Teachers

Teachers.  We have all had them even if we didn't attend school.  Many of us have been shaped tremendously by them.  Some of my best qualities and some of my worst have come from their time in my life.

My first great teacher was in 6th grade.  Which really is a travesty.  After speaking to other people I have found that I have been incredibly lucky in my wide assortment of great teachers.  Unfortunately none of those were in the first 5 years of my education.  I wonder what kind of lasting damage could have been assuaged had I had a great instructor before then.  I wonder what kind of life I would have lead had Mrs. Blackwell not taught me in 6th grade at all. 

By the time I reached the 6th grade I had gone through a few major transitions that didn't do me any great favors except for the fact that they lead to me a group of astonishingly great friends.  I attended a private school in Kindergarten and first grade as I lived in a "tough" neighborhood at the time.  I don't really know what that meant.  Many of my friends say I live in a "tough" neighborhood now.  The cynic in me says that this probably just meant that many of my peers had I gone to public school would have been brown more than I would have been in physical danger going to public school.  The private school I attended was, I imagine, a more psychically and spiritually dangerous environment but it did, from an early age, teach me the religious cynicism which has served me well over the years and what I consider one of my defining traits.  I also had to actually read and communicate what I read starting in kindergarten, which also stood me in great stead through my life.

After moving to the suburbs in the second grade it became quickly apparent that the high academic standards of the atrocious private school and the year I was held back to meet them meant that I was a head taller and a grade ahead of my fellow scholars.  So about halfway through the year I skipped up to third grade.  Many people would think that this was a significant honorary advancement for the young student but it had really just taken a very insecure, and now obese, nerd from one new environment to another.  I had gone from just starting to make friends to be all alone in an environment where the peer groups were already established.  It is not entirely coincidental that this was the year that I started consuming volumes of the World Book Encyclopedia like other kids consume twinkies and read The Hobbit for the first time.  Books show much more compassion than children tend to.  So although I cemented my social position in this strange year as never being the popular kid, it also ensured that I was the most well read.  I stumbled into learning cursive halfway through the alphabet and my penmanship, never something to write home about in the first place, didn't fully recover until I re-taught myself to write in college.  Both of my teachers this year were not bad teachers, and I really think my 2nd grade teacher cared about me and my academic success, which is why she initiated me skipping grades in the first place, but very little of that year do I remember except for the books and the constant feeling of embarrassment and isolation.

Fourth and Fifth grade I met Kurt and Cory who were better friends than I deserved and helped me to make many less and much less severely bad life choices than had I not met them.  What I forsook in quantity of friendships I more than made up for in quality.  I had the same teacher both years in a split classroom.  In the crystal clear hindsight of adulthood I can see that the elderly teacher had trouble maintaining two distinct lesson plans and a large class of malcontents.  Those two years primarily left me with a seething bitterness towards that woman who could never see anything good in me that took years to dissipate.

Then Mrs. Blackwell came on the scene.  Mrs. Blackwell rode rodeo and would come into class with the rattlesnake she had decapitated with a .45 revolver while feeding her animals at night.  What really made Mrs. Blackwell stand apart from the teachers I had up to that point was the fact that she made a shocking number of her students care, in large part because she did.  Instead of relegating me to the trouble makers corner as most of the school staff at this point had done, she put me in the advanced mathematics and reading groups.  I wrote the first thing that ever made me cry as I wrote it in her class, and saw the tears in her eyes when I was made to read it to the class.  She was the first teacher I took risks for.  Not because I wanted to be one of the great authors that I spent so much time reading, I was going to be a heart surgeon after all, but because I wanted to give her back material that cost me something.  Reading that story now it is utter garbage and I can't for the life of me see why it made her cry but the story, like her influence, never left me.

Most of my jr high teachers I hardly remember.  In large part because I was too busy feeling that strange uncomfortable anxiety that is the burden of so many in those years.  But I had a few standouts.  Mr. Tracy, my 7th grade English teacher, I think actually liked the things I wrote, even if they tended to be simply be mediocre sword buckling adventures.  He made me memorize a poem for the first time, Poe's Annabel Lee.  I have Poe's complete written works on my bookshelf today because of that poem.  My 7th Grade history teacher, though I don't recall his name, told my parents I marched to the beat of my own drummer which simultaneously reinforced my incredible feelings of isolation as well as soared my heart with a strange pride. 

Some of my teachers through those years were not so great.  My 7th grade math teacher wouldn't allow me to take algebra because I was bored in her class and had a C because I never did the homework, even though my test grades were among the highest in the school.  She lacked Mrs. Blackwell's insight and I lacked the tenacity to make that happen anyway.  My 8th grade history teacher encouraged my class to make fun of me when I naively tried to correct what I thought was her misspeaking in front of the class.  She was just wrong, however, and allowed the class to laugh at me teaching me a valuable lesson in keeping my mouth shut.  A lesson I have actively practiced nearly as much as I should have.

