A Breath of Fresh Air

Done.

The refreshing feeling of finality overwhelmed me as I packed up my bag, shuffled the papers on the desk together and strolled to the front of the classroom to hand in my completed exam.

“In the box, right?” I asked my professor slyly, a nod to his departing words to all my classmates who had completed their exams before me.

He looked up from his periodical, nodded yes, and his eyes fell back to his lap. But as I turned to leave the room, he stopped me.

“I’d like to have a word. Follow me,” he said as he led me out into the hall.

“Sure,” I responded, quickly scanning my brain to preempt what he might want to discuss and prepare a response.

“You had an interview a couple of weeks ago, right?” he asked, upon reaching the hallway. I scrunched my face up in confusion as to why he thought this fallacy was true, but before I could correct him, he interrupted me.

“At [company name redacted]. How did it go?” Oh! Caught in my own web of lies. I quickly recalled that I had e-mailed him a few weeks back and used an interview as an excuse to get out of class.

I had not been a regular attendee of his twice weekly lecture, and he informed me about a month ago that 20 percent of my grade would be determined by attendance, and I was failing. Since, I had been making a conscience effort to attend, but I skipped class a few weeks back and sent in an excuse.

I quickly scanned his face to determine if he was busting me for my lie or if he was truly inquiring about my job search. I had used the company I work at as a cover, figuring that if he was sadistic and called them up to see if I had been interviewed, at least the person who answered the phone would be familiar with my name.

“It was ok. I’m interning there now, and they called me in to interview for a full-time position, but they haven’t decided yet,” I said, covering my tracks. “I’m not sure how it’ll turn out, because they are struggling pretty badly, and I don’t know if they’ll be able to give me a job,” I continued to tie up the loose ends of my lie.

“Well, I hope it works out. I just wanted to thank you for your participation lately,” as I breathed a deep sigh of relief that this hadn’t turned into something much more embarrassing. “You’re a bright guy, and it’s been nice for you to contribute in class.”

I thanked him for the compliment, and took the opportunity to apologize for my horrendous attendance to begin the semester. A little aside here: this class is purely a filler, I could fail it and still graduate, so I didn’t even show up to class until the day before the first exam. When he e-mailed me, I explained my situation, how the class was not a high priority and that I often take class days off because I work three days a week. Since, I have been attending regularly and trying to kiss some ass to make up for lost time.

“Well, I know you have a great deal on your mind,” he finished, then stuck his hand out to shake mine before turning back to the classroom.

I smiled softly and turned on my heels to go. I was incredibly touched by his gesture, not simply because he had asked about my (phony) job interview, but because for the first time in four years, a professor at State College showed a little compassion and understanding.

In high school, the grade point average I graduated with was much higher than I had statistically earned. It was very common at my prep school to round close grades (i.e. 89.2) up to the next letter, and this practice vastly improved my average. I forged relationships with teachers, they liked me personally, appreciated my effort in class, and rewarded me at the end of quarters with As, when really I had only earned a B. I imagine they did it to improve my future marketability, my confidence, and as an incentive to work hard, which I did, knowing that while I might fall statistically short, my effort would at least be rewarded.

College, therefore, has been a rude awakening. While I cannot defend my effort (it has been poor many, many semesters, and the ability to skip class with little consequence has left me laying in bed to noon many a day), I have been on the wrong side of a cruel B plus seven times (my college does not weight GPAs). While my struggles in math have left my GPA at a pedestrian 2.77, and some Cs from a lackadaisical effort lowered it further, a few A minuses in the place of B plusses would have greatly eased my job search.

Unfortunately, at such a large university, if professors had granted me the A minus, where could they stop? It is likely a number of my classmates were just fractions of a point behind me, and perhaps they too deserved the grade bump. But it is frustrating to know my resume is repeatedly passed over because of such an ugly mark, and a little compassion could have improved my situation.

Grade inflation is a huge issue not merely in school but other walks of life. It is a sliding scale, and once you start down the slope, it is difficult to stop the descent; soon, an 85 might merit an A. But it is frustrating to work all semester, earn an average in the 80s, only to receive a grade level that awards me the same point value (in terms of GPA) as one in the low 80s. I could have missed quizzes, blown off assignments and been even lazier and earned the same grade; on the other hand, if I had known the answer to five multiple choice questions I got wrong, I would have earned the A.

