My family moved into our current house in August of 2001. Sara and I weren’t much help with the whole “lifting boxes” thing, so we went to go play in the cul-de-sac. There we met two little boys whole lived on our street. Nearly thirteen years later, these two boys are still my best friends – if you could call them that. The older of the two, Braden (who turns twenty freaking years old today) is my big brother. Continue reading
It’s ironic that so much contention can come from organizations that are just trying to do good. Continue reading
I’ve been a member of Colbert Nation for years. I love Colbert Report and his books are among the funniest I’ve ever read. I much prefer him to Jon Stewart and other comics that focus on political satire. Colbert’s character is one of the few that can see the light, funny side of politics. He says things that many of us think but don’t have the guts to say. I stand with Stephen Colbert. Continue reading
Libertytown, New Market and Mt. Airy aren’t exactly racially diverse communities. In 2012, my high school’s student body was 85% white1 – and most Linganore students would’ve guessed the percentage was actually higher. Therefore, kids of any other race were often called “the Asian kid” or “the black kid” and everyone would know exactly who that was. The best part was that nobody cared. The names weren’t derogatory; they were simply a product of an overwhelmingly-white population. Heck, many minorities embraced the nicknames and made jokes about their own ethnicity. There was some name-calling, and I’m certainly not approving of that, but terms like “the Indian kid” were accepted and used all of the time without thought.
All of a sudden, I get to college and mentioning someone’s race at all is racist. I don’t like that. Continue reading
One day while I was still in elementary school, my cousins and I made friends with a cat on the farm… and the poor thing was mauled by a tomcat in the night. After we got over the shock, I asked my mom if kitties go to heaven. Looking back on it, I feel bad for asking; it was and always will be a tough question that usually gets into that whole “do animals have souls” thing – and that’s no topic to take up with a seven-year-old who’d just seen a cat corpse.
Disclaimer: I’m not saying that I’m absolutely and completely informed, or an expert in any way. These opinions are my own, and I’m allowed to have them.
Unless you’ve distanced yourself from every television, newspaper, nosy person and internet-capable computer for the past week or so, you’ve heard about the Malaysian airplane that went missing while en route to Beijing. Flight 370. It’s been everywhere, and every day there are new theories of its location and how it got to be wherever-it-is. New details emerge about the flight path, the pilots, and the design of the plane. These details often conflict between sources and even within sources (“today, we discovered that the pilot didn’t actually do this…”). This has led to and continues to feed a crazy fire of overly-obsessed reporting about the flight.
My question: who cares? Continue reading
Watch this video. I don’t care what you’re doing right now. I don’t care if you’re on your phone, on a computer, in public or in private. If you have three minutes of time, click the play button right now. Click it. I’m not joking.
Did you watch it? I can wait. No matter your opinion of the US Army, click on the big red “play” button.
Watch it. Now.
Alright, I’ve given you three chances. If you haven’t yet watched that clip, it’s your loss. That video completely changed my life, and there’s a chance it can change yours.
One morning in the fall of 2012, during my senior year, I was on Facebook before going to school. An acquaintance of mine posted this video. I was in the process of applying for an Army ROTC scholarship, and I was infatuated with anything that was even remotely related to the service. So I clicked on the link. And three minutes later, I clicked on it again. And Again. Again and again until I had the audio half-memorized. I was bouncing off of the walls; the voice in the video was speaking directly to me, piecing my heart, sending inhuman amounts of energy through my veins.
I loaded the clip onto my iPhone and I had the entire thing down pat in two days. A few weeks later, I recited the words right before going in for my scholarship interview. A few months later, I gave the speech to the Drill Team during a particularly hard morning at a meet. Almost a full year later, I watched the video in my dorm room as I readied for my first morning in the Blue Jay Battalion. And I watched it tonight for the first time since then.
True, the video is not of the highest quality. The music in the background is from The Last of the Mohicans (good choice, internet). The speech itself was originally given by a football coach. The pictures are of different units, a sort of collage, and they aren’t exactly taken by experts. But that doesn’t diminish its value to me. I could write forever about how much this clip means to me, but I’d never stop.
I wish I could have this thing projected on a loop everywhere I went. Not all of the words are entirely appropriate for every occasion (“I will rip the heart from my enemy and leave it bleeding on the ground” won’t go over so well with everyone), but many of them are. They are sacred words to me, words of strength, power, honor, personal courage, and camaraderie.
If I absolutely had to get a tattoo, I’d get the words “Who am I?” because the phrase has become something of a motto for me. It forces me to answer positively. It makes me think of success and triumph. These days, those two things are hard to come by, and it’s good to have a reminder.
