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By Dennis Hong, May 6, 2013 9:24 am

Welcome to MelbaMusings! Like melba toast, but… you know, musings. Truth be told, it’s not easy to come up with the insights of our full-length articles. Sometimes, we just have some random thoughts or questions we want to put out there. MelbaMusings may not always have a lesson, but we hope they’ll still make you think….

Happy Revenge of the Sixth, everyone. (You probably know May the Fourth, but I just learned about Revenge of the Sixth last week, so of course, I now have to use it.)

I was five years old when I saw Star Wars for the first time. I’m pretty sure I nagged my parents to see it in the theaters at least 10 or 11 times. And no, I’m not exaggerating.

When The Empire Strikes Back came out the following year, I couldn’t wait to see it. I think it’s a safe assumption that my generation (that is, kids born in the 70s) was probably the one most influenced by Star Wars. In fact, I realize now that it’s pervaded even my romantic life….

Yes, that is correct. I learned romance from Star Wars.

You see, The Empire Strikes Back has one of the most iconic lines in the history of love stories. After spending the first two-thirds of the movie mocking and belittling Han Solo (Han never flinching the entire time), Princess Leia eventually realizes that she’s fallen in love with him. Unfortunately, this realization comes after they’ve been captured by Darth Vader.

As Han, wrists shackled and surrounded by Imperial Stormtroopers, is brought onto the carbon freezing platform, facing an almost-certain death, Leia finally reveals her feelings. She looks across the chamber, locks eyes with Han, and blurts out, “I love you.”

Continue reading 'I grew up thinking “I know” is how you respond to “I love you”'»

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By Mary Jo Cramb, April 21, 2013 6:00 am

In the campy teen movie Napoleon Dynamite, there is a particularly pathetic character named Uncle Rico. He was quarterback of a high school football team that came this close to winning state. Now, decades later, he spends all day filming himself reenacting that game. He’s caught in his long-gone glory days, and nothing interesting has happened to him for two decades. Even his wardrobe and hairstyle are unchanged.

I was 20 when I saw Napoleon Dynamite, and Uncle Rico made me shudder. He was a nightmare vision of my possible future. By then, I had already achieved success that I naively thought significant, but I knew life would get harder, and I worried I’d never be able to continue delivering. I was afraid I’d peaked too early, and the rest of my life would be downhill. I was afraid I would end up like Uncle Rico.

I didn’t play football in high school. I was a student. School was easy and fun for me, a comfortable routine, a clear way to measure success and feed my ego. I worked hard and graduated as valedictorian. At our awards night senior year, I got so many individual subject awards that the emcee joked about giving me a seat on the stage to save time.

Even revealing this now makes me feel like I really have become Uncle Rico. Though I wouldn’t have believed it if you’d told me in high school, I realize that no one cares about high school accomplishments. Dwelling on them now does feel pathetic.

That early success gave me a boost of confidence, but in some ways, it spoiled me for later life. I felt devastated when my college graduation wasn’t a repeat of the adulation heaped on me four years earlier. I cried that even though I was graduating summa cum laude and Phi Beta Kappa, I hadn’t been singled out for any individual awards. Being just one of many names on a list — even a fairly short list of the most elite students at my small, but well-regarded college — wasn’t good enough. It felt like a letdown, like I wasn’t personally valued by the school and its leaders. I was angry — at myself for falling short in some way, for the fact that my best hadn’t been good enough, and at the school for not giving me the send-off I felt I deserved. I somehow convinced myself I had a right to feel betrayed, because I had taken out loans to attend a small private school in order to feel special and get individual attention, and the school wasn’t holding up its side of that unspoken bargain.

Continue reading 'Spoiled By Early Success'»

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By Katie Gard, April 10, 2013 6:00 am

Image by Jose Luis Pelaez Inc

A few years ago, on a rare, non-sweltering summer evening in the sandhills of North Carolina, my husband and I sat on our back deck with a couple of grilled steaks and a couple of micro brews, watching our dogs play in the yard and talking wistfully about our hopes and our dreams.

Actually….

I talked about my hopes and my dreams, while Justin sat contemplative and content. I was fishing for something.

My incessant babble was, most likely, a plea for commiseration. “I’d like us to take a year off and travel the world when you retire from the Air Force. I mean, you’ll only be 38, and that gives us enough time to save. We could go anywhere. See anything. And then one day it might be nice to just buy a ramshackle beach resort on the coast of Nicaragua. You know, get away from all of these pressures and learn about what’s really important in life. I could run the hospitality end of the business since — well — I actually like people, and you could… I don’t know… be in charge of breakfasts. It could be fun for a couple of years! We could learn SCUBA and hike volcanoes and adopt a pet monkey.

