Summer of 2009. I stay at my mom’s for a change. I can’t find a job this summer, the economy sucks. But I get the opportunity to put my efforts elsewhere. Freedom at last, even if it’s not meant to be. I rummage through my room in search of a dusty case, although I’ve always known where it is. Rich mahogany in hand, I begin to talk Stairway to Heaven.
School year, Second Period Daily, 2006-2007. At School: Get bass. Play with mediocrity. Watch the clock. Repeat. At Home: Avoid family. Watch tv. Attempt homework. Repeat. One hundred fifty school days and several arguments later: I’m done.
October 25th, 2004. Today I receive a check in the mail for $100 from my Aunt Jeanie and Uncle Jerry. The accompanying note reads “Thirteen years old! What an accomplishment! Happy Birthday!” I suppose if I had had a party they would have given it to me in person. I save the sum until Christmas, upon when I give in to buying a sleek mahogany bass guitar from zZounds magazine. Truly one of the greatest gifts I have ever bought for myself. I can’t put it down. My string bass sits in the corner of my room.
Summer of 2004. Tensions are running high in the Lindburg Household. My brothers and I have been told we are picking up and leaving from the town I have lived in for nearly thirteen years. Though we feel betrayed (excluding my youngest brother, who is three at the time), our parents go about their usual business. Like every summer, my parents pick something to keep me occupied and strip me of my freedom. In previous years it was YMCA camp or an activity-oriented babysitter. This year it is orchestra camp. It is held at Sandburg Middle School, which I attend, and we have to arrive at the same time as if it were a regular school day. My soul develops a nasty case of ALS.
Fourth Grade, circa 2001. This is the year my elementary school feels is the best time for students to begin playing musical instruments. They overlook the fact that most of us would rather play sports and run around, as sitting indoors and screeching out “notes” in a dusty school basement is much healthier. Of my options, pounding on the drums sounds much better than wind or string instruments. My dad and stepmom outright refuse; my baby brother won’t be able to handle all the noise. String bass it is. My parents are happy to rent one out.
Friday, October 9, 2009
End All, Be All
Senior Year:
I sit back in my chair and await my well deserved sigh of relief. The letterheads of Winsconsin, Penn State, Indiana, and various others are radiating the essence of completion from my desk. And yet the sigh won't come. The Wisconsin application catches my eye and I skip over the opening sections. Basic information about myself that isn't going to work in my favor. When I get to the essay section, I halfheartedly stare at the scrawled handwriting. The question: How will your presence at the University of Wisconsin enhance our community?
My answer:
I sit back in my chair and await my well deserved sigh of relief. The letterheads of Winsconsin, Penn State, Indiana, and various others are radiating the essence of completion from my desk. And yet the sigh won't come. The Wisconsin application catches my eye and I skip over the opening sections. Basic information about myself that isn't going to work in my favor. When I get to the essay section, I halfheartedly stare at the scrawled handwriting. The question: How will your presence at the University of Wisconsin enhance our community?
My answer:
Monday, September 21, 2009
High School
Ninth Grade:
Big academic push this year. Gotta go for that college gold. As my dad keeps reminding me, “now it counts”. I try to focus, but everything is a shiny object. Interesting as geometry might be, my imagination has much more captivating scenarios. What if my friends and I went downtown to Chicago, only to get mugged upon arriving? Well, naturally I would use the element of surprise to punch the gun out of his (or her) hand, tie him (or her) to one of the seats on the El, and we would all go for celebratory Dunkin Donuts. Suddenly: “and if you multiply the convex angle by twelve degrees, you would get your total of one hundred-eighty”. So goes my learning process.
English is the one class I find I can stay out of my own head in. I believe that was the weirdest sentence ever created right there. But it’s true. From Odysseus’s perilous journey across the world to Gene Forrester’s confusing journey of perspective, it all had value to me. Real meaning.
Freshman year felt like the beginning of my journey.
What makes someone a great writer?
A passion for words? Creative ingenuity? Enough free time? A unique voice? The ability to express life’s situations? A sense of humor? A sense of humility?
Word I can’t stop thinking or enjoying:
Artistic.
Tenth Grade:
Imagine a train wreck. Let’s not talk about tenth grade.
