Dealing with bullies

During the last few years in grade school I had to deal with kids that were older, bigger, and much meaner than me. I was a good natured child that just wanted to have friends. Some of the boys took advantage of my quiet demeanor and bullied me. There weren't any anti-bulling policies in place at that time. In fourth grade, one boy, Jimmy Burgess, who was two grades ahead of me, punched me in the stomach so hard I dropped to my knees. No adult saw it, and he was never punished. Later that year, three of his friends in my grade beat me up at the same time and left a gash on my head that almost needed stitches. I still have that scar. One day, during my fifth grade year, I had had enough. I got in a fight with Jake Pastorious. I don't remember what the fight was about, it didn't matter. For he was one of the kids that beat me up the year before. While I technically lost that fight, something stirred inside me that I had never felt before. Rage! I was so furious at these kids that I walked up to Steve punched him right in the face. He reeled backwards and attempted to punch me. His punch never connected. I was so mad at him, that I felt no shame in kicking him in the groin. Poor Steve! While justified at the time, the vivid memory of his reacting to pain will haunt me for the rest of my life. Steve wasn't the last person on my agenda. I had to stop their leader, Reicher, from harassing me. Looking back at this situation, I realize now that I could have used diplomacy. But I didn't develop the skill to negotiate until much later in life. For a 10 year old boy, my fists, it seemed, spoke louder that words. Reicher didn't have a chance. He was skinny and lanky. He was alone, away from his friends, with no one to back up him I felt no remorse for taking him down. The very next day, Reicher, apologized for treating me poorly. No one messed with me after those fights. In fact, Reicher and I became good friends later that year. While fighting among grade school children usually creates more problems than it solves, it worked for me.

Adventures in my Volkswagen Golf

My very first car was a dark blue 1986 Volkswagen Golf. My parents bought it from my aunt during my sophomore year in high school. While it was supposed to be my dad's commuting car, once I got my driver's license, I just sorta took it over. Having a car meant a lot of things to me. First it meant mobility. I lived out in the sticks. Prior to this car, my only mode of transportation was riding the bus, riding my bike, bumming rides off my parents, or walking. We lived seven miles out of town, so walking was out of the question. I tried riding my bike several times. The ride into town was all downhill. And the ride back home was a grueling uphil battle. I still have nightmares about it. Bumming rides worked for a while until my parents refused to take me to my final band concert of my freshman year which landed me a big fat F in that class. I soon realized, after tasting the freedom for several weeks, that Mom and Dad didn't like paying for my gas. I got a job. Having a job allowed to provide for myself. I could buy my own clothes, food, or whatever. I did't have to dip into my parent's hard earned money. With five kids, my parents were able to provide for our basic necessities and some clothes. I always felt guilt for taking their money. It just didn't seem right when I could pay for it myself. I learned a few valuable lessons in the VW Golf. First, I realized that it was not a good idea to repeated flash my headlights into incoming traffic when a drunk man, in his rage, flipped around on the highway and followed me home. Fortunately, my parents knew something was wrong when they saw me scramble into the house with said drunk person in tow. Second, I learned that I shouldn't let my friends shoot super soakers out my windows at other teenagers as they shouted, "Suckers!" My car was underpowered. Sometimes it only ran on three cylinders. A get-away car it was not. "Suckers" also sounds awfully familiar to another vulgar word from a distance when shouted at the top of a young man's lungs. After soaking and insulting said teenagers, they hopped in their cars, caught up to us, and attempted to box us in with their cars in an attempt to teach us a lesson. Somehow we escaped. They didn't have to beat us up to teach us a lesson, we figured it out on our own.

Morality and Truthiness in Fiction

I read an essay written by Orson Scott Card entitled, "The Problem of Evil in Fiction." It was an assignment for my college English class, five pages, with a simple comprehension quiz at the end. No big deal. Easy. I took the quiz and passed, and then forgot about it until about ten minutes ago. My assignment is to respond to one of four questions posed right below his essay. Ugh!

