Tiny Failures

For the Memories at Arroyo High:

Originally Published June 2004, Knights Banner

"Sensory deprivation is an interesting study, don’t you know. It’s when a person is placed in a suit and is then submerged in a tank of water, kept at room temperature. No lights, no sensation, no sounds. The subject is kept in this numbing state for a pretty long time—often for many hours. Without stimuli for this long a person begins to get anxious, feel claustrophobic and eventually goes insane.

Enough about that, though. I’ll move on to high school instead. The place where 720 tediously prolonged days are used to shape character, build moral values and ethics, and create a sense of the world around us; or so I’m told. This is an institution where the regulations of our society have been pounded into my diminutive consciousness ad nauseam. I’ve been subjected to so many speakers who told me this is the critical juncture in my life and everything that bears significance will springboard from the 5000+ hours that I have spent here. I suppose Tiny Tots counts for nothing.

So as I sit back and stare at the world from behind my frappucino glasses tinted in discontent, the thought slowly creeps across my mind that I will no longer have any ironically astounding educational days in this disruptive lesson from a preliminary anthropology course. But before I finally jet out of here, leaving behind a residue of unwanted advice and clouds of nihilistic cynicism, I stand to make a few grievances and informational requests.

How is it that seniors sitting in the gym during STAR testing for eleven hours counts as curriculum time? The same query goes for practicing to walk at graduation for twenty-eight hours (even if one chooses not to participate in such a ceremony). Is it really logical to rely on standardized testing to measure the aptitude of our school and wrap our curriculum around it?

Of course, god forbid that we ever take an extra ten minutes for Food Booths once in a while to celebrate some outside, edible cuisine. So the final decision is that the pledge of allegiance is mandatory? And we’re allowed to wear hats on school campus as long as we buy the merchandise with the school’s emblem stitched on? These are real principles we’re learning.

Do I regret the time that I spent here? Not in slightest way. Do I hate everything that I am walking away with. As much as I would like to say yes, I deny that statement. So I stand on all my securities that have crumbled over four years and try to reconstruct some motivation for the path ahead of me, because I’m going to need all the forward momentum I can get my hands on.

I stop and think, though: Would I do this time over again? Not even if FOX paid me off to do a reality series.

And remember: Shoot for the stars. Even if you miss, you still might blow up the moon."

Another Day, Another Graduation.

The Beast That Eats You

VI

Abe stared into the screen of the flat-paneled monitor and scrolled lines of grey and black and white. He swallowed with his eyes.

Anonymous You:

Name
Addresses
Grades
Ambitions
Fingerprints
Criminal Records
Psychiatric Evaluations
Medical History
STD Exams
Blood Type
Courses
Recommendations
SAT Scores
AP Scores
CAT-6
Shoe Size
Jobs
Salary
Failures
Weight
Height
Age
Sex
Social Security Number
Credit History
Driving Record
Picture
Religion
Tax Audits
Political Affiliation
Blockbuster Membership


He clicked "record advance" and moved on to the next profile.

Publius

V

Excerpts 15 March 1999

"...Inconsequential..."

"...Self-absorbed..."

"...Shameless pity..."

"...Riddled with prepubescent angst..."

"...Really?"

Obligatory

IV

"Meditations on Apathy"
By
Abraham Mader

Published in Desert Springs Community College Scroll
8 March 1999

Your major doesn't matter. It'll change if you transfer anyway. You study british literature here and end up compromising business ethics at whatever Cal State will accept you.

I'm sorry.

I don't mean to be a pessimist. Or to question the academic integrity of an entire student body. I think it's just my way of getting your attention. Or at least hoping that if I piss you off enough to disagree with me, you'll at least be conscious of what you're defending, aware of why you've been slogging through coursework at this wonderful educational outpost on the edge of the Mojave Desert.

It's what the admins give us isn't it? All their talk of expanding our opportunities and being guides on a noble quest. We want to believe we know what we're doing. We do so, even when we don't know we're kidding ourselves most of the time. We hold out hope for some ambiguous and indistinct future waiting for us on the other side of this AA or welding certificate. Some blue-collar mobility that will give us the satisfaction of adequate maintenance. That's exactly what I wanted to do with my life. I wanted to not starve to death. This, I think, was a most admirable goal. Now I can think of doing that with a little luck. If I muster up the energy to give a damn.

I think the breaking point came when I broke up with my last girlfriend over irreconcilable philosophical differences. I was an existentialist at the time and she was an nihilist. "Bullshit," she'd say. "What you're doing is bullshit." For hours on end she'd tell me that I was just feeding my own purposeless existence and should just shove off the grid and find new planes. We couldn't even agree on a basic understanding of reality, much less the purpose of it. So we parted ways before we ended up doing too much damage to each others' epistemes.

The irony is that now she's at Stanford, preparing to go into doctoral work for cognitive psych. Motivation theory's her specialty. I should be thankful she didn't take up an interest in clinical. In the meantime, I've meandered my way through six semesters with no real reason to leave and no desire to stay.