Junior Year:
It’s difficult to articulate my Junior year in more than phrases, so here it goes. A year of reflection and revision. Improving that GPA. Wearing sunglasses. Increased organization. ACT, not bad. Losing some bad friends. Discovering my interests. Didn’t come out on top, but doing okay.
English class is a separate timeline. My papers vary in their quality, and by default in their grades, but it has little to do with outside influences. It’s much more of an internal thing. But what that is exactly, I can’t say. Does it matter how well I understand the writing prompt? Or should I just keep writing my own understanding?
Wednesday, September 16, 2009
Early Years
I take a deep, shuddering breath. All eyes on me. Well, some eyes on me. A 5th grade class doesn't have the greatest attention span.
"James runs down the hallway, the bearded Australian chef hot in pursuit. James never thought the chopsticks he had once loved so much could suddenly be turned against him, now being used as weapons."
I glance up from my paper again, remembering the importance of "eye contact". The eyes that are staring at me are all stunned with penetrating disbelief. They want to know, just like I do. What am I doing up here?
Five Minutes Ago:
I approach her desk, no planning whatsoever.
“…Mrs. Graff?”
“Hi, Grant.”
“I was just wondering… I wrote this paper, at home… and I was hoping to read it to the class so that they can help me make it better?”
She gives me a strange look and I immediately stop kicking her desk.
“You wrote something… outside of class? Absolutely! I’ll make an announcement in three minutes, you should be up there in five.”
Seventh Grade:
This year, we read excerpts from The War of The Worlds, followed by a class project on how we would survive if aliens were to legitimately attack Earth. I think I’m ahead of the game.
I spend several hours laughing with my friends in the computer lab at the poetry we write. Ironically, this poetry is insightful enough that we are actually asked to read in front of the class.
The only other thing I remember is that we write on computers so old that the only way we can save our work is on floppy disks. I lose a great many papers. Did I mention this is an accelerated English class?
Eighth Grade, Just before I move out of my hometown forever:
Mrs. Goodman dies of cancer.
Who is Mrs. Goodman?
The teacher who asked us to read the poetry to her class.
Eighth Grade, New Town:
I try accelerated classes at my new school. Side note, why do they call them level four? That’s weird. Level four Algebra 1, Mr. Viator: “So if the spaceship is traveling around the earth at 450 miles per hour, and is accelerated by earth’s gravitational pull at a rate of 54.3%, how long will it take the spaceship to reach the sun? Do you know…Grant?”
I think I’ll walk across the hall. Nobody has checked on the level three class in a while.
"James runs down the hallway, the bearded Australian chef hot in pursuit. James never thought the chopsticks he had once loved so much could suddenly be turned against him, now being used as weapons."
I glance up from my paper again, remembering the importance of "eye contact". The eyes that are staring at me are all stunned with penetrating disbelief. They want to know, just like I do. What am I doing up here?
Five Minutes Ago:
I approach her desk, no planning whatsoever.
“…Mrs. Graff?”
“Hi, Grant.”
“I was just wondering… I wrote this paper, at home… and I was hoping to read it to the class so that they can help me make it better?”
She gives me a strange look and I immediately stop kicking her desk.
“You wrote something… outside of class? Absolutely! I’ll make an announcement in three minutes, you should be up there in five.”
Seventh Grade:
This year, we read excerpts from The War of The Worlds, followed by a class project on how we would survive if aliens were to legitimately attack Earth. I think I’m ahead of the game.
I spend several hours laughing with my friends in the computer lab at the poetry we write. Ironically, this poetry is insightful enough that we are actually asked to read in front of the class.
The only other thing I remember is that we write on computers so old that the only way we can save our work is on floppy disks. I lose a great many papers. Did I mention this is an accelerated English class?
Eighth Grade, Just before I move out of my hometown forever:
Mrs. Goodman dies of cancer.
Who is Mrs. Goodman?
The teacher who asked us to read the poetry to her class.
Eighth Grade, New Town:
I try accelerated classes at my new school. Side note, why do they call them level four? That’s weird. Level four Algebra 1, Mr. Viator: “So if the spaceship is traveling around the earth at 450 miles per hour, and is accelerated by earth’s gravitational pull at a rate of 54.3%, how long will it take the spaceship to reach the sun? Do you know…Grant?”
I think I’ll walk across the hall. Nobody has checked on the level three class in a while.
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