Intertwined

What I’m Doing: Updating!

212:

This past week has been incredibly relaxing. All my good friends were on break from college, and I was able to fly back to my hometown and have a little reunion. I finally had a chance to re-tie connections with the many versions of my past, and seemingly was able to knock everything off my to-do list except for an update on this blog.

I guess that’s what vacations do to you, even if a vacation is a trip back to the motherland.

However, I have remodeled the blog. I decided change is a nice thing, and after a few months I decided to switch things up. Besides throwing a new coat of paint over the color scheme, I installed fresh “background info” and “about me” sections. Be aware that there soon will be a comic section. It will house the wonders of the now notorious Seamus (“Shame-Us”) Esquire Magazine. That section will take over the “Creative Works” page previously leaned against a wall in the corner of the room.

For all the faithful readers out there, this post is minuscule- but let it serve as a break of sorts. Every post I write seems to have a greater word count than the last, and it doesn’t hurt to rest the eyes (I think my last article neared 3,000 words). So relax your optical sensors and count the days until the next Wednesday.

-TWO-12

Journalism Journey

Monsoon (Part 2):

The evacuation of the city had begun. The storm was deemed too dangerous for human contact and all non-necessary personal were ordered to leave immediately. The military had taken positions lining the fastest routes out of the city and were facilitating the safe retreat of the citizens.

Roger was standing in the middle of an intersection, his jacket flailing in the chilled breeze. The buildings around him glared with evil intention, and he felt oppressed, controlled, powerless. His cell phone rang with no emotion in his hand as he dialed and redialed his wife, but there was no answer. Service was down. His attempts were useless- Sarah had become lost in the mass hysteria of the first condensed-lightning strike.

The top three emotions crossing Roger's mind were panic, fear, and worry. Panic oscillated between the shock of the storm and the unknown location of his wife. Worry had a death-grip on his heart, as his brain checked scenario after scenario in his head wondering what could've happened to Sarah. Fear was an immobilizing bomb that continued to erupt inside his limbs. These three emotions combined caused Roger's onset of desperation.

A nearby soldier was the victim. Roger grabbed the small man with both hands, and then tossed him into the side of a building. His voice was loud as he screamed with crazed intensity. He was breaking down.

"Where is my wife? Where is she?" Again, he smashed the soldier into the wall. "She was just here! Have you seen her? I can't lose her. I can't lose her!" As he became more aggressive, a second soldier (obviously of a higher rank) pulled Roger's arms behind his back, restraining him. "Greg, I'll handle this. Get back to your post."

The smaller soldier gave a quick salute, and then ran back toward the road. "I'm Lieutenant Briggs. If I let you go, will you relax?" Roger murmured a nod then shook his arm as Briggs released him. The two men stood there, silent. Thunder rumbled in the distance.

"I understand you're looking for your wife. What does she mean to you?" Roger's breathing was heavy. The adrenaline was slowly seeping away, his body removing stress.

"She means the world to me."

Briggs seemed less tense. "That's all I need to hear. Now calm down, listen to me. You're going to walk down a block, then make a right between the buildings. You'll see a jeep and two soldiers. Tell them Briggs sent you." Roger stammered out a "thank you" and began to run off in the direction the Lieutenant pointed.

"Wait. What was your name? I'll radio ahead so they know you're coming."

"Roger. My name's Roger."

As he sprinted off in the distance, the darkness engulfed him.

******************

"There. There he is. Look- see on top of that building? Save that image. Yes. Now analyze the memory. See if we can get a detail on his face. I'm going to revive him."

Roger felt the psychic's hand slide out of his forehead, sending exhaustion throughout his body. He gasped, sucking for a lung-full of air. The room swirled around him, and he felt the chill of the air conditioning on his sweaty skin. The psychic mentioned something about water, food, and rest being necessary before they could move on. Roger had been up for the past sixty hours, and if they probed his memory any longer his body would completely shut down. Great, he thought.

The assistant, Anne, walked over and was lifting Roger up by putting his arm around her shoulder. Roger felt weak, in a wild, almost drug-induced daze. But he could make out his surroundings. There was a row of computer monitors on one side of the room, a large, glass observation deck behind his leather chair. The psychic had left- it was just Roger, Anne, and the white walls that clawed at his eyes and teased his brain.