High school was meant to prepare me for college and improve my confidence to compete at the collegiate level, and college has been a lesson in reality; you are judged purely on what you know and can do, and your effort means very little. But considering it is costing me thousands of dollars, that is of little consolation. I have had so many professors that seemed delusional to the fact that other classes are even taught at the university, and treat theirs like it is the most important thing ever studied.

Consequently, I have learned the importance of getting the job done, something I did not appreciate in high school, when I was comfortable knowing my personality would take care of my factual shortcomings. Today, however, was a nice break from that harsh reality, and a reminder that there are people who appreciate intangibles and not merely facts and skill. The safety net has been removed, but it is nice to know someone might still be there to dust you off when you come crashing down.

The New First Family of the Fraternity

The Fraternity elected its new executive board this week, and, like the United States, our chapter’s president will be black for the first time in its 30 years of existence.

Our new president, who bears a striking resemblance to Lights Out, and therefore has been donned with the moniker Shawne Merriman, is finishing up his sophomore year and pledged under my tutelage last semester. I missed the elections, due to work, and heard of the outcome from my roommate, Wyles.

Wyles, who is also black, jokingly said he would play “My President is Black” by Young Jeezy at our next event to celebrate Merriman’s election. The Fraternity currently has five black members, and are a decided minority in our community. Last night, at a pre-drink before the bars, I was with Wyles and another member of the “Fraternity Black Caucus,” as they are affectionately known, discussing our chapter’s election and its parallels to President Obama’s. Richard, so nicknamed here because of his unfortunate surname, one-upped Wyles and boasted he was producing tee-shirts bearing Merriman’s face and the word “Change” in bold letters. We all had a laugh as the girls started to roll into the basement.

Shortly there after, I was out on the porch having a cigarette when Merriman strolled up the steps. I congratulated him before running downstairs to cue up the music to welcome him to the party. As the music played, Merriman sheepishly grinned as Wyles and Richard comically strutted and danced around him. I joined in on the fun, shotgunned a beer with all and, shortly thereafter, left for a night at the bar.

But I couldn’t stop thinking about the celebratory dance-off that would have made LeBron James proud as I lay in bed last night. They didn’t do it to show up the fair-skinned brothers who lost, or to make a statement about race. Rather, they were rejoicing with a member of their “club” who had achieved a tremendous honor and laughing at the timing that so perfectly coordinated with our country’s highest office. They wished not to make a spectacle of themselves, and few of the brothers in attendance even noticed the song playing and the three young men dancing in celebration.

For me though, it held some significance. While they did not set out to make a racial statement, they made one with me, one that reverberated all through the night. If one of my white brothers had been elected, we certainly would not have played Kenny Chesney and crowed about how all the girls think our tractors are sexy, but for Wyles and Richard, this was a relevant, and, in my view, appropriate celebration. They did not think the occasion dripped with importance, but one that marked a triumph nonetheless. And while I smiled and rejoiced with them at the time, I was saddened by the act later in the night.

Wyles and Richard’s actions spoke volumes. They subtlety noted to the room their differences, differences they furiously try to hide in the white-washed Greek world. But last night, they let loose and celebrated their race while nodding to the deep-rooted scars left from bigotry and racism. It is unlikely the two of them, who come from lily white suburbs of New Jersey, know first-hand much of the hardships some of their brethren are forced to live with, but they share a common bond of blackness, a bond strengthened by tales from grandparents, aunts, uncles and friends that probably left them tearful and frightened during the nights of their youth. And last night, that common bond poured out of them, and would later sweep me off my feet.

It later dawned on me how much I take for granted in my daily life, and how little my black roommate is afforded. It was a small victory, and one that they had fun poking fun at, but the fact that they did stuck with me. I’ve been moping and depressed for the better part of 2009 because of the feeble job prospects that await me, but taking part in that circle last night got me thinking about the uncertainty Wyles has probably faced every day of his life. My whole life has been privileged and in most competitions, I have had an advantage because of the hard work of my parents and its rewards. In the face of this great challenge and weak economy, I have moped and bitched, but last night, I began to wonder where I would be if I switched places with my roommate and wore his dark coat.