I understand victory, and I understand never surrendering.
Who Am I?
I am a champion.
Today is Saint Patrick’s Day. That means different things to different people. For some, it’s a religious holiday. For others, it’s a feast day. For most of us here in the good old US of A, it’s a day of green – green clothing, green beer, green vomit to accompany the green beer, green eggs and ham, green everything. It’s kind of fun.
I’ve never been to Ireland; I hope that I will get to go eventually. I hear it’s a beautiful place, beautiful beyond what a painting or photograph can depict. The Irish accent is sexy and I can’t imagine an entire nation of people that speak like that. It’s a country full of history and culture that I’d love to explore firsthand. I’m not a fan of corned beef and cabbage, but the place can’t be perfect…
One aspect of Irish culture that I have a tiny bit of experience with is the music. For some reason, band directors love Irish and Celtic music. Love it. Love it. I can’t think of a band I’ve played in that hasn’t done something Irish. Usually it’s the whole “jig with a million notes” type thing and it’s often the most infamous piece in a concert set. When I was a kid, my friends and I would joke that the Irish should be banned from the music industry for making us work so hard. My fellow clarinet players and I would have to ice our fingers after hacking away at The Irish Washerwoman for an hour.
Though the Irish pieces were tough, they were always among my favorite. The slower pieces are chord-heavy, fluid and powerful. They do a fantastic job of capturing the beauty of the landscape and the heritage of the nation – how I understand it, anyway. The faster pieces, the jigs, are just fun! They’re challenging, but to say they’re lively is an understatement.
No matter the medium of the performance – traditional Celtic instruments, voice, or a full orchestra – the music of Ireland provides a perfect soundtrack for this day, a day where every one of us wants to have Irish in our blood.
But why tell you when I can just let you listen?
The Irish Washerwoman:
Danny Boy:
Toss the Feathers:
The Rakes of Mallow:
O Waly Waly:
A lovely mix of tunes for the Irish Pennywhistle/Tin Whistle:
When Irish Eyes Are Smiling:
Happy Saint Patrick’s Day!
I don’t know who you are. I don’t know if I’ve met you yet, or if our paths have yet to cross. I don’t know your name, your age, your race, or your religion. I don’t know where you’ve been, where you are now, or where you’re going. I don’t know if you’re looking for me. I don’t even know if I’m looking for you.
But I do know that you’re out there.
Maybe we’ll meet in class. Maybe we’ll both be waiting for a late bus. For all I know, we could have already met; you may just be disguised as one of the fine young men I’ve already gotten to know in my short eighteen years.
I dream about you, but you keep changing. Sometimes you’re a reserved scholar. Sometimes you’re a talented musician. Sometimes you’re a dedicated soldier. I’ve had that whole “knight in shining armor” dream more than a few times (and I must say, you do a good job playing the part). There are traits you display more often than others, but you can’t seem to make up your mind and stay as one person.
Not that it matters. If we’re meant for one another, we’re meant as-is. Don’t change for me. The only thing that matters at the end of the day is that we support one another.
I’m warning you now: I’m not perfect. Not even close. I’ll try to be, but keep in mind that I’m a human being. I’ll stumble. I know that it’s a lot to ask, but I hope you’ll catch me when I do. I promise I’ll do the same for you .I know that you have your good days and your bad ones, just like I do. I know that you’ve made mistakes, and that you always will; with that said, I also know that you have triumphed and succeeded beyond my imagination, and that you will continue to shine.
I know that we breathe the same air, and we see the same sun rise and fall at some point during the day. I know that the same stars hang over our heads. I know that sometime in the next twenty-four hours, you’ll close your eyes and sleep. I can only hope that when you do, you’ll be safe, warm and undisturbed – heck, I hope your entire life is like that. But I wasn’t born yesterday. I know that life isn’t fun all the time, or even most of the time. I wish it were, and I wish you didn’t have to suffer. One day, we’ll go through it together.
It’s not that I’m not anxious to know who you are, but you can take your time. I’m only eighteen. I’m not ready to settle down just yet. Besides, there are lots of nice and good-looking boys on this planet, and I haven’t had a whole lot of time with them. You’ve got some competition – I’m sure I do too. We’re both going to meet some special people, and we should absolutely take advantage of our relationships with them. Let’s just make sure that we recognize our significance to one another when the time comes; choosing the wrong person will result in a lot of pain for the both of us.
You’re on my mind a lot. There are days I think you’ll never come around. There are days I dearly wish you were by my side. But it helps to think about our future. I think of silly love songs, date nights, fights and compromises, Christmases and birthdays, a beautiful wedding, children, and as cheesy as it sounds, a happy ending. Sometimes, those thoughts are all that get me through the day. I know I have to take care of myself, because I hope to mean as much to you as you do to me. You’re already an incredibly big part of my life. I hope that’s not too much pressure.