I write all this after having been repeatedly accused of being dangerously apathetic. I've contested this claim most of the time. Because I do believe in things and that things exist. It's just that the things I believe exist other people don't recognize. I believe that we'll never really know where we are or how we're getting to the next point, and the only reason we make plans to to hold onto the little control we have over our own destinies. It's believing that free will and fate have nothing to do with god, but only with circumstance.

I've been called directionless, but that's because Frost and Dylan never gave good details about diversions and conditions of roads. They just mourned them. I dislike the destination so I just want to take the backwoods somewhere else.

Which is why I moved out here. A hot and dusty place where things come to die.

And I don't know what I'll find. But I'd rather weave in and out moral and pedagogical swamps than fool myself into thinking biological foundations or some irrelevant "fact"-based history course will give me insight or greater tools for such a mythical discovery. I'm sure to get lost, but at least I won't worry so much about starving to death.

The Utmost

III

"He looks like an important black man," says Abe, holding the remote.
Em looks up from her copy of the High Desert Post.

"What?" she says. "What makes you say that?"
"He's got grey hair. Like Morgan Freeman," he drinks his pop and points to the television with the remote. "And he's wearing a suit."

Abe ignores the glare Em gives him. He sees her eyebrow raise in his peripheral.

"What?"
"Sometimes you should listen to how asinine you sound. Borderline racist."
"How is that borderline racist? I'm saying the man looks important. Good for him. Black people gaining upward mobility."
"Wearing a suit is upward mobility."
"Being on TV is upward mobility."

"What's that story about?" Em asks.
"It's about the local NRA chapter. Dude's president."
Em drops her paper on the floor and leans closer into the screen. "The man is holding a shotgun. Black man holding a shotgun on a station broadcast to the only redneck county in California. That's really going to appease the base."
"Let's go see if the neighbors are starting up their trucks, loading up on guns. Bringing their friends."
Em grabs the remote and mutes the newscaster.
"What?" Abe asks. "I think the guy's running for county sheriff." Underneath the candidate's image reads his name, "Kurt Weber."

Em and Abe watch the newsreel silently. Kurt shakes hands with some of the locals and the footage cuts to him at the shooting range, discharging the rifle at several targets.

"I fight red tape like I fight crime" is his one soundbite.

Em gets up from her seat and begins walking into the kitchen. "You need to stop watching the news," she says.

Profiles Discouraged

II

To the Evaluator,

I am honored to recommend Abraham Mader for the opportunity to transfer to your institution. I believe that the Claremont Colleges would nurture respect and scholarship between Abraham and his chosen department. From his first semester under my instruction and every subsequent session he has displayed creative and well-informed analyses of his required texts, as well as a full appreciation for his own educational journey.

He has a definite understanding of his own ideas and is able to articulate these thoughts with clarity and a careful attention to structure. I believe he will do well in a challenging and politically charged environment where his unorthodox philosophies can find a home to produce a meaningful change in himself and the world around him.

Sincerely,
Dr. Marshal Weisman
Professor of Comparative Literature
Desert Springs Community College
8 February 1998

***

Sir or Madam,

This letter's purpose is to recommend Louis Amarti for admittance into your institution. While, at first, I doubted his capability to maintain himself among such rigorous coursework, he has proven himself a model student of statistical analysis with a gift for logic and a deep understanding of the complex nature of numbers.

His ability to apply numbers the world around him is his greatest strength. The department of mathematics at the University of Southern California would be a perfect fit for Louis and his talents. I can foresee him maintaining himself very well in such a structured environment, which may enable him to produce groundbreaking work in this field. He shows a strong potential for such growth.

With all regards,
Simon Loew
Instructor of Mathematics and Quantative Reasoning
Urban Valley High School
9 January 2002

***

Mr. and Mrs. Alday

It is under regrettable circumstances that this letter is written. The Alta Mesa Union High School District Academic Committee has reviewed Emily's request to appeal her expulsion from the district and has decided to stand by their original decision. Discharging a firearm, even after hours, is a felonious offense and usually carries a more severe punishment than dismissal. This decision was also made with reference to previous instances that displayed a complete disregard for academic authority. With her record, the Academic Committee could not recommend her for reinstatement into our institution.

If you and your daughter wish to take further action, there is an open forum at 7 PM on the 22nd of June, where the town council and the school board meet. This group will convene in the campus' auditorium. Any complaints can be brought before this committee at the end of the session.

In the meantime, we wish you and your daughter luck on her future academic endeavors.

Sincerely,
Kenneth C. Eastbrook
Vice Principal of Student Services
Alta Mesa High School
7 June 1999

Begins Stops Short

I.

Abe squints his eyes at the sunlight and lifts the baby rifle. "AIM," he says. "That's how Lou did it. It's ridiculous."

"What do you mean, 'that's how Lou did it?' " Em asks.

Abe, lowering the barrel of the BB gun, turns to her and says,
"He left his suicide note up as an away message."

He points the gun at the set of coors bottles and shatters the four of them with little hesitation.

"This means we need more beer," says Em. "Is he okay?"