Anne led Roger over to a room the size of a small closet, letting him down on a short bed. He eagerly let his head fall into the soft cushion of the pillow, watching Anne place a plate of food on the end-side table. "When you start to feel your appetite come back, eat this. You're going to need it for tomorrow morning." She leaned in towards Roger, pulling the sheets over and tucking him in, and whispered in his ear, "Underneath your pillow is a note. There are cameras- read it after I leave."

Neurons busted and fired in Roger's mind and he barely noticed the door close shut. He struggled to force down as much food as he could, drowning it with a smooth glass of water. He felt the note underneath his pillow- the rough texture of the paper calling him. Pulling the sheets over his head, he pulled the letter out and began to read.

END OF PART 2

What I'm Doing: Listening to Franco's CD

212:

I moved to Philadelphia in August of 2009, and I hadn't been to the East Coast beforehand. Everything was fresh, and frankly, the opposite of little 'ole Gilbert. Recently I had the chance to travel to New York. I loved it- the city was huge, clean, stunning. But before I have to fly back to Phoenix for good, I really wanted to see the capital of the United States of America. In fact, I believed it was mandatory. So I booked a Megabus ticket for May 16^th (a Sunday) and followed through. I went to D.C. Below is the account of my journey into the heartland of the world of politics and government.

At 8:45 AM, I met my teammate Law (a.k.a. The Prince) at 30^th and Market. The sun seemed to be still rising, and we were both exhausted from the previous day, Serve-a-thon (which was a great success). I wouldn't have wanted anyone other than The Prince to accompany me on my escapade into Washington D.C, for The Prince is the definition of the travel companion- prepped with two fists of knowledge and a third fist of pure creativity. However, Law and I didn't really want to use our normal names for this trip. That was too normal. We wanted to add a new dimension to the adventure- so we went undercover.

I took on the code-name Beau Washington, and The Prince became Andre Hardcastle. Together, we were a pair of recently graduated college students attempting to start a freelance journal entitled Seamus ("Shame-Us") Esquire Magazine. Of course we were journalists. Journalists with a unique eye for the common man- and we asked the whole of D.C questions that detailed love, life, and their wonderful city.

After a short 2.5 hour bus ride, we arrived in a large parking lot near Chinatown. Andre Hardcastle (a.k.a. The Prince a.k.a. Law, my teammate) and I stepped down from the second deck of the Megabus and eagerly stretched our immobile limbs. We shouldered our backpacks, looked left, looked right, then headed off into the city. It wasn't long until we happened to run into the White House.

I would like to say that Beau Washington and Andre Hardcastle (journalists and co-creators of Seamus ("Shame-Us") Esquire Magazine) had a thought-provoking interview with President Barack Obama as he trimmed the hedges of the White House lawn. But that didn't happen. Once we had our share of the tourists and the building itself, Law and I walked into a nearby park. Directly opposite of us, we saw a man who (on first appearance) looked like an African voodoo master. He wasn't wearing anything besides a pair of frayed jean shorts, and his hair was grown out, long, dreaded- and was the color of bleach white. Beside the bench was a tall, wooden staff- and to top it all off, flies seemed to be attracted to his bare chest.

Yep. Andre Hardcastle and Beau Washington moved in for the first interview ever for Seamus ("Shame-Us") Esquire Magazine. I'll admit, we hesitated a little bit.

We quickly learned that our first assumption of the man was incorrect. He wasn't an African voodoo master- nor was he crazy. The man was a gem and a genius. His name was Elijah A. Alexander Jr. (a.k.a. "Nature-Boy"). After properly introducing ourselves, we asked Elijah what his definition of power was. He replied:

EA: "Understanding the duality of the planes of existence and the use of true opposites. This is the definition of power. What's the opposite of black? White. What's the opposite of red? Green. What's the opposite of good? Evil. Once we comprehend those opposites, we can handle and wield power. This also includes such abstracts as miracles."

The Prince and I nodded, soaking in his information and writing it down on notepads. We followed up with a couple more questions, and eventually asked about his appearance. The Prince asked him about his hairstyle, and Elijah responded:

EA: "I haven't combed, nor cut my hair since December 31^st, 1977."

To conclude the conversation, we each shoot his hand and wished him a good day. As we turned to leave, he interjected:

EA: "I can't have a good day, because in order to have a good day I would have to have a bad one to compare it to. Instead, I just enjoy my day."

What a wise man. Since Elijah said this, I have restrained myself from telling someone to have a "good day," but to rather enjoy it. As Law and I left the park, we knew that we were definitely going to have a blast. This adventure was going to go down in the history books as one of the better Sundays of 2010. At the very least it was going to be very hard to beat.