It scared me to think how fortunate I am, but how quick I am to despair when my fortunes run dry. My small victories have been reduced to bitterness as I cynically anticipate their inevitable turn to failure. But my roommate’s face last night got me thinking about that attitude and my pessimistic outlook on the future, and my attitude began to change. They put aside the years of torment their race has known, and even poked fun at it by celebrating another “first,” with their impromptu circle last night. They didn’t beat their chests and tout black power, but rather reveled in their shared experiences and maybe even wondered if things are finally getting better.

And I was left to ponder this: Why do I have trouble smiling after leading a life of privilege, when such a small thing can turn to joyous dancing for men who have been given so little?

A Legend Has Left Us

Sad news out of the Nation's Capital today. Harry Kalas, the long-time Hall of Fame play-by-play man for the Philadelphia Phillies has passed away. According to an ESPN report, Kalas was found in the broadcast booth at Nationals Stadium passed out just passed noon today, and died later at a yet undisclosed hospital. He was 73.

Sunday at Augusta

Masters Sunday is the culmination of the Deep Thaw. It starts in mid-March with Selection Sunday, begins to melt with the Final Four and is nearly room temperature by Opening Day. It is the end of winter and leads off the great day drinking months that lie ahead.

This Masters was more than that, though, because golf fans, especially the casual ones like myself, got the dream pairing, and for the first nine holes, it lived up to its billing. Phil Mickelson traded his golf bag for a bird cage on Sunday to produce an historic front nine in which he threw up an Augusta record 30 to get to 10-under par, leaving him just two shots off the lead.

Tiger Woods, he of the balky putter that had put him in a Sunday hole, came along for the ride. The fist pump debuted after a long eagle putt on 8 that put him at 7-under for the tournament and in striking distance of the leaders. He hadn’t played well all week, but Tiger was lurking on Sunday in Red, and there was a sense that he and Phil might play their way into the final ceremony as they headed for Amen Corner.

I am not a fan of golf, but I rarely miss a final round at Augusta. Aside from psychologically signaling the end of winter, the course carries a mystique through the TV. Maybe it is because my most lasting Masters memory is of Mickelson making man boobs cool as he leaped in joy at his first major victory. Maybe it is because it’s the only major tournament that is played at the same course each year, and history haunts each of the famous dogleg turns. But I think its more because each year it is compelling, even when it is not well-played.

And the final round was not well-played in 2009. The 2009 Green Jacket belonged to Mickelson, and he yukked it away long before Kenny Perry had a chance and Angel Cabrera told the world, “En español, por favor.” He was on 12, at the end of the famous Amen Corner, having played the two hardest holes on the course even and remaining at 10-under, with the scoring potential of 13-16 within reach. But the bag of his epic oh-so-closes was back on caddie Jim MacKay’s shoulder, the parakeet Mickelson had carried all afternoon deserted him, and he washed his ball at the par-three 12, leading to a devastating double bogey 5 that was the beginning of the end. He had chances late, but an eagle try at 15 went begging and he missed a bird at 17, only to follow that up with a bogey on 18 that left him out of contention.

I know very little about golf (having only ever played three rounds in my life), but its greatest theatre lies in two areas; heroic efforts for victory, or epic collapses that spell defeat. On Sunday, we saw both sides from one player. Mickelson rallied to get into contention, but when he needed the putts to put on the Green Jacket, he couldn’t find the cup. Sports love their heroes and always remember the goats, and because of the individualistic nature of golf, every major tournament has a great hero/goat story. Mickelson couldn’t get to the next hole fast enough on the front nine as he ripped off bird after bird, but he probably wanted a time warp to get through the last nine as he trudged through a one-over-par. A golfer must stand in the middle of a great green expanse and hole all 18 balls to get to the clubhouse. He has no time limit to save him from a horrendous effort, no reliever to bail him out, and no defense against his opponents as they play around him.

And that’s why I never miss a Sunday at Augusta, because it never fails to deliver drama. A basketball game that was marred with turnovers and missed shots would be unwatchable, but Masters Sunday was complete with blown drives, pushed putts and wasted chances, and instead of rendering it unwatchable, it only made it more dramatic. No shot doomed or crowned any player, but after it was all said and done, the second guessers could choose any number of 10-15 shots that could have theoretically won the tournament for a number of players. Golf is a cruel game, and I reveled in others’ misery, the quality that makes it so frustrating for those that play, but so enjoyable for us who watch.