"Dumbass broke his collarbone. He's a little shaken up. Other than that he'll live." He shrugs. "I got the phone call this morning, from his brother. Looks like they're sending him here for a few weeks. They said the fresh air 'n sun'd be good for him. I think they just want to get him away from his father, who said he'd kill him himself. Prick."

Em runs her hand across her sunburnt neck. The sweat has been cooling it all day. Abe shoots at the space in front of him, trying to knock the bits of glass that lay shattered on the crate.

"Why'd he try to kill himself for anyway?"

"They said he was unhappy."

"So?" Em stated.

"The kid's nuts. He had a breakdown or something. Happens to everyone." Abe pulls a can of pop from the cooler. It falls to the ground. Sand clumps around the moisture of the can top; Abe tries to dig it out, but he buries the grains further into the aluminum ridges. He tosses the can out into the dust. Em draws the pellet pistol from her pocket and cracks open the soda.

Abe continues, "He didn't really try. He jumped off his roof. One-story house-- the fuck was that gonna do? He got a concussion and broke his collarbone."

"I don't know what good it's going to do him, coming out here," she says. "It might just make him want to try it again. Fuck-king heat wants to make you kill yourself anyway christ."

She thinks in the moment, contemplates firing a few rounds into the sun. "What did his away message say anyway?"

"BRB. JK."

"How is that a suicide note?" She says, going into the house.

"I told you. The kid's fucking nuts." Abe jingles his keys. "Let's go to the Reagan's. I'm tired of Coke."

Likes of Abe

Regards to

Decided to try a few of my own. They're more writing strategies than anything. Will amend as needed:

use stem cells
rebuild a lost truth
determine continuity
metronome frequency (plural)
don’t escape proper generalization
mime to the individual situation
loopholes close
God is (Now)here
Memorize a lineage
divide by zero
simple- -shed pretension
become the atom
shuffle
B.S. M.S. Ph.D.
Carbon-Date Thinking
write, exclude articles
day begins at dawn. Ends at dusk
to a ( ) with a ( ) everything looks like a ( ).
particles accelerate 65 mph.
Broken Anachronism
Prove It.
Be Jesus
photocopy your future
make creation myths obsolete
redefine structure
linear reincarnation
disregard perception
every present Paleolithic
append a taxonomy
conceptual propaganda
commit ephemeral felonies
resist evasion
embrace your archetype
plagiarize from nature
ideas- particles, not waves
cycles are never identical
ignore nouns
graduate from high school
understand chaos patterns
process god (digest)
attach value to mythology
evoke Doppler
negate the non-reality
only use broken parts
measure objectivity
grasp the inconsistency of conversation
discover personal philosophies as brittle soundbites.

This Is Not MTV.

1997

“How is school?” She asks me. The first thing I’d want to do is light a cigarette, blow the smoke in her face and say, “Fine, everything is fine, dear.” After she would ask me what I’ve been learning, I would say, “The meaning of nihilism and misanthropy, don’t you know? It’s all very reaffirming, the lack of power we have over our own choices and the nature we wish to construct our existence in. I love it. Getting plastered at 10 PM on a Friday night and not having a clue that I’m draining into my own vortex by not climbing out of this nice little pit that I cling to for comfort; scratching tallies on the wall as the days go by. Yeah, that’s what I’m learning—the nature of my own socialization so I don’t have to think anymore than I have to. I’m trying to get beyond my own crippling pretentious nature so I can function in society. That’s what college is all about.” I’d put out the cigarette in my cup of coffee and walk out the door, remorseless and floating through distinct stages of abandonment.

Of course, I’d never do it. It would seem too misogynistic, even though that intention would be the furthest thing from my mind. Also, smoking indoors is worth a fifty-dollar fine. I just wanted to burst open and expose the raw energy that I have been trying to harness. Instead I smile pleasantly and say that everything is going fine. I tell her that I’m learning the basics of quantum theory and the conversation ends there. We sit in silence for three minutes until the waiter comes by and refills our cups of coffee. Should’ve gone to Diedrich’s. Coffee goes by much quicker than actual lunch. I nonchalantly look at my watch and she begins to text message when her phone dings. I don’t think she notices that she’s happy today.

Do you love me? I want to ask. Or maybe that’s not the right question. Because I knew the answer to that. I hadn’t seen her in a week (I had been hiding in the library, trying to link together Richard Dawkins and the Dalai Lama so I could try to find some universal theory of luck. No progress, obviously. I want to ask her, Do you think you love me—Why do you think you love me? If she did think so. At this point I wasn’t sure of anything. My stomach hurt from the caffeine. I never knew what she would answer; I was always afraid of it because I knew the words would just destroy any meaning I had tried to compose of all the random sequences of events that is my narrative. Perhaps I was overreacting. This is for a grade, I’d think to myself. It’s how I functioned. Everything had an end, and hopefully extra credit would be involved. It wasn’t always like this, I think.

“I just wanted to be friends,” she said under her breath. “Since the beginning, that’s all I ever really wanted." I poured some sugar in my coffee. I caught myself before the inevitable apology. I shrug and I smile, a sign of relief.

“Do you love me?” I asked the wrong question. I don’t wait for an answer. It wasn’t always like this, I think. Or at least, it didn’t have to be.