Check out Nature Boy: Homepage , Video

From the park outside the White House, we walked straight down to the Washington Monument. I stood next to it, touching the cold stone of its exterior, and looked straight up. It felt like it was a wall stretching forever and ever. It is always nice to be humbled by such large, man-made objects.

Leaving the giant, tourist infested pillar, Law and I trekked toward the Lincoln Memorial. But on our way, we had to stop off for another interview.

Andre Hardcastle took the lead, jumping off a ledge and back onto the sidewalk. He strutted over to a woman manning an ice-cream kiosk, and began giving her our spheal. The, "we're journalists asking questions for Seamus (Shame-Us) Esquire Magazine" spheal. For some reason, she wasn't responding to us. Maybe she was ignoring us. But from behind us, another woman said, "She doesn't speak English. She's from Nepal."

Oh.

Beau Washington and Andre Hardcastle are the toughest of all journalists. We never give up. We couldn't walked away, knocked off our rockers a bit. But instead, we turned on our heels to the other lady. Her name was Jury, and she also worked at the ice-cream kiosk.

We asked Jury why the area around the Washington Monument was called the National Mall. As far as we knew, there wasn't anywhere to shop for clothes. No PacSun, Macy's, Hollister- just lots and lots of monuments and memorials. She wasn't sure, and together we contemplated the ways that the area could be called a mall, yet sell no clothes or other items a mall usually sells.

A man eventually rode up in a four-wheel John Deer tractor that looked like a convertible golf cart. He was middle-aged, and wielded the fierce name of Leon. He joined in our discussion, and eventually we came to a conclusion.

The term "National Mall" uses the root term "mall" as a form of a giant museum. A mall doesn't necessarily mean a place to buy clothes or items, but rather an area where one can go place to place (like store to store, or museum to museum).

Satisfied, The Prince and I moved on with empty stomachs to visit Old Abe. It was approaching 2:00 PM, and after we saw the 16^th President. His statue stood up to his reputation, and if there were less people about, it would have seemed oddly peaceful.

We trekked back the way we came- past the drained reflection pool, WWII memorial, and Washington Monument. Once we reached the Smithsonian we could hop on the D.C. Metro, which would take us back into the city- where we could get some mad tasty grub.

At the Metro, The Prince and I weren't too sure how to proceed. We laughed a bit at the Metro's "I'm better than all other public transportation system" signs, then decided to ask an employee about what we should do and where we should go. After providing our usual introduction, we each shook hands with a worker named Berly. He was a genuine, honest dude.

Berly hooked us up, giving us a tour of the Smithsonian Metro station. He may have thought we were celebrities, but I think he was just a very nice, devoted guy. As we progressed through our short tour, I realized how incredible D.C. subways are. They're amazing, and a true sight to behold. For lack of a better description to compare D.C subways to Philly subways, I have to say that "SEPTA be drawlin'."

Safely on the subway heading toward the D.C Zoo through a payment of the exact fare, The Prince and I were awestruck by the smooth, incredibly fast ride. We arrived in what seemed like seconds, standing in the station that Berly suggested for some pretty decent food.

The stop for the Zoo is fascinating because of one thing: its escalators. Law and I physically stopped moving when we caught sight of the Mount Everest of moving staircases, and both our mouths hung on the clean, pristine floor of the station as normal, everyday citizens strolled by as if it was another piece of the blue sky.

The light at the end of the tunnel finally appeared, and the sound of South American instrumental music blasted into the subway. My ears perked a bit, and I found out the source. It was a man playing a flute hooked up to a microphone and two loudspeakers. He was good- and reminded me of the South Park Peruvian flute bands. I wasn't sure if he was from Peru, but I told I promised myself that if he was still there after we had lunch, I would buy his CD.

Law and I quickly found a place to eat. The restaurant was called Petits Plats, and was an Italian/French hybrid. Our waitress, Ohka, seemed to be in a rush (or possibly very shy), so we spared her an interview. The Prince ordered a bangin' seafood salad and cranberry juice, while I ordered a sly peperoni pizza. We figured we might as well feast a bit, since it isn't every day that we explore D.C.

South American music still flooded the area around the entrance to the subway, so I approached him and entered a discussion. His name was Franco, and he was from Bolivia. He had been living in America for the past sixteen years and loved the place. However, there was nothing that he loved more than playing music. I fulfilled my promise and snagged one of his CDs, then Law and I were off. It was time to bounce this sweet city and head back to home base.

