Brains

Some Call Me:

I breathe fire and spit waterfalls.
Some call me the feisty Poseidon.

What I'm Doing:
Paying my taxes and strategizing my finances.

212:

Yes, it's that time of year- time for those stunning, killer athletes from the NCAA to be chosen. They will be the gladiators of the National Football League's turf for the next decades, recording countless brawls and few epic legends. If they're lucky, a journalist equivalent of Homer will write a very, very long poem about them. Or, this year of the draft could be a hoax. Maybe none of the players will enhance their teams, or reach the status of a demi-god. At the moment, Fate holds the cards. For the next week we'll all watch our steamy breath bash against cold air, as our anticipation climbs mountains higher than Mt. Everest. But come next Thursday, we'll be gulping down a glass of water, sweating all over our couches in excitement, watching the St. Louis Rams snag the hottest first pick in the pile.

And, it's the 75^th draft, no less. That has to be some sort of landmark.

As a college-bound student, I've had to go through a sort of "draft" as well. I had to work my brain with these standardized tests and display my GPA in a trophy case (perfectly polished, of course), and proudly exclaim that I was the champion of the extracurricular weight lifting competition. Schools denied me, schools accepted me. Some of these colleges valued me as a fantastic pick but others decided I was subpar. It's mid-April now, and "The Draft" is finally over. I was rejected from my top choice, Stanford, in November. Heartbroken then, I recovered and vowed to power through my combine with enthusiasm. I did, and I have chosen to play varsity Biochemistry for the Arizona Wildcats. You can bet I'll make a mark in Tucson- I've got plans to break the records for most passing and receiving yards. Rushing yards too. Yep, you heard it here first.

So, if you've been checking out this blog for a bit, you've probably noticed that I try and post once a week, usually near a Wednesday. I would've posted last week, but I was vacationing back in the Valley of the Sun. I decided it would be a great idea to fly Continental across the country and surprise my parents, play tennis, and visit my good friends. Turns out, it was. I had a blast catching up and even wrote the title of the next chapter in my life. Thanks to everyone who helped make the trip awesome.

If I had to sum everything up in eight words, it would be:

"It was just another case of the Popov."

Yeah. You guys in the desert-mimic of Narnia know what I'm talking about.

Throughout this past year I've probably traveled more by airplane than I have my entire life. I've learned a good deal from flying and watching others during the process of my inter-airway journeys. When you enter an airport, it's as if the world around you shuts down. The state you live in ceases to exist as the element that defines you curls up into a ball and prepares to be thrown to a new location. All that remains is that airport. LAX, JFK, PHL, PHX. The semi-ash scent fills your nostrils the second you enter the sliding doors of the miniature world, and you instantly gaze the wide expanse of the entryway. Tiled floors, or carpet covered with airplane patterns devour the vast space of floor that your standing on, and at that moment you are completely clueless. It takes you a couple minutes to find your bearings- like coming out into a clearing of a forest, or sticking your head out of the water after holding your breath. Your first thought is almost panicked, because you think you have miniscule amounts of time. To you, your flight takes off in ten seconds, even if you have two hours. Inside your head, you scream:

"Where do I check in my bags?"

After frantically scanning the lobby, you finally lay your pupils on those new electronic kiosks. You stick your credit card in, grumble over the $25 baggage fee, grab your tickets from the slot, and begin running towards the escalators with two backpacks on your back, while simultaneously chugging a lemon-lime Gatorade and engulfing a chocolate-chip granola bar. You, sir or madam, are the cheetah of the airlines.

Sprinting up the escalator can sometimes be tiring- especially when you jammed your two backpacks full of as much as possible so you didn't have to pack a second check-in bag. Your legs start to shake, and your breathing like you just ran a mile in ten years. Then you look at your watch or your cell-phone, and once again two hours doesn't feel like two hours. Your legs are tree trunks again, and your lungs are those of a swordfish. Oxygen? Psshhhh.

Bolting down the aisles that seem oddly empty for how big they are, you glance upward, looking at those awkward black signs on the ceiling for direction. You follow one arrow, only to realize it meant to point the other way. No worries though, you're more focused than Eric Clapton on Adderall.

By this time, approximately fifteen minutes have passed since the sliding doors opened for you at the entrance. You're twitching, shaking, and checking your watch exactly every three seconds, while you wait in line for security clearance. Your foot is tapping, and you're having a conversation with the guy in front of you about how you've never seen a line this long in your entire life, and that you're terrified you're going to miss your flight because you paid over $300 for it. He's saying the same thing, and you two instantly become the best of friends complaining about your common enemy. The airline industry.

Finally, The front of the line. With your laptop out, shoes untied, ID and ticket in hand, you walk up to the security officer with confidence. She waves your ID with a black-light, and then tells you that they have this new protocol. Stunned that more of your time is being stolen by the man, you lend your hand to a dude with rubber gloves on. He swabs it, and tests the sample in this crazy high-tech machine you've never seen before. They say that you don't have any chemical substances on your hands, and with a sigh of relief, you run out of your shoes to the conveyor belt and second level of security.

Everything is in the bins. Your wallet, keys, iPhone, and belt are off of your person. Your laptop is in a separate container, and as you walk through the metal detector, the security officer winks at you with a fantastic thumbs up. As you go to grab your items from the end of the line, the imaging machine waves a red flag. A security officer walks over to you with one of your bags, and pulls out your spare, hidden Fruit Punch Gatorade. With a moan of despair and a condescending glare from the officer, you place your bag back through the imaging machine and watch your delicious beverage fall into the abyss of the trash can.