I had an assortment of very good teachers in High School who were able to look past the awkward smart ass in me and see something else.  For them I am eternally grateful.  They afforded me all sorts of privileges and opportunities that I would have completely bypassed had I had more of the ordinary sort of instructor.  The good ones almost, but not entirely, erased the damage of the bad.

It amazes me now at how much those moments, those few memories which have survived the years, have shaped me.  The only reason I try to write at all are those times that the Blackwells, Tracys, and Kilmers out-scream the voices my less wonderful teachers left in my head.  Now as a dad I am all too aware of the things I say in a heated moment that I know no apology will erase the stain of.  Those great teachers have instilled in me a desire to help those smart ass kids who are simply bored, not bad.  But all the while those other voices try to argue for my shortcomings, my laziness, and my insecurities.  Luckily for me (on top of some pretty seriously helpings of privilege and means) I have come to the place where I have a decent job that gives me the time to sit down and write these thoughts down.  My only challenge now is to point my children and others down a path that will hopefully surpass my own.  Hopefully I can provide a few voices that will someday argue for their greatness, their courage, their kindness. 

Tales From BookFace: Speech-ing Freely

This post was borne from a Facebook thread, and is essentially an annotated cross-post. I've ranted elsewhere about how Facebook and most social medias (Twitter, Reddit, et al.) are just "voids" where thought, discussion and time goes in but then is lost into the abyss of "Now", never to return. To try and save me from repeating myself in the future, I am posting this here so I can simply point to it later when/if this issue comes up again.

First, some temporal context: There's been a lot of hubbub going in the US lately regarding the clashes between the ctrl-alt-left and the ctrl-alt-right. Lotsa violence from both sides, some death and destruction. There are a good number of racists in the alt-right, pretending to be "Nazis", causing a ruckus at various rallies. Not many people like racists, so this is currently a hot-topic for the various medias, social and otherwise.

I was replying to someone posting a link to this graphic by some guy calling himself Karl Popper (alleged Philosopher). Popper's argument is essentially that we ought to make hate speech outright illegal, because to do otherwise would be inviting all the racist boogeymen to power. Now, all disdain for racism aside, I hope you understand why that very notion is both inane and dangerous.

If you don't readily get why, here is my cross-post from BookFace:

To clarify my point: this isn't about giving racists a voice or not, but it is about preventing abuse of the *legal precedent* that would be set if a certain classification of speech were made illegal; or rather if the First Amendment was de facto voided in this manner.

Let me paint a hypothetical:

Let's say that Karl Popper's idea was reality; that hate speech was literally illegal. Can you not imagine someone like, say, Trump getting elected, getting majority control of the legislative branch AS WELL as control of the judicial branch, and then ABUSING this legal precedent? Let's say he comes up with some B.S. reasoning to outlaw, say, media criticism against the presidency (sound plausible??). Now in this hypothetical, the First Amendment has been severely de-fanged in the name of "intolerance of intolerance" remember. So he would have a MUCH easier time getting something like that passed with complete control of all three branches of government AND no constitutional restrictions.

Lo and behold, what started out as looking rational on paper has turned into a BIG problem in practice.

This is my point: I think we have more to fear giving the government that much power than we do from a few angry and ignorant racists hopped up on Mountain Dew... 

And that hypothetical is just the very tip of the iceberg of what could happen if a government is allowed to prosecute someone for speech alone. It opens the floodgates to much, much worse things than some derps causing trouble at some gathering. The police can (or should) handle violent outbreaks from any group, regardless of supposed intent, but there IS NO protection against a government that is unrestrained from assaulting someone's (and if not careful, YOUR) personal sovereignty. The only option from there is to leave.

Which is why I must underline this point, once again: Legally letting derps shout racist things is not about protecting their liberty to speak freely, it is about protecting THE liberty of speaking freely.

Something something heroes never stop never stopping

Rylie had of course heard that the world was hollow and that devils, trolls, and the occasional politician lived in the depths far below normal people's feet.  Some empty headed bozo had been peddling that sad story his entire life.  Being a rational man, he had ignored or openly mocked any one who actually believed such dumb children's stories.  But now, as he looked out over what could only be described as a cavern. As cavernous. It extended endlessly beyond his sight, disappearing into the distant shadows cast from the dim glow of what appeared to be a lumious lichen that clung to the shores of what he suspected to be a massive underground ocean.  There were boats out there for crying out loud.  They all had a skull, spider, or something oh so melodramatic painted on the sails. Whatever. They were still boats on an underground ocean!