Secured in a couple of seats on the second level of the Megabus, we recounted our day. It started off great, and ended with a bang. And, we were actually going to make it back to Philly at a reasonable time. It was a "pat yourself on the back" moment.

The adventure to and from Washington D.C. was awesome. I enjoyed the city and admired every unique aspect it had. It far exceeded my expectations and what I've seen through books and the internet, and I'm glad I made the time to visit. Thanks to my teammate Law, for providing the back-up. Everyone should wish the man luck- he's moving from Philly to L.A next year, after all.

I'll leave this one with a fitting quote.

"A slender acquaintance with the world must convince every man that actions, not words, are the true criterion of the attachment of friends." ~ George Washington

Look out for a comics section to replace the creative works.

-TWO-12

Making Moves

Monsoon:

With the tide of new energy and technology, society made huge advancements. Cities expanded and stretched toward the sky, machines dictated infinite production, and populations increased with a massive surge. Places like New York, Philadelphia, and Boston roared with people, each with a fresh level of intelligence. Business thrived. But for a while, the food industry struggled- there was a difficulty in growing the necessary amounts of produce naturally. However, with the advent of agricultural science, farming was no longer an issue. Meat and vegetables could be created in a lab setting in record time. Problem solved. It seemed like the world was running with greased gears, perfectly, wonderfully, cleanly.

But the world couldn't live in a golden age forever; equivalent exchange had to be factored in. Pollution, both from plastics and the waste used in the production of goods, began to cause malfunctions in the natural cycle of the weather. A wild blizzard struck Los Angeles in California, a hurricane wreaked havoc up the side of Texas all the way into Canada. People became scared, terrified of these monstrous events. They demanded a change. It was time to shut down the synthetic and retreat from their so-called evolutionary path. The scientists agreed- if they continued along the highway they wouldn't survive. So, over a series of years, change came.

Cities decreased in size as science focused on the safe deletion of harmful materials and waste. Seasons adapted back to their normal cycle and for the first time in fifty years, the air smelled of fresh flowers instead of crude oil. Depression and doom were lifted, and smiles hung above doorways.

\\\---------------------------

That is, until an electrical storm, greater than any previous disaster appeared roaring down the coast of Maine. At least, that's what the news said.

To Roger's tired eyes, the red, LED display on the alarm clock read 3:39 PM. Then it changed. 4:00 PM, 2:55 PM, 11:31 PM, nothing. Roger squinted, blinked, then glared at his clock. But it was off, showing nothing. Drowsily, he sat up, his hand blindly patting the bedside table, searching for the TV remote. He felt it, made contact, then pressed the button he'd pressed so many times before. Nothing.

The power must have shut off overnight. No worries.

Roger rolled over, moving closer to the warmth of his wife, Sarah. It wouldn't hurt if he slept in a little longer- he had an excuse, after all. With a smile, he shut his eyes, and squeezed Sarah's hand. Outside, black thunder clouds huddled in a menacing group. Rain tumbled, pounding the city below, marinating it in a conductive stew. Hurricane-like winds buffeted the tall buildings, causing them to sway unnaturally. Lighting began to strike.

Emergency power kicked in.

An overwhelming siren screeched in his ear, and Roger bolted upright. A light flashed from the corner of the apartment, emphasizing the enraged spirit of nature shown in the large window. Next to him, Sarah looked worried. Her eyes wavered, and fear began to take hold- she never was a fan of thunder and lightning. Roger rubbed her shoulder, stating that things were going to be alright. But they needed to leave their apartment. As the couple put on their rain jackets, the siren continued to shriek, a constant, foreboding reminder. Behind them, the door slammed shut. It rattled, vibrating the metal numbers of the apartment, #212. The door would never open again.

Lightning, an ever present artist, smothered the dark sky with its vivid paint brush. Thunder, the angry musician, blasted its audience with enormous bass drums.

The lobby was packed- both with people and with panic. Roger pushed through the crowd with defensive, angry, and nervous sweeps of his arms. He was never letting go of Sarah's hand. Above the rough, boisterous murmuring, a voice repeated over a loud speaker.

"This is not a drill. This is not a drill. Storm warning has reached a critical level. The Army stated that all citizens must remain inside on the bottom level of their buildings. Remain inside on the bottom level of their buildings. Be on standby for further information."

