Splash from the Past: A lesson in Peer Pressure

Since I went home to Texas earlier this month, I have been living in a fit of nostalgia, not by my own choice, but by the people and everyday situations around me. Recently, I've been "be"friended by several of my childhood pals on Facebook, including a one Beau Thompson (my kindergarten boyfriend and first kiss), and even today when purchasing flowers upon seeing a bunch of tiger lilies was thrust into my seven year-old self and instantly remembered the scent of the lilies wafting from my neighbor's side yard just asking to be picked (to which I always obliged). But most recently, during my first trip to the beach in two weeks due to all of the rain, I was reminded of one of the favorite stories of my youth: the day Megan Owens fell into the creek.

It was beautiful day in the fall of my third-grade year. The air was crisp on cool, with the scent of the previous night's rainfall hanging in the air. Graciously, my teacher appealed to our requests and allowed us to run down the hill to the old playground, our favorite place for recess, complete with a fort, cannon, running tree and creek. The creek separated the men from the boys: those who could jump over it and those who could not. Today was Megan's day to prove to those far and wide that she was cool, but not under her own fruition. Though I would not admit it at the time and still hesitate to take full ownership for the events that were soon to follow, a few of my lackeys and, um, I may have provoked young Megan to take the plunge.

Looking into her reflection in the newly crested creek, Megan swallowed and turned to look at us. "You're sure about this?" "Yes," we said in unison, "if you want to prove that you're cool, you can do it." Her face white with fright, she started hiking up the hill to the tree-line to give herself plenty of room to pick-up speed. "Megan's gonna jump" someone exclaimed, and before I knew it my entire class congregated around the poor soul. Forming two lines for her to run through, we began chanting her name and sticking our hands out to make the already dramatic scene even more spectacular. Recognizing the stakes at hand, Megan had no choice but to go through with her attempt to launch herself over the three-foot wide body of water. A flash of courage flickered in her eyes and off she went, full throttle towards the creek. She jolted past us, and quickly reached the edge. Pressing her feet into the ground to propel herself, Megan quickly found herself sliding, not flying over the water as her feet slipped and glided in the mud below. Kerplunck.

The splash ebbed in and out of the water with ease, freezing the moment in silence. Megan's hand popped out the water and clawed its way to the opposite bank. My classmates and I looked at each other, realizing the desperation of the situation and immediately enacted the tried and true king rule of the playground: every man for himself. We all scattered to the winds (I swear I even saw some of my peers climb trees to flee the scene), leaving Megan to find her own way out of the creek. Slowly she emerged, her face as red as the pink and black polk-a-dot top she was wearing, her hair matted to her forehead, steam billowing out of her ears. He shoes squished with water and mud she mustered up her dignity and marched herself up our teacher. "I fell in the creek," she squeaked out. Without a word, my teacher look compassionately into her eyes, grabbed her hand and escorted her into the building. Before she walked through the door, I saw my teacher turn her head and release a smirk and a giggle hoping the Megan would be none the wise.

She did not come back to class that day, but she did secure herself a top spot in the Meadows Elementary recess lore. Moral of the story: peer pressure can make for a great story.

Are You Afraid of the Dark?

For approximately 45 minutes today, a part of the West side of L.A., along with a portion of the Valley, was without power. Hysteria abounded.

At the time of the blackout (what has now become an instant urban legend), I was in the library talking to a friend. A collective gasp echoed through the darkened halls as the students who were putting their final touches on their term papers now stared at an empty screen. Hands flew in the air, eyes weld up in tears, and there was much wailing and gnashing of teeth. The poor souls jamming out to Justin Bieber on their iPods (19-year old guys are powerless against his gentle coos) studying for their mid-terms flocked to whatever beams of light they could find to preserve the precious few last minutes to cram before their noon class. Alarms began to sound, students became enraged, staff members found themselves at the mercy of the hurry up and wait game. It was hysterical.