Into this underground world of darkness he had crept following the trail of the false elves.  They had descended into the darkness to a poorly defended camp.  Clearly they felt little danger here.  Why would they, any army from the surface faced with this unreality would break and run if they weren't busy begging their gods for mercy.  Thobis the burnt out wizard and Nealo the priest of Alilili had been dumped unceremoniously in what could only be described as a pen.  A slave pen.  They were chained and left on their own.  After a time they had finally stirred.  Thobis, the great genius that he was, had immediately tried to cast some sort of spell.  This had just alerted the guards that he needed "special" treatment.  He'd been summarily beaten, hog tied, and gagged.  Nealo priest of Alilili was as useful as always, and reminded Thobis that Alilili didn't help those who couldn't help themselves.  Thobis responded with suitably aggressive wiggles and gagged voice noises.  Nealo busied herself with staring at nothing. Neither of them seemed to notice the absense of Rylie from the bondage they found themselves in. Perhaps they thought him a coward.  Perhaps he thought, he wasn't the one in chains needing rescue.

Next to them in the slave pen was a large pile of hair.  Suddenly it blinked and deep set eyes full of a lifetime of misery and remorse peered around.  It shifted and fixated upon the new comers.  "So, uh what are ya in for?"  He looked at them as if he wasn't stripped to his under shorts, afixed to the floor with chains, or in a slave pen miles beneath the surface.  "Adventurers huh?"  He continued without waiting for a response through a moustache that completely hid his mouth and quivered with each word.  "You know adventurering is a noble profession, first practiced by the anciet Humbuaeites."  He nodded to himself as if he was agreeing with his own comment.  "They didn't invent the word though.  Oh no," he shook his head causing the great flaps of skin that passed for his ears to flop well past the point when his head otherwise stopped moving, "That was the Othamotiradins in distant Kool'Zoo of course.  Their head Uoozith was said to be the first cousin twice removed of the one of the greatest Adventurers.  Of course that was years before the Ix and their heresy machine set all the Othamotira temples to the holy cleansing fire of M'dekfaoe, but that was only on account of the price of a good Onqaovneowav in those days.  Why I could tell you some stories about the..."  In mid speech a rock cracked into his temple. He stopped talking and regarded them with the same woebegone expression he'd maintained during the entire speech, except now blood trickled down his face.

One of the evil elfin guards slithered and strutted into the pen and loomed angelically over him, "You have been warned to cease your prattling or we will remove your fat tongue one hair width at a time until your only story is an endless poem of pain and suffering."  The content of the warning was dire, but one couldn't help but admire the dulcet tones of the slaver's voice.  Rylie pinched his arm to remind himself that this cherubic being had just threatened slow and deliberate torture for the heinous crime of talking too much.  The impish horror reached down and trailled one of its fingers across the hairy man's scalp. The softness of his touch was matched only by the casual elegance of his movements.  Without warning there was a blur of movement, and then a sharp crack of skin and bone hitting skin and bone.  The waifish cherub struck with such velocity and violence that it sent the hairy man to the ground groaning amidst a sea of wild hair.

And there standing above the prone form, with a grin of such satisfaction and pleasure, was the very image of innocence. Then with perfectly pointed fangs glimmering in the dim light, the smile twisted. The illusion suddenly faded.  All of the beauty and grace that had surrounded this hell spawn beast like a second skin was gone and only the twisted, spite filled embodiment of cruelty and sadism stood there over the prone man. Everything seemed darker in that instant as if the light itself was afraid.  The twisted creature  purred in a newly thin and shrill voice, "If you forget again, I will wield the knife personally."

Then, just as switfly as the illusion had left, it was back and the elf stood and twirled a stylish pirouet.  Once again it became near impossible to see anything except utter sophistication as it skipped out of sight whistling a happy tune that would have made children smile and caper in delight.

Something Something Heros part whateversville

Sweat dripped from Rylie's nose and the overwhelming humidity caused his clothes to cling to his body until he felt like he was swimming through the sunless tunnels. The maddening silence in the lonely all-compassing darkness had stretched on for hours as he followed the unconscious forms of his former adventuring party. Well, them and the party of vicious, and heavily armed, underworld elves that carried them to Alilili knew where. Rylie used his full training in the stealthy arts to keep his damp clothing from swishing and his sodden boots from squeaking. All the while remaining, somehow, out of sight of the supernaturally lithe and unearthly beautiful creatures, that would have to be covered in pots and pans and tied to a screaming cat to make any noise as they traipsed with an indifferent ease through the stone corridors.