Roger reached the double doors of the complex's entryway. They loomed tall over his head, staring down at him like computer screens displaying a miraculous screen saver.

"Be on standby for further information. Storm warning has reached a critical..."

The windows surrounding the room flashed white, erasing all sound, all sight. Then, with one, resounding explosion, all senses returned.

Shrapnel and water rushed in.

\\\\-----------------

The psychic withdrew his hand from Roger's forehead. Roger was sweating in the leather chair, shaking, twitching. His eyes slowly opened, then darted from side to side, frantic, around the room. He was also breathing heavily, obviously drained. "It's alright. You're alright. That was just a memory- the first part of our session. You're doing great."

Sighing, the psychic rubbed his nose, then yawned. "Why don't I send Anne in with a glass of water? Then we'll continue?"

Weakly, Roger nodded. His entire body felt heavy, and he couldn't figure out where he was. The glass of water appeared next to him on a table, and he made an attempt to drink it- but couldn't get more than a sip down. Roger's eyes bulged, and fear gripped his body as the psychic's hand went back into his forehead.

No. No. Not again.

End of Part #1

Inspired by a dream on May 9th, 2010. Part #2 will be out next week.

What I'm Doing: Sitting on a world, top down in a convertible.

212:
Today, as stated by one of the teacher's I work with, is Writing Wednesday. Although it is nearing a close here on the east side of things, I've completed my writing, and accomplished my Wednesday. Woot for Wednesday.

See this red jacket? Yep, there it is. Bright, flashy, roughly nine months old and as visible as a neon light bulb. I wear this piece of clothing on my back daily- and no, I'm not a 6'8" power forward. To every pedestrian I pass, the jacket seems to say, "Ask me anything." Just the other day I was attempting to hop onto the express train and head southbound from City Hall. Before I could jump through the sliding doors, I was barraged by a combo attack of two confused women (simultaneously). But by now, I'm a trained veteran at this sort of thing. One of them stammered a right jab, asking me if this was the train to Girl's High. The other demanded, with a fierce side-kick, whether this could take her to Snyder. Needless to say, I, the artful martial arts master/trapeze artist, handled their questions with ease- providing them with a kindly smile as I slipped into the train, seconds before the doors closed for good.

Besides the usual public transportation concerns, I'm often asked about City Year (what is it/what do you do?). These are questions I happily answer, and I enjoy seeing the genuine interest of the people around me. I also get a series of micro-quizzes toward my appearance. Currently, I've been asked if I work for, or as:

1. SEPTA (as a bus driver/train driver)
   
2. NASA (as an astronaut)
   
3. The Police (as a cop)
   
4. The City of Philadelphia
   
5. A Garbage Man
   

I guess it's good to have variety, good to remain mysterious. These quirky questions always cheer up my day- especially when I'm asked if I'm an astronaut. That one's great. It's nice that the City Year jacket (for all its uniformity) has variety in spades.

This Saturday, Pre-June (May) 15th, there is a massive service event called "Serve-a-thon." Every year, City Year organizes this huge ordeal for the Fall. But this year, Autumn decided to cry a river, and we couldn't quite build the bridge to escape from drowning. Serve-a-thon, postponed since October, has finally arrived. It's being held at a large recreation center across the street from the high school I work with. This, in itself, is fantastic. Many of my students (along with 500+ volunteers) will be active from 9:00 AM in the morning; painting fences, building planters/benches, creating wonderful murals, and beautifying the entire space. I'm excited to see how it turns out. No matter what happens though, I know Serve-a-thon will add a brilliant touch to the community around my school.

Following Serve-a-thon, on the 16^th of Pre-June (May), I'll be the guy in the subway asking for directions. I'm making moves with my man The Prince (a.k.a Law from my CY team). We're going to crash down on the capital of this country, bringing our "mad skillz" in investigative journalism with us. The pedestrians of D.C won't know what hit them. Using the simple strategy of an alias, The Prince and I will act like reporters from obscure magazines, with even more obscure names (such as Shamus McElroy and Andre Steel). We'll report on anything from the NBA playoffs (GO SUNS!) to the recent major oil spill. It should provide for an intense, humorous, and eventful day. Be prepared for a download of that information in next week's edition of the 212.

My awesome teammate, Samantha, has been gathering submissions from the students at my school for City Year's publishing opportunity, Lit. Mag. She's worked hard for a series of months now- and she is the most adamant, sincere, and difficult-to-resist person I know. She's received countless poetry, drawings, sketches, artwork, and stories from students, and she is a wonderful asset to my team. She read me a poem today from one of the students, and I loved it. Here it is, copied below. I believe this student is in 8^th grade.