Like Taking out the Trash

I imagine the depths of depression to be like an exhausted swimmer struggling against inevitable death. They thrash on the surface in an attempt to stay alive, with brilliant, positive thoughts momentarily interrupting the knowledge of impending doom, and brief, passing moments of hope that dart away like the scared fish below the surface.

My days have begun to feel like an endless checklist, a checklist not filled with goals, but with mere chores that must be accomplished before a yet to be determined deadline. I check them off, with no real sense of accomplishment, only to see the list fill up again the next day to my exhausted and exasperated dismay. I feel like I’ve accomplished little each day, not because I lay around and do nothing, but because what I do is not what I wish to do, but what must be done. I finish an assignment in school only because it gets me closer to graduation. I prepare a meal, but no longer for the joy of it, only because I need sustenance to continue. I wrack my brain to fill this space, but all that comes to me are thoughts of dismay and woe.

Writing has so often been a beautiful release of frustration, because I have been gifted with a way with words, an ability to twist even the most grotesque and find something wonderful. But it has become such a chore for me this semester, and I know my work has suffered, both creatively and lyrically. In my final semester, I have been saddled with my worst class, an Editorial and Commentary writing class. I was excited to take on this challenge, believing myself to already be a commentary writer with experience, and that the class would only further my knowledge of writing and gathering information for columns.

Alas, as so many classes have been before it, this one is led by a brilliant man who treats class like a delirious lune wandering through the wilderness. He was absent from the first week of class, which was led by his TA (who has not shown her face since) and the assistant dean, who gave us a lecture on plagiarism, a lecture every good journalism student could give themselves for having heard it so many times. His syllabus was devoid of a schedule, and instead, he hands out deadlines and assignments on the fly, forcing me to amend a rigid schedule with no advance notice. Finally, he is utterly incompetent in teaching; he has yet to lecture on what a good column is, focusing more on word choice and grammar, things completely unnecessary in a senior skills class. Our weekly news quizzes take close to a half hour, as he questions us from the pulpit, and the grade-grubbing bastards that frequent the major bitch and complain while trying to coax him into giving them credit when they don’t have a response to his question.

Instead of giving us genres for assignments, such as persuasive, argumentative, pro- or con-issue, he instead gives us a topic and an absurd word count (i.e. the G20 Summit, 1500 words, which was due last night at 9 p.m. after being assigned Tuesday morning). I did not attend the G20 Summit (it was held in London) and I don’t exactly have any one’s number on speed dial who did (they are heads of state and finances for the 20 biggest economies in the world; they were a little too busy to return my calls). Instead of having an opinion and giving a crisp defense of it over a reasonable 500-750 words, I was forced to churn out triple that, with no ability to report or ask questions or form an opinion beyond what others wrote on the subject.

I cannot recall the last time I struggled to meet a word count, or added filler bullshit to meet one, particularly in a journalism course, but I have been forced to do both on nearly half of his assignments (1500 words on the life of John Hope Franklin; I wrote about 950 and called it a day, netting me a C+). These forced writing exercises have robbed me of my desire to create, and the fatigue has left me unwilling to even attempt to blog. I wanted to chronicle my senior year, and for the past few months, all I’ve known is misery.

It is so frustrating to try to ignore the demons in my head, and what is worse is that I do not know why they are there. I am healthy, have friends, a girl who loves me and parents who are well-off and able to support me; yet, what little I have to complain about plagues me day and night. No sooner do I feel the clouds dispersing does some other occurrence dump rain on my head.

What do I do? Do I hide my problems, put on a smiling face and hope for brighter days? Or do I open up and bitch about the trivial problems that bring me to my knees? Readers, near and far, I encourage your correspondence. E-mail me at press.on09@gmail.com with your tales of woe, accomplishment, or messages that will act as a swift kick in the ass.

Look to the Future while glancing in the rearview at the Past, but don't take your eyes off the road, or you'll surely crash

The past will haunt, and the future strikes fear, but both are given meaning only by the present, the most important of the three time frames, but quite often, the most overlooked.

The past can be made irrelevant by a present accomplishment or success (see 2008 Phillies) and the future is set by due diligence and foresight (see American Colonies, circa 1776). I stand on a precipice, looking back on the bliss of freshman year, and longing to relive the glory years, while the uncertain and dreaded workforce will soon welcome my number to the queue.

Senior year of college is a great Present Day trap: you can’t help but long for the days of old and tremble in excitement at the thought of climbing into a DeLorean with Michael J. Fox, while you stare exasperated at mounting job loss statistics and refresh your inbox until your fingers bleed hoping for an invitation to interview.