Curious as to what the haps were beyond the confines of Payson, I bravely traversed the great outdoors and and headed towards the Tyler Campus Center. The Plaza was hopping with students complaining about not having a wireless signal, but hoping that the power outage would last long enough to cancel classes. "I don't know what to do. I can't get on the Internet to check Facebook," I heard one student exclaim in frustration. "It's the amazing the impotence that comes with technology," I thought to myself in one half of my brain. "But, she does raise an excellent point," I said to myself in the other half.

Down the stairs I went, headed towards the Caf, anxious about what I could witness. 500 hungry, study-crazed college students ready to eat without the hope of having a hot meal during lunch time cannot be a happy scene. A dull roar floated down the hallway as I approached the entrance. To my right, cooks scurried around a dark kitchen trying to salvage anything they get their hands on, to my left, students salivating in line at what would be their fuel for thought. The Caf manager rushes by me, but takes a second to say hello and let me know that they are working on getting things up and going. Realizing that a feeding frenzy is just on the horizon, I have an epiphany and realize that my apartment, just a short hike up the hill (of course made a bit longer by the wet, slippery sidewalks and my heeled boots-poor wardrobe choice for the day), is equipped with a gas range. Score.

Trotting back up the stairs, I stop to say hello to a few cluster of students and dispel any rumors of an impending apocalypse or food shortage and reassure them the the power will eventually return. Walking past Smothers, I see a group of current and former RAs and begin to catch up on life and other frivolities. Mid conversation, I begin to hear the pitter-patter of water droplets; much to my dismay, it was not coming from the sky. The fountain began to seep out water. Highly doubting that the fountains (even if they are a source of pride for Pepperdine) were on some sort of back up generator, I begrudgingly squeaked out the words, "I guess the power's back on." "You seem disappointed," one of my students says. "This just means I have to teach class today," I reply. "Are all professors like you?" "Yep. Secretly, yep."

P.S. I am writing this from the front of my classroom while my students are working on an in-class assignment.

The 8:00 Showing

Tonight my roommate and I went to go see The Social Network, which I am going to take this opportunity to give it my enthusiastic recommendation for it's incredibly subtle yet clever writing and overall appeal. There were several moments in the film that harkened to my work as a Student Affairs professional that made me proud of my field (e.g. the scene with the college president is very similar to the judicial hearings that I have with students), and therefore must offer forth my approval. Also, I think it is only appropriate to commend my students who made the parody of the film entitled The Video Website.

Anywho, though this movie has topped the box office for two weeks in a row, the theater was quasi empty and thus prompted me to inform Caitlin of Lessly's Law: that even in a desolate theater, someone will always sit in front of you thus forcing you to put feet down off of the back of the seat. Is it not a universal principle that the person who was there first has all rights and privileges to both their seat and the seat immediately in front of them? I don't understand this.

Granted, as an avid film buff and a occasional movie-goer (let's face it, most of the flicks made today are barely even worth my Netflix subscription), I have my own little quarks of when I go and see a film, but they all have good reasons. For example: I don't like sitting on the left-side of the theater. Call me superstitious, but every time I sit on the left, something bad/strange happens including but not limited to the movie sound going out, the film melting and a tornado blowing through the theater. Secondly, I am very picky about the seat backs in a theater. Most seats are not built with someone like me in mind and if the headrest is too high, it kills my neck (ah, reminds me of college). As far as I'm concerned, stadium seating was the greatest invention known to man since caller ID. Third, I can't sneak food in, it's unethical. Yes, one could make the argument that it is unethical to sell a bag of popcorn for 8 dollars a pop, but that's the beauty of capitalism, baby. I once sat next to a couple who I swore brought a three course meal in with them. That's either genius, or really cheap, I have yet to decide. Forth and finally, I love the previews. I rate them with a thumbs up or thumbs down like Caesar in the days of yore. If we're running late and you say to me, "It's okay, we'll only miss the previews," I might reconsider my friendship with you. And finally, finally, I am always that one person laughing in the theater when no one else is, tonight was no exception.