-------======`*^

My Passion
By C. Ellis

My passion shines for you like
The sun shines for the equator
Every time I am with you
I hate those dreadful words:
I will have to see you later

No matter what you say, you will
Always have a place in my heart
But if you leave me, my heart will
Be a dartboard- you will be the dart

-------======`*^

Hemmingway is known to have said, "For a long time now I have tried simply to write the best I can. Sometimes I have good luck and write better than I can." Within writing, that is my goal- and I believe that it takes good luck and a good day to have polished writing. Thanks to all those that have left comments so far- I appreciate you guys taking the time out and telling me what you think.

Expect Part 2 of Monsoon next week and a detail of my day in D.C. It's going to be sweet.

-TWO-12

Homage to Math

Designed Mankind:
Man is a product of his environment.

Think of life as a crude assembly line, jamming its machinery with the bravado of a pounding, rusty robot. Each product is designed from the same template- varying slightly in size. It's then soaked in dye, molded, melted, dipped in hot wax- then, with a final touch, it's fastened together. One beautiful piece of flesh, blood and bone.

Of course, there are imperfections. But who cares? The item will be worn through time. It evolves, grows, spits, walks. Each designer of its "manufactured" existence will give it a clean shove down the conveyor belt, and voila, a new life is born.

A prized possession? Try delusion.

When the world is a factory, man is produced in excess. Many become corrupted in their upbringing. They lose their self-centered goodness, their purification, their enlightenment. These creatures fail and fall like artificial snowflakes sculpted by artificial clouds. They become slaves, model citizens for a designated dystopian world.

Each model of the human collection strives to be different, and their creators and developers pride themselves on this attribute of success. Past presidents, philosophers, and Olympians are all heralded as the best of the best- the ideal manikins of the social groove.

It must be admitted, however, that there are some monstrosities that refuse to be controlled. The mishaps. The mistakes. The mechanical malfunctions. But this can be expected from such a large firm that strives for the configuration of a unique species. Nonetheless, Sir or Madame, these... abnormalities are taken care of. Deleted from the system. Or, as we like to say- erased.

As our slogan follows, you now understand that man, or woman, is a product of its environment. It is a stable, efficient being that will suit the needs, pleasures, and madness of any god, being, or entity. All you have to do is send us your order- with the proper values and development securely in place- and from modern marvels, your human will form.

Thank you for your support and contribution to the success of science.

Andrew Ryan
-Factories of Fate

What I'm Doing: Being amazed by the skills Neil Patrick Harris is displaying in Jeopardy.

Check this Article: Meet Mr. John Sloan

212:

On February 27^th, 2010 I started this blog. In the post "Death by Snow," I explained the origin of my title, 212. Now, I have a link to that origin, thanks to my Aunt Susie. Thanks Susie for bringing back the memories. Here's the infamous link: 212.

It's Cinco de Mayo. The fifth of May. And you know what? It falls on a Wednesday. Now, let's comprehend what this means.

The rule of 5's. The fifth of the fifth month, on a day where the fifth letter is an "e", also known as the fifth letter of the alphabet. It's 5/5/10. Five plus five… equals ten. There are two fives… so ten divided by two. Equals five! Cinco (meaning five in Spanish), of "Cinco de Mayo" is five letters long. When I typed this, I used five fingers on each hand. I also twiddled the five fingers on each of my feet. I'm leaving for Arizona on the 25^th, which is five squared. My only regret? That I didn't post this at 5:55. FIVES.

I share a birthday with Jerry Springer, Mike Krzyzewski, and Randy Moss. I'm Aquarius, born on February 13th. On February 13th, 173 famous "celebrities" were born and 77 have died (according to Wikipedia- birth ending at 1990, death ending at 2010). That means my birth date has a positive living differential of 96 people. I hope there isn't a day of the year with a negative difference- that day most likely breeds bad luck. What's your birthday's living differential? If you wondering why you didn't see me on Wikipedia's famous person list, it's because it ends at the year 1990. I'm young... officially born on February 13th, 1991 in Arizona. This date is the first stop on my path to the present, in my adventure through mathematics.

My emotional regard towards the subject of math oscillates from year to year. I'll love it, enjoying the vigorous spirit of a challenging calculus problem. Then the next year I'll find myself thinking thoughts of relentless hatred towards complex fractions.