….

“Haven’t you always wanted a monkey?”

Justin gave me a smile and a slight laugh and gazed across our confined patch of earth, where the dogs wrestled in the dirt amongst the patchy grass and paw-carved holes.

“Did I ever tell you I wanted to run a sustainable eco resort for rich people in Australia?” I asked, trying again. ”You know, back when I first started studying environmental policy and sustainability, and then I quit school and had all of that time to think — I was going to move to Australia because that was one of the few places with schools offering degrees in sustainability. Can you believe that? Now it’s a trend. Sustainability. I totally should’ve jumped at the head of that horse when I had the chance. By now, I’d be like the leading guru on self-sustaining eco resorts. With yoga. And we’d raise our own goats. Way Down Under. Or wherever. It felt like nowhere was too far away from home, you know? I finally realized my life was in my hands.

…

Continue reading 'Maybe There’s A Reason He’s Not Listening'»

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By Dennis Hong, April 2, 2013 6:00 am

Image by Hauke Dressler

I love eating alone. Aside from the fact that it gives me a chance to catch up on my reading, it just makes more sense. Yes, eating together is a social tradition dating back to our cave-people days, but let’s think about this for a second:

1) Being “social” generally entails talking to another human being.

2) Talking when you have food in your mouth is considered rude.

Okay, so how exactly are we supposed to do both at the same time? Seriously, I can think of few activities that are as mutually exclusive as eating a meal and chatting with a friend. And yet, we love to mash the two together.

That’s why we end up with those inevitable awkward moments. You know, when someone asks a question at the exact instant you’ve stuffed a giant piece of food in your mouth. So, you make an exaggerated chewing motion as you nod along like a bobblehead, telegraphing the universal sign for, “I’d be delighted to answer your question as soon as I finish chewing!”

Really, eat by yourself. Then meet with a friend and catch up. It’s just more practical.

But this isn’t a treatise on why we should all eat alone. Instead, it’s a story of how I used to be afraid to eat alone – and how my high school English teacher was the one who instilled that fear in me….

I was always an independent kid. I had friends I would play with, so I wasn’t a loner by any means. Yet, I was just as happy doing my own stuff. In grade school, if none of my friends were free (or not grounded), I’d ride my bike over to the nearest shopping center, about a mile away. There was a burger restaurant there called Knowlwood that I loved, partly because they had awesome cheeseburgers, but mostly because cheeseburgers weren’t exactly on my mom’s list of Asian recipes. I’d order a burger and a shake, grab a booth, and scarf it down excitedly. Afterwards, I’d wander through the stores nearby or catch a movie.

Continue reading 'My Teacher Made Me Ashamed To Be An Introvert'»

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By Peter Loggins, March 26, 2013 6:00 am

Editor’s note: Peter Loggins is a legend within the swing dance community. He’s also an old friend and a source of inspiration. Aside from dancing, Peter used to be a competitive runner, skateboarder, and snowboarder, and is one hell of a tattoo artist. He is, in short, one of the baddest badasses you’ll ever meet. The confession below, which he originally posted on Facebook, wasn’t easy to read. But, I do believe his is a lesson that needs to be shared with the world, and that’s why I asked to republish it here.

To all my friends who smoke cigarettes,

I’ve been smoking on and off my whole life (much more on than off), although I quit about a year ago.

I could do anything smoking. Remember my running stories? I could compete skateboarding, snowboarding — you name it. Hike, hunt, run, and of course, dance my ass off all night long.

Not long ago, I was in a sweaty hot dance club. I went outside for just a short time in the very cold weather, and… BAM. Like so many of us would, I got sick.

In the past, I would just brush it off. But this time, it was some crazy sinus, fever, cough. I was down and out for the count. My fever eventually went down after about five days, and my sinuses eventually got better. But, my lungs and breathing? Not so good.

It’s a helpless feeling, not being able to simply walk down the street because you can’t breathe, and the slightest activity makes you hack for 10 minutes.

Three decades of smoking have made it impossible for my lungs to fight the infection. I’ve crippled my army for fighting off the enemy — an army I’ve really never needed before. Until now.