 At one point he had put his hand in some unidentified slime causing an involuntary weak sigh to escape from his weary lips. A slight soft exhalation of breath that even he had struggled to hear. The pointy eared villains had stopped immediately and drawn wicked blades covered in an oily black substance that could only be a deadly poison. Rylie froze like a deer in headlights, whatever those were. Their teeth were perfect. They were perfectly pointed and razor sharp. There gorgeous faces turned to murderous masks in seconds. The bodies of Thorbis the burnt out wizard and Nealo the priest of Alilili were on the ground in an blink. Somehow silence still echoed through the corridor. If Rylie could have moved or spoken in that instant, he would have cursed their unending perfection. Like a stalking spider they crept with demoralizing speed down the halls toward Rylie's hiding place. 

This was it. Rylie felt an emptiness in his stomach. Thorbis and Nealo were going to be sacrificed to some nubile demon god. He wouldn't be so lucky. Visions of his death danced with a cold clarity through his mind. The cruel kiss of a dagger. The passionate torture of a poison running its course. Beauteous features filling his vision, while vile claws cradled his face, as he coughed up the last of once vital fluids. A shiver would have run up his spine, but he held as still as stone. Somehow, someway they stopped short. The sound of a elf's dismissive sniff echoed like thunder through Rylie's head.

 Then, with the unconcerned nonchalance only an apex predator can muster, they scooped up the prone forms of Thorbis and Nealo and padded away into the creeping gloom with a grace and beauty that would have made a ballerina cry. If the fear of losing the trail hadn't been so paramount Rylie would have curled up into a ball and had a long and cleansing cry. But, now more than ever the others needed him. Why he felt such loyalty to them he didn't know. No one deserved whatever fate awaited the prisoners of these fay fiends he reasoned. With a quiet yet ragged breath he pushed off from the wall and set off into the damp and gloom. Come what may, he would see this through.

I'm back

Both parties are imploding, everyone is saber-rattling, and Budweiser is now America. But as long as we can kick back and have a non-shite beer, I think we are okay.

The Fear of the Hustle

I spent a lot of time today listening to podcasts.  Podcasts about passive income, life coaching, canned chili, and productivity.  I listened about blogs, vlogs, and slogs.  The dream of starting a multimedia internet empire quickened my pulse and spiked my attention.  The dream of videos like Casey, Podcasts like Merlin, and Blogs like M. John Fayhee.  Being all of my favorites in one.  But I am not my favorites.  I am me.  In high school I remember I played Chopin for some friends and afterwards diddled away on the keys for a time and the one fellow remarked that he enjoyed the second piece much more so than the first.  When I told my piano teacher, somewhat proud of the fact that I had out done the genius Chopin, she replied in her usual dry manner, "I'm sure Chopin played Chopin better than Bach."

I'm sure Chopin played Chopin better than Back.  But do I, the brave and daring Khusrow, play Khusrow better than Casey?  I for one know that my 3 attempts at video making do not compare to the compelling daily videos that Casey Neistat composes after years of perfecting his craft with laser focus.  I have always felt, and maybe this is showing my privilege, that money was easy so long as that was all you wanted.  If your only care in the world was to collect money than collecting money would be easy.  The trick for most people is that money is just the tool to do what they want to do and so money seems so elusive.  The thing that has been holding me back from writing, playing music, making videos, building webpages, building passive income streams; is that I am not convinced that that is what I really want.  Do I want a flexible schedule that earns money without me doing much to make that money?  Yes.  But is that flexible time and easy money just a tool for me to do what I really want to do?  Yes.  And am I going to keep pursuing what I really want to do instead of building my multimedia empire that empowers me to do the things I want to do?  Yes.

This is the great problem.  Am I willing to not work on motorcycles now so that I have piles of cash and calendars of free time to work on motorcycles later?  Am I willing to work hard and miss time with my kids now in the hopes that I would have gobs of free time to spend with them later?  Am I willing to not spend time with people now so that I could be generous with my time and money with those same people later?

These are all questions I struggle to answer.  What is the cost to the success that I want?  Am I willing to pay that price?  The price in hours and stress and lack of sleep.  The cost of building a business that I think I would be good at in the after hours of a job that I am also good at, but consumes so much of my time?

 In January Lindsey and I discussed having May be a month of hustle.  To see what a side business would look like for 1 month if I threw it all in,  In January I thought that business was pipe making, which is something I really enjoy doing.  But I have a strong feeling that this is a saturated market with a narrow audience.  So I've been thinking of creating many things with a larger breadth and a larger audience.  I don't know what that would look like and I don't think May is my month to dive into those things but major changes feel like they are swirling in my mind and I do not know where they will go.  

Is anyone still on here?

I remembered that this blog was a thing. Who all still reads this?