But back to my main point, there should be a code of conduct for movie theaters, just like in certain restaurants that make me wear jackets. People who text, check their email or actually answer their phone during a movie should be thrown out of the theater like Uncle Phil does to Jazz. While we're on the subject, take your Bluetooth headset off. The only person who is going to call you is 2005 and it's to tell you you're not cool anymore. And, if you are going to sneak in food, at least smuggle in some booze too for you and enough to share. Large groups of friends should sit in either the front or the back of the theater so that they can be noisy but minimally distracting. If you are a loud whisperer, forewarn the people around you. Chair kickers need not apply.

That being said, I am a fan of the moveable armrest. . .

Flying the Friendly Skies

I don't think I travel all that much, but when I go back and count how many times I've flown this year, it averages out to to a little more than once a month (or at least I think this is a lot). Sometimes I travel for work, sometimes I venture out for fun or to see friends and family, but no matter the reason, I always take the time to sit back and soak in the experience that is the American airport. I believe that a person's true character comes out while traversing the friendly skies, and not so friendly jetways.

From the first step into the ticketing kiosk, flying can prove to be an overwhelming experience from some. It's always a little bit funny to me to see the person flipping out behind the counter because they somehow missed the memo (that went out 3 years ago) that you have to pay if you want to check your bag. Unfortunately for them, the fun has just begun.

Next up: security. Now, I will admit that I have been that person who is cutting it a little close and gets a little anxious while waiting in a security line a mile long, but there's always that one woman who is flipping out because the line is not moving according to her expectations. Of course, the ironic thing is that she is wearing more jewelry than Liberace and ends up holding up the line because she keeps setting off the metal detector. Which brings me to my next point: the elderly. Now, I'm not knocking those proud card carrying members of the AAPR, but apparently they prepare for a blizzard whenever they get on a plane because they just keep peeling off the layers until I think they are going to be nude (gross), but there's always more to go (thank God). Bonus, they don't seem to understand that you cannot bring liquids through the security checkpoint.

Now that we've made it passed TSA's finest, there's the trekking to the gate. Granted, this can be a bit frustrating if the airline changes the gate, but its not the end of the world, right? This past weekend, a gentleman was rather upset when the intercom announced that his flight had been moved one gate over to the left. Another woman stood at the desk for twenty minutes and reprimanded the flight attendant because the flight she was on was not at the gate she expected it to be at, only to discover that she had the wrong flight number. Also, I know it sucks when your flight gets delayed, but what can you do about it? Don't take it out on the people around you.

Waiting for the flight usually tends to be eventless, but a great opportunity to get in some quality people watching time. Maybe its my good 'ole southern values, but isn't just good manners to move your belongings so that someone can have a seat? I also find it interesting how individuals will leave their trash behind when their flight begins to board. Which reminds me, boarding works just fine when everyone does what they are supposed to do, but there is always that one person who is not paying attention and misses their group or is so anxious to get on the plane that they stand right in front of the boarding lane, blocking the rest of the passengers. I know that overhead bin storage is at a premium, but it's not worth trampling over a family, two friends and an old woman to store your coat. Carry-ons can also pose a problem (I once saw a business man hit a flight attendant over the size of his laptop case), but that's too much to go into right now.

Now all we have to do is get on the plane.

Five Minute Rule

I’ve once heard it said that life is merely a series of conversations as one person shares their story with another. I am certain this is true. When I reflect upon the events of the day, my thoughts often drift to the people I encounter and the exchange of words between us rather than the minutia of the daily grind. There are several conversations that have become a part of my soul and will remain that way for the rest of my life. For example, I will always remember talking to my Dad as he escorted me out of Moody Coliseum, clutching my college degree in one hand and his arm in the other, or my sister waking me up in the middle of the night to tell me I am going to be an aunt. Of course there are some that I would rather forget (ironically those are the conversations that have been the most formative) and there some that stick out in my mind because of peculiarity, but mostly the exchanges that resonate with me are the ones that cause me to change the way I view the world. One of these conversations took place on Monday afternoon.