In his essay, Card justifies his depiction of evil in his literature and that depicted by others by claiming, that it "is impossible for a writer to convincingly violate his own conscience in his fiction." He also points out that there are two types of truth that authors have to contend with: the illusion of truth and the substance of truth. The illusion of truth is created for the reader to draw the him or her in to the story. That story has to connect on some level with the reader. As Card stated, "the reader insists on some correspondence between the surface details of the story and the reality that the read knows in his own life." I recently read Oliver Twist by David Copperfield. I knew that it was a work of fiction, but I felt as if I were in his shoes. As a parent, I wanted to swoop in and rescue him from the cruel treatment he received at the hands of the masters of the parish.  I felt frozen in fear when I realized that Fagin attempted to kidnap and force Oliver back into a life of crime. Perhaps this rang true to me because I was almost kidnapped as a child.

Card asserted that the illusion of truth is not enough to convince readers. The author's own deep convictions will seep through the pages. Charles Dickens was just such an author that knew how to depict evil through Fagin. Yet Dickens' moral character refused to let Oliver succumb to or lose his life to the villains in that novel. This, the substance of truth, is the essence of an author's work. If he or she violates his or her personal convictions, readers will see right through the charade and may not connect with the book on a personal level.


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On Journals

I would like to start writing in a journal every day. I'm not sure how I will accomplish this at this time. I'm just so busy with a full time job, school, church callings, and my family, that I haven't made it a priority. I used to write in a journal daily during my time as a missionary for the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints. While some entries were very short with maybe a sentence or two, some were pages long. I filled up two journals and grew to love it! It was my haven; a place outside of the influence of other human beings. In the realm of my journal, I let go of grudges and jealousy, ranted about some of my rotten companions that refused to work, and improved my ability to write.

As a missionary, I didn't have the luxury of a computer to type out my entries. Every entry was hand written. It was painstaking. I had horrible handwriting, (and still do), which led to pain in my wrists after just a sentence or two. Imagine writing an essay by hand all throughout grade, middle, and high school with that sort of pain. I'm sure some teacher in my past attempted to correct my handwriting style. But I don't remember. It didn't matter anyway. I fell in love with computers at an early age and taught myself how to type.

Looking back on my journal, I noticed many flaws and crossed out words. What can I say, I'm a perfectionist with writing. If a word doesn't fit, it gets the axe. That's why I love computers so much. They allow me to quickly and invisibly get rid of words, sentences, and even whole paragraphs that don't fit into the context of the rest of the journal entry. I can also type much faster than I can write. Forget about handwritten blogs. It won't happen. This blog entry took me 20 minutes to write. I shudder with fear when I think about writing this by hand.


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Yet Another Introduction

I recently moved from Helena, MT to attend USU. My main goal was to get accepted into and graduate from Medical School. In contrast to many of my younger counterparts, I no longer had the luxury of time. I recently turned thirty. It came with no exciting parties, but with perhaps a few more aches in my back. My wife and celebrated our seven year anniversary last August with out three wonderful children. My wife was very supportive of my decision to return to school and kept us steady during our move and transition into a college atmosphere.

I worked in the Banking Industry for over eight years. The bank I worked at spoiled me. Every year I enjoyed at least one raise and often enjoyed two or three. I felt very fortunate to be in a management position at that bank at such a young age.I reached all of my professional goals during my tenure there and decided to return to a university to do something different. To put it plainly, I got bored in a job that was meant to be a "fall back" and not my main career path.

I decided to major in History and minor in Biology. I wanted a rigorous and well rounded education. I wanted to stand out from the droves of Biology majors applying for Medical School with straight A's. I know the odds are stacked against me. But I can prevail. I will become a doctor.

I view this class as a stepping stone into a thorough education. Because I'm a History major, I plan on writing a bunch of papers. I don't yet, however, have the necessary skills to meet that demand. I'm taking it now because it's affordable, (I don't have residency, yet this class is close to in-state tuition), and, well, that's about it. I want to succeed and feel very focused. This is the next step to a brighter future.


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