Continue reading 'Life Is Too Good Not To Breathe'»

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By Michael Hobbes, January 31, 2013 6:00 am

Image by E. Dygas

Dear Tracy Dolan,

Every gay teenager has a different strategy for surviving adolescence. Some join the choir, some write or paint, some play sports, some try to make themselves invisible. And some, like me, make themselves as visible as possible.

You were the first girl I pretended to have a crush on so no one would know I was gay. I didn’t intend for it to happen, for it to be you, for it to be so easy. But it did, and it was.

I want to tell you how it happened. In another world, we could have been friends. In this one, you’re the girl who told me, on the last day of school, to go fuck myself. And I’m the guy who deserved it.

———

She had red cheeks, a cheerleader’s skirt and a big triangle smile. Her arms and legs were spread out like she was making a letter in the air, though she wasn’t moving. She had three spindly fingers on each hand, no toes, no shoes, and a weak, crooked neck.

“What are you drawing?” Trevor Schmidt said from behind me. I had my notebook open to the inside cover. I had given her a sun-blonde ponytail and was drawing wavy yellow lines around it.

We were sitting in staggered rows, in those cage-like middle school desks. Trevor often made comments like this — what are you writing, what page are you on, etc. — because this arrangement gave him a perfect diagonal view of my desk, and because he was an asshole.

We were three years into middle school, two months into our eighth grade year, and 30 seconds until Mr. Farina started his lecture.

“Huh? Nothing,” I said. My forearm wasn’t big enough to cover up the entire sketch, so I moved it over her skirt.

Trevor leaned forward over his desk to get a better look. His hair, long and parted down the middle like the boys on Home Improvement, hung in his face. This was Seattle in 1995, so he was probably wearing a flannel shirt, maybe a No Fear T-shirt underneath, and saggy Kris Kross jeans.

But I had never really noticed what Trevor wore. Mostly what I noticed about him was that sometimes, when standing, he would lift his shirt a little and rub the tuft of hair just above his belt buckle. I found this utterly captivating, and for nearly two years told myself I was jealous of his flat, soccer-toned stomach. Between seventh and eighth grade, I realized that I was jealous of the hand rubbing it.

Continue reading 'An Open Letter To The Girl I Pretended To Have A Crush On In Eighth Grade'»

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By Karen Zaun Kennedy, January 24, 2013 6:00 am

Image by SelectStock

I lie on my side, stretched out, watching television, hardly aware of my mother and stepfather in the background, so I am startled when Jack bends down behind me, yardstick in hand. He places it on the floor next to my butt and exclaims, “Holy shit, look how big that thing is.”

My mother says nothing. I am livid. I jump up screaming, “I hate you. You are such a jack-ass.” I storm down the stairs to my room and slam the door. Twice.

My mother married Jack in 1969. I was 13. I hated him for a lot of reasons.

Clearly he had no clue about the sensibilities of a 13-year-old girl. Measuring my ass happened on more than one occasion, so he wasn’t quick to catch on, either.

I held him responsible for changing my life.

Because of him, I had to leave my dream home on Church Street, move to a new home, miles away, attend a new school, and leave all my friends behind.

That was only the beginning.

What my mother saw in a man who swore a blue streak, as my grandmother use to say, and whose idea of fun was to drag you to a log yard half way across New England to listen to other old men swear, was beyond me.

I couldn’t go out in public with Jack. While it might be cool for teens to swear once in awhile, when he was in a store with you and greeted an acquaintance with “God Damn, Fred, long time no see. How the fuck are ya’?” it was humiliating.

I’ll never forget the time we were vacationing in Florida and had just left a restaurant. As we walked down the street to our car, Jack took his dentures out of his mouth to pick at them. My entire family, at seeing this display, raced ahead of him to give the illusion that we did not know this uncouth man.

Somehow, I managed to survive while living with him. I never did lose all my friends, I got through high school with only a few log yard trips to keep him company, and with constant chiding by my mother, his swearing became a rarity.

Continue reading 'My Mother Married A Jack-Ass'»

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By Will Childers, December 17, 2012 6:00 am

I have a unique perspective on school shootings and why I think they happen. As you can see from this photo, we were a pretty normal and happy-looking family. However, at one point in my life, I was in the mental state of one of those shooters.

The following is my personal story I would like to share with you. This is something I have wanted to share for a very long time, in hopes that more people will listen. I can’t stress enough how important that one word is: listen.

My story begins in 1982. I was in fourth grade at Marshdale Elementary in Evergreen, Colorado. My class was taking a tour of the library when I saw some people in the back room concentrating on something. My curiosity got the best of me, and I snuck away to see what they were doing.