Unsuspectingly, I was waiting for my drink at a local coffee shop when a man walked by and commented on my shoes. As a fashionista wannabe (I’m too cheap to be a real one), I willingly accepted his compliment and engaged him in conversation. “I very much like your tattoo. You’re a rebel, aren’t you?” he inquired. Blushing, I smirked and said, “Yes, in my own way I have always been a bit on the rebellious side.” “I knew it,” he said, “I can tell there is something different about you. It is the divine.” Intrigued, I continued talking to the man trying to decipher if he was speaking in more spiritual terms or if he was referring to The Divine One. He asked me a slew of questions but inquired about them in such a way that it was almost as if he already knew the answers. Bizarre.

No topic was taboo for him and he began to tell me about his immigration from Africa to America. Fascinating. His smile was honest and sincere, his eyes piercing as if he was looking not at my but in me, searching to discover who I am. He then paused as if an epiphany jolted his brain. “You are very well balanced. You are very feminine, but you have a masculine side, which is why you are a rebel. Many people are attracted to you and they think it is sexual, but what they are drawn to is The Great I Am.” Though it was a little awkward to receive (and a bit more awkward to write), I had the answer to my question. This man, who has only interacted with me for five minutes, knew more about me than friends I have known for five years. Unsure of what just happened or what was going to transpire, I looked up at him with a glance of affirmation. His eyes were kind. “Now Michelle, what can I do to add value to your life?”

I had no response, not because I did not know, but because of the depth of the query. “No one has ever asked me that question before,” I told him. “Especially with such genuineness.” “Let me rephrase, what can I share with you that will impact your life?” Again, I was dumbstruck. We continued the conversation and exchanged information so that we could, as he put it “celebrate together” (I’m still not sure what this means). I left the coffee shop with a new friend, but I also left with a profound clarity. Everyday I have interactions with people that contain the ritual pleasantries and life catch-ups on my way to the Campus Center or as I walk the halls of my building, but rarely do they involve such intentionality. Do I take the time out of my day to actually see the people that I talk to? Do I have a positive influence on the people I call my friends? Do I take the time become a part of their story, or do I rely on my knowledge about them to maintain the relationship? What can I offer to bring value to peoples lives and why don’t I ask that question to the people that I care for the most?

I don’t know if I will have another interaction with man from the coffee shop, but I do know that he impacted my life by merely posing the question.

Scuttle was full of Crap

Being a native inlander (if that’s even a word), my exposure to all things beach related was limited to a trip to Galveston when I was four, a trip to South Padre when I was fifteen, and whatever I could garner from watching the Malibu Sands episodes of Saved by the Bell. However, upon my move to Southern California, I quickly learned through a self-guided crash course that the sandy inlets bordering the Pacific Ocean have their own distinct culture.

First of all, for the most part, anything and anyone goes. This is one of my favorite features of the laid back So Cal vibe, and if you’re are brave enough to venture into the wilds of Venice, you will learn the true meaning of the afore mentioned phrase. Secondly, the beach at sunset is breathtaking, but chilly (seriously, bring a jacket). Most of the tourists have gone home and the waves are calming down, so it is the perfect time to grab a good book, a cup of coffee and watch the nighttime creep in over the mountains. If you listen carefully, you can hear the sun sizzle as it kisses the water at the horizon. Third, it’s a great place to people watch, if you’re into that kind of thing, but then again, who isn’t.

Among its delights, there are a few drawbacks to being by the water, that namely being seagulls. Don’t get me wrong, I love animals and even aspire to be a dog owner one day, but in my humble opinion, seagulls are basically vermin with feathers that can squawk. I hate them. . . and with good reason.

Seagulls are portly creatures that lack self-awareness. For example, I was having coffee with a student and out of the corner of my eye I see a white sphere of fowl float down from a rooftop and bow onto the umbrella underneath which we are sitting, above my student’s head, to be exact. Within seconds, I hear the green fabric being to seize and cringe under the weight of the bird. “You better move,” I say to my student who was blissfully unaware of the fate that literally was about to befall her. As we are in the process of relocating ourselves to the neighboring table, the umbrella rips under pressure and the seagull crashes onto the concrete slab. Stunned, it inquisitively looks over at us and then jumps to the ground only to continue its pursuit of gluttony as it waddles over to a trashcan and digs in.