Overall though, I've had a fantastic logical upbringing. My parents were on the ball- and they initiated the first steps toward my numerical education.

When I was really young, my Dad would print out multiplication tables, working with me and making me memorize the wonderful aspects of 1-12. He would quiz me, randomly. 4 x 8. 7 x 9. 12 x 12. This was on top of the regular addition and subtraction, the practice with large numbers, small numbers, division. My Mom would cut flash cards out, or I would sit on the computer playing corny, cartoon games that focused on arithmetic. Since I began walking, I began solving, typing, gaining a solid, concrete foundation. It wasn't much longer before I started to build pillars and supports.

In the 2nd grade, I qualified (through probation) for A.L.P. at my elementary school. It stood for "Accelerated Learning Program." I remember being scared to be kicked out of the program because I was probationary (I scored one point off a clear score on the placement test). But at the same time, I was excited and honored to have the chance to prove myself. The class took up several hours of each day, and was loaded with math and vocabulary tests that stretched grades ahead of mine, and my fellow students, current year. Monday through Thursday secured strict, timed lessons and difficult reading- but Friday was always a breeze- for if we behaved (and my class always behaved), it was game day. We would bust out chess boards, circular chess boards, dominoes, Stratego. We'd endlessly play each other and devise strategies to win, make up new rules and construct new games from the boards and pieces of others. Fridays proposed opportunity for creativity- and I, along with my classmates, leaped for it.

Grade school stretched along easily. Everything was cake- and I made close friends in my A.L.P. class. The closest of them was a kid named Nick. He was sly, sneaky, conniving and ruthless- consistency was his written on his forehead and the word smart stretched through his tall, skinny frame. I strived to beat Nick in everything- but found myself always slipping up on a test- missing one or two problems due to stupid errors- where he would make none. In 3rd grade, we both joined our elementary school's chess team, and lived for the competitive intelligence of moving knights, rooks, and queens (I played my Dad when I was a kid, and for the longest time could never beat him).

Chess club was fantastic. Nick and I quickly became the best players in the school, and we rampaged with our mad skills on weekend tournaments. We learned crazy openings and crafty tricks, and although we never practiced from a book or studied games, we still grew and improved through experience. We played with logic, and level, calculating heads. We won a few tournaments (one of our favorites was
held at Eduprize), and even made it to a State match (which was a distance away from home in a nerve streaked hotel). We hated losing, but loved the one-on-one brain battle that chess offered. However, we stopped playing after 6th grade. For whatever reason (blame movies, media, fellow students), it was common knowledge that only nerds played on the chess team in middle school. And I, for sure wasn't a
nerd.

Junior high school was simple and easy. Math wasn't a challenge- the only thing new was homework, and I blasted through most, if not all of that in class. Although it was my introduction to Honors classes, 7^th and 8th grade resembled a blur of accelerated A's. That was, until I shook hands with Mrs. Chapman.

At the start of my freshman year of high school, I was stunned by large class sizes and excited for a new level of work. My math course that year was Honors Geometry 3/4, taught by a woman named Mrs. Chapman. She was furious, spunky, and dictated lessons with a menace- and gave out tests that resembled the likeness of Death with his black cloak and sharp scythe. Chapman was also my first sight in the morning. 1st period class.. And I wasn't (and I'm still not) exactly a morning person. My class consisted of roughly 30, maybe 32 students. There were a couple 11th graders repeating the class because they performed terribly their initial year, and there were a few 8^th graders in a special accelerated, accelerated (like, Honors squared or something) program. Within a couple weeks, my fellow students began to drop like flies. The first test was a fiery dragon, and it
definitely disintegrated 14 year olds. Chapman would give us ridiculous amounts of homework (40+ problems a night), then grade our homework as if we were perfectionists. The slightest slip up in form or work, and she would unleash her red pen from its scabbard and force our poor
slivers of trees to bleed out on her desk. Tragedy, then the great plague, then World War III struck, and my grade plummeted to an 80%. The class average hung at an 82%, and everyone (except the 11th
graders) had two feet in hot lava. Many kids had dropped, and I was left with a small remainder of my peers- as we went in to re-do what seemed like every test, attempted to create sparkles on our homework, and strive for consistency and an absence of mistakes. Before the last final of that year, my grade had dropped to a C. I needed to stab the vampire of a final in its heart with a stake to pull off a B. Panic had set in, and I felt like Tom Cruise in The Last Samurai. For the first time in my life I studied and practiced problems. At the end of school, I went to her door and checked my grade. HUGE SIGH OF RELIEF. I managed to pull of an A on the final- raising my overall grade to an 80% flat. Phew.