Someday, eventually, a plan greater and far more complex than we can even imagine will shape the two of us into a perfect whole. It may be not be easy. It may not be immediate. But I know it will happen. I have faith in the human condition, in God, and in a girl’s favorite words: true love. In the meantime, take care of yourself. Eat your veggies, look both ways when crossing the street, and try not to get into too much trouble. You’re my hero, my someone, my friend, and my love. I want you to know that. It doesn’t matter that I don’t have your name. I don’t need it to know how much you mean to me.
Sleep well tonight. Each night that passes is just one night closer to the happiest moment of our lives.
A few weeks ago, I joked to my family that I’d have to write the dog an obituary when she died. We’ve been doing the whole “she’s getting old and it could be one of these days” thing for more than a year now. At this point, death is probably what’s best for Noodles. But as we say that phrase again – this time, with a more serious tone – I figured that it was time to write about my JJ. I don’t think I’ll be able to do it with any level of skill once she does pass, and I don’t want to do a bad job. I’m already emotionally compromised as it is. So, here it goes.
Noodles has been a member of our family for over a decade – I want to say about twelve years, but I could be wrong. We got her as a puppy from a yard sale, as many families do. We sat with her on the deck, trying to come up with a name suitable for our new half-beagle, half-basset hound family member. Sara wanted to name her “Skip” like the dog in the Frankie Muniz movie, but someone (mom, maybe?) came up with Noodles. The first night she was with us, she howled and barked all night and didn’t stop for, oh, about eight years.
At first, we didn’t exactly know what to do with Noodles. She was a very active little puppy, for lack of a better word. She bit my mom’s nose on the second day. She used to take socks off of our feet and chew on them behind the couch. She once chased a boy up a tree. She was afraid of cats, so much so that when we’d go to the farm they’d chase her around in a reverse of the old stereotype (this should partially explain my dislike for cats). I don’t think everyone liked Noodles at first glance. Or second. Or third. Whenever anyone would ring the doorbell, she’d bark until the walls came tumbling down. She’d dig holes under the fence and run away as often as she could. And it was no fun chasing her down.
She’s mellowed out over the years. These days, the only way she knows that someone is in the house is if they basically stand right in front of her. If she gets out the door, she either tires out before she leaves our sight or she circles back home. When our family friend Rob brought his new puppy around a few months ago, Noodles nearly had a heart attack chasing the little puffball around.
But some things haven’t changed with her age. She still loves dog treats (bi-quees) and will literally jump through hoops to get one; seriously, you can’t even say the word “treat” without driving her up a wall. She likes to sleep on the couch. She loves to be pet, especially on the stomach and under her collar. She still worships dad like a deity. Whenever we eat, she hangs around begging for scraps – even the scratching of a fork on a plate will catch her attention.
Noodles suffers from an identity crisis. She’s had fourteen nicknames over the years. I’ve changed what I call her, and most recently I have called her JJ. No, I don’t know where that came from. I started to call her by that name because my friends mocked me for having a dog named “Noodles”. But you know what? I’m proud of my dog, and I love her. She has the capacity to be the sweetest animal under the sun. She’ll hang around a family member if they’re not feeling well, almost as if she can sense that he or she is down. All she’s ever known is our little house in libertytown. She’s had four human family members and two rabbit friends. We’re all she has. I really hope we’ve made her life a happy one.
When I come home for a weekend visit, I’ll go and play with her before I even say hello to my parents (I can talk to them on the phone!). My favorite part of coming home is having “special time” with Noodles, which isn’t as weird as it sounds. I like to get up early in the morning and cuddle with her as she lies on the couch, before she has the chance to beg for treats. I ask her to kiss me (“licky-licky!”) and on the off-chance that she does, I say “thank you for the kisses!” Even when she doesn’t, I coo at her. She’s old; she deserves to be coddled.
Words don’t exist that describe how I feel for Noodles. She’s one of my oldest friends, and I wish I could die for her. I don’t want to be around when Noodles dies. I can’t deal with seeing her… body. I’m all for ending an animal’s suffering when it’s suffering, but it’s hard to support that when thinking about my best friend of over a decade. Right now, as always, we don’t know when she’ll pass; it could be tonight, could be next week, could be next year. It’s a painful truth, painful in a way I haven’t experienced in a long time. But I don’t want to remember her when she does die. I want to remember her as she lives.
I get to go home on Friday, and Noodles and I gonna have some special time.
Ansible 