse, you situated yourself on the bathroom floor with your back against the tub. I sat next to you rinsing your hair like I did when you were little. You closed your eyes, probably because you didn’t want to accidentally make eye-contact (you hate that too). I stared at your face, stunned by how fast that sweet baby face turned into a beautiful young woman face. I worried that you’d open your eyes and then roll them at me for being sappy.

After your hair was rinsed (man, that took a long time), you said, "Thank you for helping me with this." I almost hugged and kissed you and thanked YOU for allowing me to, but I acted chill and just said, "Sure." You went up to your room and I followed. Maybe I thought we could continue bonding.

I lay on your bed and you sat in front your mirrored closet doors drying your new bluish-teal hair. You glared at me in the mirror and I smiled.

“Whaaaat?” You said, turning off your blow dryer. You were suddenly exasperated with me.

“Can I please take a picture?” I asked, knowing the answer.

“Nope.” You sighed, a sign I should probably leave. “What’s for dinner?” You asked without looking at me.

“Chili,” I answered.

“Ew.”

Bonding over—I get it. Let me know when you want to go purple. I’ll be here, waiting.

-Mom

So, You Want to Date My Daughter?

Yesterday, my twelve year-old daughter, Ashley, changed out of her cow-print footie pajamas into her school clothes, double-knotted the laces of her multi-colored Converse, packed her penguin lunch box, and went to school—where a boy asked her to “go out” with him because he thought she was cute. By “asked her,” I mean he made his friends do it for him because he is, after all, eleven.

I was completely shocked. Not because a boy asked Ashley to be his girlfriend, because she’s adorable and he clearly has good taste. I wasn’t even shocked that Ashley was teased about her answer, which was “No.” Her actual words to the kid’s messengers were, “I’m not allowed to date and I have no interest in it.” They all made fun of her, which is what kids sometimes do—they make fun of things they don’t understand. They couldn’t believe Ashley’s parents wouldn’t let her date and they told her it was “so weird.” That’s the part that shocked me.

It’s considered “weird” if parents don’t let their pre-teen children “date.” I’m sorry, my pre-teen has only been out of diapers for nine years. She needs reminders to brush her teeth every day, and she still believes in Santa. Can you give her a minute to just be a kid? What have we taught our eleven and twelve year-old children about dating if they think it’s abnormal to not be allowed to?

Not all parents agree with me (surprise, surprise). Many parents think pre-teen dating is cute and innocent. “At this age, all dating means is that they sit together at lunch or on the bus,” is the justification I hear many parents make when they let their young kids date. I’d like to suggest another name for that form of dating: friendship. Admittedly, dating probably does mean that to some kids. But it doesn’t to most of them. And I think you know that.

I’m more interested in training my twelve year-old daughter how to be a good friend to others than I am in training her how to have a successful romance before she even gets her first period. I’m more interested in teaching her how to deal with her own changing hormones than I am in teaching her how to deal with a pre-pubescent boy’s. That will all happen soon enough, and until she’s ready for it, I choose to make my daughter wait.

Ashley’s daddy and I encourage her to have lots of friends—girls and boys. We also encourage her to pick up her crayons and craft supplies from every surface in the house; we sew up Waddle—the stuffed penguin she’s slept with every night for ten years—when he starts to fall apart; and we help her deal with the challenging and already difficult process of becoming a teenage girl. The last thing we want to introduce to Ashley is how to deal with romantic feelings when she is still trying to grasp how to divide fractions.

As parents, we’re busy though, right? We have a lot to do. Work is hard enough and then we have to come home and raise kids, worry about finances, and stress about all the things that don’t even come close to mattering as much as our children do. If we invested as much time in keeping our fingers on the pulse of our kids’ social lives as we do on the other things we try to juggle, maybe we wouldn’t be so quick to let our children date.

I read an article on pre-teen dating and learned that not a lot of research has been done on it because—guess what—“dating” doesn’t mean the same thing for pre-teens that it used to. The article lists some of the negative effects of teenage dating and claims that pre-teens can expect to experience similar results, which include: 

• Mood swings and symptoms of depression
• Increased conflict in relationships with family and friends
• Increased likelihood of sexual encounters (If this is news to you, then you, my friend, are a fool.)