This year has been a blur of lasts for me, every one of which was bittersweet. I have struggled all year with the pain of moving on and the fear that has accompanied it, and I would be lying if I said it has not affected my personality and perhaps, even my relationships. Senior year removes the veil of ignorance, because it is like a stadium counting down to its final game. Each time I go out, I know that it is one less experience I will have, and I fret about that fact throughout the night. Sophomore year, countless nights were on the horizon, and I never had to think or worry about a time when they’d be moving toward extinction.

But while I’ll miss college and the stories that accompany any night with a beer, what has troubled me most over the months is my uncertain future. I don’t know the city, the industry or the job capacity that I will be in with only a month and a half to go before graduation. My insecurity runs rampant as every casual conversation turns to my after-graduation plans, and I sheepishly turn my head and mutter in a frustrated tone, “I don’t know yet. I’m still working on that.” My 16 years of education were supposed to culminate in a job offer and a course for my life, but instead, I am left to my pessimistic thoughts and bitter outlook on a life I dreamed of but has yet to come to fruition.

This weekend’s events caused an introspective look at myself, and I found some things I didn’t like. I wasn’t happy to learn my insecurities, frustrations and stressors from that unknown future were making me an irritable and undesirable companion. I kept myself up by putting others down, and I expected everyone to cater to me, because I was suffering “alone” from such a poor job market. Selfishness was pervasive in most of my motives and thoughts, and it was harming my social schedule.

Of course, I am not the only person struggling to find employment, but that does not offer much solace. What is true, however, is that this market requires creativity, and might open options that I would not have considered if a high-paying position was on the table. In some ways, it can extend my adolescence, because I am unlikely to be wearing a shirt and tie to an office next year, but instead might earn my bread and milk from the couch in my parents’ basement through a medium such as this. My outlook on the situation was not positive, and it sapped my motivation to explore and consider all my options.

I have placed a great amount of pressure on obtaining the first job, because I have longed believed that I will forever stay in the first field, after getting comfortable and losing the will to explore other options, coupled with financial responsibilities that will make a risky job move unwise. But, as I have written here before, the future is a wild card, and is directly tied to the present, and my future will be as cloudy as I fear if I fret away the present. The unknown can’t be harnessed, and that’s why it grips our guts. Television stations don’t make their money with the same tired episode of a series, and a life wouldn’t make much sense if there weren’t some unexpected challenges faced and conquered along the way.

Back to Yak

Judging from my inbox, many of you got the joke. It was an April Fools, and not my swan song. I owe you a couple stories, and I should have them up tomorrow. Been running around in job search and homework, but I'll be back on the blog tomorrow. Until then...

I've Seen the Lights Go Out on Broadway...

The End has come.

The blogging career of Carter Wayne Jones will from here on out be nothing more than a footnote in the history of the medium. This will be my last post, because the powers that be have shut me down, thus explaining the long absence of a new post as I've been dealing with the fall-out over the past week.

I will not be returning to State University, because they have expelled me for writing about underage drinking, drug trafficking and hazing. I have been excused from the Fraternity by International Headquarters along similar lines. My painstaking efforts to keep my identity, the Fraternity’s and the university’s a mystery have been for naught, as my cover has been blown and the consequences are raining down upon me.

Just nine credits short of a degree, in the midst of a recession, I have been thrown out in the cold. My incisive pen has pissed off the wrong people, who saw to it that my identity became public and the fire brought to my feet.

I have greatly appreciated the support of you, my readers, over the last eight months. It has been an enlightening experience to try to entertain, educate and pontificate in this space for people I have never met. I have sharpened my style and gotten better acquainted with the English language, which I believe will be useful in future endeavors. I will miss posing as this alias, congratulating the great and questioning the inadequate.

I do not know what I will do from this point forward. I will be forced to find another university to finish my degree, but I fear it will be hard to line my credits up with a different institution’s requirements without repeating a great deal of courses. I shudder in fear, because my parents will not be willing or able to continue to give me the advantages I have enjoyed over my four years of study here.

I still have my First Amendment rights, so the site will stay active. Now that I have been outed, and with little else to do, I will probably continue my blogging career, but it will have to be under my given name and at a different address. When I know more, I will let you know. Thanks again, I shall Press On.