Freedom! Done with security, the rest is cake. You plow through all the other people as they tie their shoes, and blast through the halls toward your gate (checking your ticket at least seven times along the way). With heavy shoulders, you fork over two dollars for some water, and sip it down as you wipe the sweat from your forehead. A month's worth of stress and running out of the way, you wait the remaining hour for your flight to board. Pat yourself on the back, and prepare for a relaxing sit.

Sometimes I think that if everyone was as productive as they were when they try to catch a flight, we might have invented the time machine by now.

When I'm on an airplane, I feel like the rest of the passengers are a temporary family. Maybe it's because we're all packed like sardines into a flying metal carapace, but I think there's definitely cozy and wide-spread love felt throughout the cabin. I can't help feeling concerned for the guy sitting two rows up looking sick with his head between his knees. I can't help wondering what the woman next to me is reading, and why she is reading it. I think it's the "Lost Syndrome." The plane could crash, and we'd all be stuck on an island and have to get along to survive. For some reason the brain makes these simple relational connections with these unknown people. It's a soft, warm feeling to be surrounded by those who care about you. And in a jammed plane, sometimes that's all you have.

On March 3^rd, 2010 under the post "Analysis of a Lost Man" I discussed my Physical Science class with Mr. M. A couple weeks ago however, Mr. M was let go from my school. That class has been in a stage of No Man's Land, and has actually become worse than it was previously. Every day the teacher is an unknown and the students, rightfully almost, have ceased to care about whatever happens. Substitutes have become normality, and even I am unsure as I enter the classroom during the first period of the day as to who will be there. One of the substitutes though, who goes by the name of Shep has done his best to be consistent. He's a retired teacher and an all-around great guy- but he is almost being pressured into becoming the full-time teacher for the rest of the year. Each time Shep is in class, I watch him as he struggles to try and install a sort of order in a disorganized structure, I watch as he becomes frustrated with the lack of respect and overwhelming rudeness of the students. In many ways I feel sorry for Shep. We are both powerless in the crumbled ruins of a poor leader, and it would seem that we can't begin removing the rumble unless we're issued construction hats. And at this point, we both almost feel like risking something falling on our heads.

So I was riding home with my man Eugene and my teammate Samantha today on the EL. We were having a nice, intellectual discussion about choices, and it eventually led to the idea of helplessness. Eugene, being the genius that he is, pulled out a case study that these scientists did on dogs and decided to detail it for us. Here it is below to the best of my memory:

There are three dogs. Let's call them Fred, Alex, and Kyle. Fred, the control, is placed inside a defined area. Alex is placed in a defined area, except he is shocked by electricity (which he can stop by pushing a lever). Kyle, the final dog, is linked with Alex. When Alex is shocked, so is Kyle. Except Kyle can't stop the electricity by pushing the lever and has no idea when or how long each shock will last. Kyle then, is rightfully clueless to his surroundings and their actions upon him.

The three dogs are then moved to a new experiment. Fred, Alex, and Kyle are now all placed in similar spaces. There is a small fence on one side of the perimeter, and each dog is shocked in the space. If the dog decides to escape the space by jumping over the small fence (which all are more than capable of), then it will stop being shocked. Fred and Alex, after a short period of time, jump the fence to escape the electric shock. Kyle however, does not. Kyle lies down and whimpers, without a second thought to escaping by jumping over the fence.

Why is this? Well, Fred was the control. He hadn't been shocked before, and when he registered the pain knew he could get out of it by leaving the space. Alex had been shocked before, but knew that he could turn off the shock with a lever. He knew there was a way to overcome it, and solved the problem. Kyle was shocked before, but at random. He had no idea where or why or how he was being shocked, and so when he was in a place where he could easily avoid the situation, he didn't know any better than to lie down and take the pain.

This experiment was done multiple times with different dogs. Almost every time, the Fred and Alex dog jumped the fence, and the Kyle dog stayed. However, some of the Kyle variations decided to jump the fence as well, but very, very few. The reason?

Human studies of a very similar course traced the purpose behind the Kyle variations that actually avoided electrocution. It literally comes down to optimism vs. pessimism. If the dog was a pessimist, it wouldn't leave the space. There would be no thought process through its head claiming there was another way, and it would just accept the pain. But if it was an optimist, there was a miniscule chance that it would still search for a solution, even if it was trained to be helpless.

I think that this study is incredibly relevant to many things we deal with in our day to day lives. For one, it teaches us that optimism can help us escape or find solutions for situations that we may immediately think impenetrable. But it has a mega-importance for people like me, who work in under-privileged schools. Many of my students are the Kyle breed. They have been trained to be helpless throughout their life, and even when presented with a way out, they cannot recognize it. This is a sad truth that we, as people, must learn to both overcome and teach others to overcome.

Che Guevara has been quoted for saying, "If you tremble with indignation at every injustice, then you are a comrade of mine."

I think when we, as citizens of the Earth, look out onto the world we see many things that trouble us. Why don't we let those things make us tremble with indignation? Why don't we think of ways to solve these problems, talk to our friends about genocide, about hunger, about poverty, about education, about healthcare? Let us all become bouncing boards for ideas, for everyone can think of something great! The worst thing we can do is to sit down and calm the tremors of anger that we feel toward injustice. We must step up and find solutions.

You'll probably find me quoting Che Guevara and Bruce Lee in the future. These are two of my idols. I idol them for their strong spirit and what they stand for. If you are not familiar with these people and their philosophies, I suggest you look them up or grab a book on either one. I highly recommend it.

I hope you enjoyed this post, and I apologize for missing last week. But I was on vacation, after all! Expect weekly posts on this blog around every Wednesday. I'm also updating the Creative Works section (updated 4/14/2010) with past and current writings, ranging from poems to shreds of stories. Oh, and I would love to hear your opinions on some of the scenarios I present, so feel free to comment!

-TWO-12