Years ago, I drove my kids to their elementary school, and at the bottom of the hill, just off school property, I saw a fifth-grade girl making out with an adult man (at least he appeared to be an adult). They were really going at it. I went straight into the school office and told the secretary that there was a pervert making out with a child down the hill.

“We know about that relationship. It’s okay; he’s not eighteen and her mom approves,” she said.

I explained to her that there was no way in hell that what I just saw was okay, and we need to call the police on the pervert, and give me the mom’s phone number while we’re at it because she’s an idiot.

“Well, they aren’t on school property. And mom approves, so it’s okay,” the secretary replied, acting like I was an over-zealous hall monitor trying to bust someone for running in the halls. I just shook my head in disbelief and walked out of the office.

That little fifth-grade girl was pregnant with that nearly-grown-man’s baby. During recesses, she showed off her sonogram pictures to her friends while the rest of the kids played tag, and four square, and traded Pokémon cards. Many of them thought it was cool that she was pregnant.

But I’m the weirdo for not allowing my daughter to date. Ashley faces the gossip and teasing like a champ. She doesn’t care what those kids think about her and you want to know why? Because, while so many other kids are obsessed with relationships that will end in three days, and checking the box “yes” or “no” (I’m sure there is now a pre-teen dating app for that old-school method), Ashley is learning how to be a strong, independent little girl. She’s learning how to survive the cruelty of middle school and she’s learning how to love her friends and herself before she ever starts loving a boy. 

Besides, we all know boys have Cooties.

---

Fraser-Thill, Rebecca. “The Problems Associated with Tween Dating.” About Parenting. n.p. n.d. Web. 5 Feb. 2015.

How to Play the Guitar Like Me

            

(This is my step-by-step process for playing the guitar. Feel free to tailor it however you'd like, there is no one way to play, as long as your music speaks to you. As Longfellow said, "Music is the universal language of mankind." And as I say, "Yep.")

Nineteen years ago, a boy taught me how to play certain parts of certain songs and I have never forgotten how. Well, I’ve never forgotten how to play certain parts of certain parts of certain songs. So I’ll explain that.

The guitar I play is a classical guitar, which means it has nylon strings (acoustics have steel strings) and it has a wider neck than an acoustic guitar. The sound is much more mellow and “folksy.” I didn't know this at the time, instead, I liked the color of the wood. I recommend choosing your instrument based solely on appearance. I bought the guitar at a pawn shop on my eighteenth birthday. I also bought a pair of Doc Marten’s from Joon’s head shop in Lakewood. It was a good birthday.

First, I take the guitar out of the attic and blow off the dust. I have an allergy attack and go upstairs to find tissues. I notice my linen closet is in complete disarray so I rearrange and organize a bit. I go back to my guitar. I unzip the case and remove the guitar. The initial strum of the strings tells me the guitar needs tuning. I call my husband, Chad, who tunes it for me. I’m not sure how this is done. I think magic is involved. And turning the pegs on the neck just so. But mostly magic.

Once the guitar is tuned (I know it’s tuned because Chad tells me it is) I situate the guitar in my lap, holding the neck in my left hand with the strings facing away from me. This part is important to remember for the novice. I wrote a poem to help you remember:

Guitar strings away

Easy to play.

(After a while, this part will become second nature, be patient with yourself.) I spend the next three minutes trying to recall finger placement for the intro to Metallica’s “One.” This is where those around me hear a lot of:

“No wait…. Okay... listen now—no—wait. Okay, watch. How come this isn’t working?”

Finally, I realize that my fingers are on the wrong part of the fingerboard, which means I’m playing the wrong notes. I can’t tell you what the notes are called, only that they’re the wrong ones.

Eventually, my fingers find the right strings. This is usually an accident. By this time, everyone has left the room. I begin to play the song. I can’t use a pick because it messes me up, but I’m pretty sure the song would sound better with a pick. Also, it might sound better on an electric guitar, but I don't have one of those.  I begin to play the notes and at this point, I once again say:

“Wait, No... Okay… No. Wait... I hate this stupid guitar.”

I pick—with my fingers, not an actual pick, because those are hard—my way through the first eight or nine seconds of the song. Because that’s all I know. I call my family to come back in the room. They seem to not hear me. I yell louder. I get up and take the guitar into the other room where they are squeezed together behind the curtains, standing as still as statues. This tells me they are waiting for me to perform and don’t want to be a distraction while I play. I perform for them.