Sophomore year followed without a hitch, but due to my inconsistency on tests, I managed an 89.5% both semesters- rounding out to a pair of B's. As an 11th grader I destroyed Honors Pre-Calculus, and entered Calculus 1 & 2 as a senior. It posed a challenge, but I loved the novel theories and ideas it proposed. Some days I would understand new concepts in the snap of a finger. Others... I found myself staying 30-45 minutes into my lunch period, smashing my head against my desk because I didn't understand a problem on a test. I didn't study like I should have- but nevertheless; I enjoyed the class through its ups and downs.

This past year has been a little different. I haven't been a student; I'm not in the next level of mathematics. I'm not drowning in the depths of a Calculus 3 or 4 textbook, and my brain hasn't released a single drop of sweat during a timed test. Instead I've gone (at least in coursework and material) back to the elementary. I'm now teaching, mentoring, and tutoring students in Algebra 1, and forgetting my calculus and pre-calculus more and more each day. At times I feel like an Algebra 1 professional, slamming freshly thought-up problems on paper and dictating a lesson to a number of students. The kids I work with love me, and I really enjoy instructing and helping them. But, the fact is, they aren't even close to the caliber I was at in 9^th grade.

Currently I'm visiting a wide variety of websites on a daily basis, brushing up on my math skills so that I can handle the ALEKS placement test for the University of Arizona. Hopefully, I can qualify for calculus 1 (a class I've already taken…). I probably will, but nerves strike me because I don't feel prepared. As I study for a placement exam, I worry about the kids I work with. I worry, and worry, and worry.

The reason I discussed the time-line of my life in mathematics was to provide a background on my life. In math, I believe I was privileged. My parents had the proper mindset earlier on, and they prepared me to excel in the subject. But I know that this wasn't the case with my students. Many of them struggle with basic addition and subtraction, and the last thing they memorized when they were kids was their multiplication tables. Negative numbers are a consistent source of mad confusion, and we haven't even touched on the subject and concepts of algebra yet- which is the class they're in. The only way that I've resembled an asset to them has been through my one-on-one tutoring and my small group instruction. There I am able to give them proper attention so they're not lost in the dust, and force them to work through problems and develop their logical skills. I also challenge and play many students in chess after school- bringing back a sense of nostalgia and my wicked skills as I teach kids how to attack and defend on an 8x8 square. Improvement is a snail stuck between fast forward and reverse. It's very difficult to make a lasting impact, but all I can do is try to propose new ideas and stick like glue to my students, arguing the importance of mathematics and education.

Like any fan of many sports, I've had to choose my favorite teams. The NBA playoffs are on, and the wonderful Phoenix Suns are back in the Playoffs. They just finished off Portland in their first series, and are now against… you guessed it… the evil empire of the Spurs. Luckily, Steve Nash led the team with 33 points to a game one victory, but who knows what this series could bring. The Suns have lost the past four series against the Spurs- let's hope that… oh, this is priceless, NUMBER FIVE is going to break the streak (FIVES!!! What did I tell you!?). Now, I could go on and on about how the San Antonio Spurs represent pure wickedness. Their coach has what looks like scars all over his face, pitch black eyes, gray hair and an angry snarl. They always wear black. They imply hack-a-Shaq methods of playing style. They constructed a Death Star above the Phoenix area. But I won't. Instead, I'm going to bring up something politically fascinating about the Suns. They're taking a stand. Many of you may have heard of the new law passed in Arizona. The Suns, in direct response to this new immigration law have decided to wear a different style of jersey. The "Los Suns" jersey. It is pretty sweet, if I do say so myself. Check it out here: "Los Suns."

To quote Muhammad Ali, "I figured if I said it enough, I would convince the world I was really the greatest."

Many people these days say that they aren't good. It's become habit to say to other people that you suck at this, or you suck at that. Well, Muhammad Ali told everyone he was and planned to be the greatest. And you know what? He became the greatest. It's all ego body building, confidence power cleans and determination bench press. Succumb to the power of (as my teammate Victoria says) All-American optimism, and shatter that silly sense of pessimism. I make it a point to compliment my students on their intellectual vitality. I want to make the populations new habit to say, "I'm awesome, and I know it."

-TWO-12