Elementary School and the 1988 Presidential Election

In 1988, I was in 2nd grade. I didn't know a whole lot about presidential elections, but I knew I supported Michael Dukakis over George Bush. I didn't know why I supported Michael Dukakis. I got this opinion from my parents. To this day, I don't know exactly why I feel the way I do about certain things as opposed to the way I do about other things. I wonder how arbitrary it is to have the opinions I have, and if I had just been born in another part of the world, how normal it would feel to believe, say, and do things that I currently find unthinkable. In fact, what if I had been born up the block and around the corner, in a similar symmetrical suburban-style house, to the parents of a kid I knew quite well growing up. I had a political discussion once with this strange, awkward kid named Michael where I tried to espouse my belief that Dukakis should be the next president of the United States of America. He informed me that if Dukakis were to be elected, he would "cover the sidewalks with poopie and pee pee," and that George Bush should become the president.

I was jealous of my sister, who was in 5th grade. Her entire class made campaign posters and buttons. They also came up with catchy, and inflammatory, slogans. For some reason, most of the kids were Bush supporters. I come from an overwhelmingly liberal area, so I find it hard to believe that everyone got their positions passed down from their parents. Maybe it was because Bush was leading in the polls. Or maybe it was the slogans. The Bush supporters were chanting "Dukakis is a duke, and dukes make me puke." All the Dukakis supporters were able to come up with was "Bush is a bush, and who wants to vote for a bush." So of course, Bush won the mock school election.

A Minor Accident

On one stormy summer afternoon, I was rear-ended while driving on the highway. The traffic was stop-and-go, and heavier than usual. We had just entered a tunnel, or maybe the overpass directly before the tunnel. Either way, the rain was coming down hard, but we were protected by a concrete umbrella. I've never been in a major accident, and this one did not change that fact. We pulled over to the side of the road and a large man wearing a ratty t-shirt and paint-stained jeans stepped out of his Dodge minivan and ran over to me. With his hand on his head, he repeatedly shouted "I'm so sorry," but in a way that seemed more like an accusation than an apology. He took a good look at my bumper and saw that it was all torn up. The bumper had pieces of black plastic and white styrofoam protruding with jagged edges, and calculated looking scrapes along either end. I was somewhat embarrassed to explain to the bombastically apologetic man that all the damage had been done over 10 years ago, and that my bumper had looked like that for almost as long as I could remember. I don't know what sort of retaliatory action I would have really taken for damages to a car that is old enough to get its own drivers license and drive itself. The man was so relieved that he frantically offered to buy me a pizza, or maybe a 6-pack of beer for the road. And had I not been in a rush, I might have taken him up on the offer.

Sometimes I drop the soap in the shower. It's those times when I'm thankful that I'm not in prison.

poetry

As a child, I wrote poetry. I'm not sure why. In retrospect, some of the stuff I wrote could be construed as poetry, even though it was not intended that way. That's partly my parents fault. In preschool, I used to love hammering wood together with nails. My parents couldn't accept that maybe I had a great aptitude to become a carpenter. My wood creations became "artworks." Just like the words I wrote in a thin marble notebook became "poetry." It might not have been any more than some well-spaced scratchy words that I thought of as stories about how Min loved Mon. I think I was Min and Mon was that girl with curly hair who sat next to me who had her jaw wired shut for 6 weeks that spring. Or how a bear put a bucket over its head and then went to the grocery store. In fact, that one got published in a book which might still live in my elementary school library. But it was poetry, and no less than the high art of a 6-year old.

Later, in 5th grade, I actually did write a rather substantial volume (maybe 10 pages) of cheesy rhyming poetry. In one of them, the words were in the shape of a christmas tree. I think another was just some sort of a list. We published them into a book, which was called "Circles, Squares, and Many More." Seriously. I don't think I could make something up like that. I'm not sure why I didn't continue down this path. I might have discovered that not all poetry needs rhyme. I might have figured out how to use language to evoke emotions that can't be reproduced be merely poking someone with a stick. Either way, maybe I would not be reserving my main literary output for blogs and emails.

I guess I have to write in this now...

The 80s were awesome. Not at the time I'm sure. Of course, I was only 9 when they ended. But in retrospect, its like, there's a whole culture based on material with no real idea that it is destroying itself. On every level, its like watching an animal play with something, having no idea what it is really doing or what are the consequences of its actions. Musically, they had all this electronic equipment that just came out and all they can do is make these cheesy sounds. And they have all this money flying around and all they can do is pour it into their cars and the fashion and entertainment industries, and they don't have a clue. I only like the 80s to laugh at them. Oh, and I'm a sucker for any girl with leg warmers. But don't tell anyone I said that. Seriously.
- from an email, sometime in 2004