It takes a few minutes of fumbling, but I finally play my piece. They slowly step out from behind the curtain. My kids’ faces bear the expression of someone who just watched a natural childbirth for the first time. As I begin to ask what their reaction means, I’m interrupted by Chad, who puts his arm around me and says, “Rachie, how do you do that?” I offer to teach him but he quickly excuses himself to answer the front door. Which is weird, because I didn’t hear a knock.

That is how I play a guitar. There are multiple techniques and methods by which you too can learn to play, and I hope you find one you love. Remember, it took me nineteen years to get where I am. 

Forgetting Molly

If I could forget any pet I’ve ever owned, I would erase Molly from my memory. Molly was the teacup poodle I had in 1985, when I was eight years old. My mom bought her and gave her the hideously refined AKC name “Good Golly Miss Molly.” I was embarrassed to call her that so she simply went by “Molly.” Molly was my best friend. We snuggled in my favorite blanket together and watched Saturday morning cartoons. I taught her how to dance for treats and when she stood on her back legs, she was barely taller than my Cabbage Patch Preemie, Cassandra Marie. Molly reluctantly allowed me to shove her into piles of stuffed animals where she sat patiently while I conducted photo shoots. I was a child who got along better with dogs than I did with humans, and Molly was the love of my young life.

One sunny Saturday morning, my dad took my sister Leah and me to play baseball at the school in our neighborhood. We loaded our dogs and that god-awful Louisville Slugger into Dad’s dull grey Chevy pickup and drove five blocks to Lydia Hawk Elementary School. I wanted so badly to amaze Dad with my non-existent baseball skills; I was determined to win his affection. So it seemed a particularly cruel twist of fate that instead of bonding with my father, I ended up beating sweet Molly to death with the Louisville Slugger. 

Here's what happened...

Targhee and Molly 

While Dad pitched, Leah and I took turns swinging at (and rarely connecting with) the ball. Targhee, our German shorthaired pointer, brought us rocks to throw into the bushes so she could hunt for them but Molly didn’t venture far from my side. I imagine she felt safe next to me in that big dirt field. I was, after all, her protector.

It was my turn at bat and I directed all my focus toward Dad, ready to impress. I took a few practice swings and then, as I swung the heavy bat backwards with all my might so I could rest it on my shoulder, I heard the sickening hollow THUNK that thirty years later I still can’t shake from my mind. 

I turned and looked at the ground where Molly lay motionless at my feet. From the corner of my eye I saw Leah take off in a full sprint heading the opposite direction straight through the gate and down the street. In a choked whisper, Dad said, “Rachel, go to the truck.” And so I ran. Pure panic set in and I couldn’t even think. I climbed into the back of the truck and maybe I cried. Maybe I prayed. Maybe I hyperventilated. I was eight years old. What was I supposed to do?

Dad returned to the truck and as I gasped for the air that refused to fill my lungs I asked him, “Is she okay?” He just shook his head and wouldn't look at me.

He wrapped Molly’s tiny body in his shirt and laid her in the front seat. Leah and I rode home silently in the truck bed, terrified and stunned. When we pulled into the driveway I jumped out and ran to my room to get my favorite blanket. I hugged the dusty pink calico fabric to my chest as I carried it down the hallway and placed it in Dad’s hands. I told him to wrap Molly in it when he buried her. In my childish mind, she would need it to keep warm at night. I’d had that blanket longer than I could remember but Molly needed it more than I did. I had just aged twenty years and it was useless to me now.

My mom sat on the couch staring out the window probably thinking, where is THIS chapter in the parenting books? Meanwhile, to keep myself from crying, I did cartwheels around the living room. I flipped around the floor like Mary Lou Retton at the previous year’s Olympics, fighting back the tears and trying to erase the images that were already permanently etched in my too-young-for-this brain. I knew if I stopped doing cartwheels I’d cry and then how would I ever stop. People do weird things to keep from collapsing into despair.

It was a horrible accident that left me traumatized, and for a long time I was unable to even pick up a bat. I had the bonus of being teased by family and friends when I was finally able to play baseball again. They would say, “Everyone, get the dogs away from Rachel!” and other hysterical wise-cracks. I still can’t play baseball without remembering what I did. Or swing a golf club, or hammer a nail, or watch a coconut fall on Gilligan’s head, or...

I’m almost forty and sometimes I still do cartwheels, hoping that one day I will finally forget about Molly.