There was a teacher there, Mrs. Ho. I stuck my head in the room and inquired as to what they were working on. She said, “These are computers, and I’m teaching them how to program.”

There was a Commodore Pet computer with a tape drive, and I thought it was the coolest thing I had ever seen. She offered to teach me how to use them, and from that day on, I was there every day after school, either learning programming or playing a math game called Lunar Lander.

In 1983, my parents purchased an Apple IIe for me, and from that point on, I was a full-fledged computer nerd. Unfortunately, along with that came the public status of nerd, dork, and a host of other names. Even more unfortunate is that it didn’t end with name-calling.

I started getting beaten up, almost on a daily basis, from being pushed around on the bus and laughed at by everyone, to being held down on the ground while snow was packed down my shirt and glasses. My glasses were always broken, and I never had fewer than two sections wrapped in tape to hold them together.

After walking into class late, with messed up hair, foggy glasses, and a wet and frozen chest, I had the pleasure of getting yelled at by the teacher for being tardy. If I tried to explain what had happened, I was told to be quite and that class had started. So, I shut up, sat down, and got ready to be sent to the principal’s office and/or detention.

Continue reading 'School Shootings – A Personal Perspective On Why They Happen'»

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By Mary Jo Cramb, December 10, 2012 6:00 am

Image by David Young-Wolff

Women describe motherhood like a cliff: It’s a leap of faith that no one knows if she’ll survive.

Now that I’m pregnant with my first child, I keep hearing about all the things I’ll never do again: sleep eight solid hours… have sex… get drunk… wear a bikini… travel… save money… have adult conversations not about poo… change plans spontaneously.

It’s hard not to get depressed with all the negative messages I keep hearing. I’m looking over the precipice, wondering what I’ll have to give up to raise a child. What I’m most afraid of is the idea that motherhood fundamentally changes — or worse, erases — a woman’s core identity.

I’m afraid of losing my identity because I have no role models for a type of mothering that is not all-consuming. My own mom had seven kids in 11 years, because she’s the type who just loves babies and toddlers. She stayed home while raising us, then became a children’s librarian, and she loves spending all day with kids.

But looking back at her life, I know I couldn’t do what she did. My mom made her children her entire life, and even if that was right for her, it would be wrong for me.

A few months ago, my cousin Jenny had twins. Three weeks before the babies were born, she had to leave her job to go on bed rest. She posted about it on Facebook, saying she was sorry to leave because she loves her job.

This is what my mother posted in response: “And so it begins – the babies take over your life, your own wants and needs are put aside in favor of theirs, and you stop being Jenny and start being mommy. Isn’t it awesome!!! You are a great mama already! If you want to learn how to knit or something I’ll be happy to teach you. Prayers are with you and your little angels.”

I could not figure out why anyone would say this to a woman about to have children.

Continue reading 'Can I Be A Mom And Still Be Me?'»

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By Anonymous, December 3, 2012 6:00 am

Image by John Wildgoose

I watched the well-dressed Casanova over the brim of my beverage, contemplating the best way to cause him pain. I was already halfway through my ninja-assassin routine, in which I dispatch him with a swift blow to the balls. Naturally, the women he was entertaining with his ridiculously good looks would then swoon at my wondrous technique ….

A rude voice interrupted my reverie.

“Um, are you going to actually drink that, or is holding it up to your lips that satisfying?”

I lowered my drink nonchalantly and faced my tablemate, as though there was nothing more normal than deep scrutiny of the world with one’s mouth attached to the lip of a glass.

Though we were close, I hadn’t been in her physical presence in years, so this was a night for reminiscence and laughter. The spiteful, homicidal thoughts aimed at a complete stranger could wait.

“Sorry, was just temporarily wishing death on Romeo over there. I mean, come on!”

She laughed and glanced in his direction. Two attractive women were giggling at his every word. Their hands clung to him, as though he might vanish in a puff of awesomeness at any moment and — damn it — they wanted in on that puff.

My friend shrugged.

“What about him? You jealous?”

“YES!”

My reply wasn’t meant to exit my mouth at so elevated a volume that children in neighbouring countries might be startled from their sleep. Somehow, though, it did. I laughed ruefully and added:

“No, not really. Just sad, actually. Why do girls like bad boys so much?”

She looked at me a little quizzically, then answered:

Continue reading 'The Day I Realized I’m A Bad Boy'»