Seagulls are selfish and lack intelligence. They will literally stand in the middle of the road and look at you. Chicken should be renounced and renamed seagull because those little buggars aren’t moving. Can’t they read the signs? The specifically say “Be safe on PCH, share the road.” How rude of them. Even if their almond-sized brain does not allow them the mental capacity to learn how to read, illiteracy is no excuse for poor manners.

Seagulls walk strangely. While most creatures of the animal kingdom have a pleasurable if not simply an amusing gait, a seagull’s stroll harkens to that of a drunk trying to pass a sobriety test. Perhaps it is their enormous bellies that infringe upon their athletic abilities or maybe it is their natural lack of dexterity, but whatever the reason, I find it odd that they can shuffle their feet side to side with the ease of a gazelle, but walking in a straight line posses a challenge for them.

Finally, but most importantly, seagulls lack tact. If you are enjoying a picnic with your pals, a seagull will come and join you without invitation. And, if they want a little sample of what you are nibbling on, they take it without regard for you or your feelings. They cut you off when walking down the sidewalk and carry on loud, screeching conversations their fellow seagulls as if they were one of those people who use speakerphone in public. Plus, one crapped on my shoe while I was running at the beach today and it pissed me off.

Anywho, in the animal world, I am sure they serve some sort of redemptive purpose, and I’m sure they are wonderful creatures once you begin to pull back the layers and discover what happened to them in their lives that makes it okay for them to follow you in hoards as you leisurely saunter in the sand and then peck at your toes when you stick them in the water, but as for me, I’m not buying it. Basically, seagulls rank right up there for me with alligators and Sylvester Stallone movies: unnecessary and nightmare evoking.

I feel much better now that I got that off of my chest.

Wild Kingdom

Well, it's Friday afternoon on the first week of classes and looking back, I am proud to say that it went pretty well. Four successful CLOMs, a minimal three roommate change request came my way, I did talk to two "concerned" (and by that I mean clingy) mothers who had not spoken to their children in three hours and needed a little reassurance that their wee babes were probably off living their own lives and were fine, and only one woodland creature wandered into my hall despite every external door being propped open. Unfortunately, it happened to be a skunk.

Fear not, everyone is fine and no one tried to capture the skunk and keep it as a pet- this time around. However, this incident falls in a long line of encounters with wildlife in my residence halls. Of course you have your run-of-the-mill fish, hamster, hermit crab incidents, and even a puppy once in a while, but I once opened a room door during rounds and through the darkness I saw two red beady eyes reflecting in the light from the hallway. With a quick flip of the light switch, I saw it, a caiman swimming around in a kiddy pool in the middle of the room (I think this incident significantly contributed to my strong phobia of alligators/crocodiles). I have also encountered a family of raccoons that decided that my front porch would now be their living room and would try to attack me every time I would try to go into or out of my apartment. But the one that takes the cake involves a hot summer night and a flying rat.

After going to dinner with some of my friends, we decided to back to the hall and watch a movie in the lobby. After a while I excused myself to go put on my pajamas and started the long trek down the hallway to my room when something quickly buzzed past my head. Startled, I looked around only to see a bat making a u-turn in the middle of the hallway and was headed straight for me. I threw my arms over my head, bolted down the hallway, slammed the lobby door behind me. Safe. "There's a bat out there," my shaky voice eeked out as I pressed myself against the door (as if the bat could push it open so that it could come and get me).

Amanda looked at me with distain and pushed me out of the way to go investigate. Ten seconds later a piercing scream resonated from the hallway and she flashed back into the room. "There's a bat out there," she exclaimed. "I told you," clinging to her as if we were watching slasher flick. Merrell stood up, "This is a job for a man. I'll be back." He strolled down the hallway, glancing over his shoulder to size up the competition. Amanda and I found a safe haven in the office, curled up on the desktop with our faces pressed up against the sliding glass ready to watch what was about to unfold. Merrell returned from his room with a pillow case and a hockey stick, gameface on.

Slowly he walked up to the bat, now perched on the neon light on the ceiling, and raised the hockey stick, ready to strike. The bat flapped his wings; Merrell kept it together while Amanda and I collectively cringed. He swung the stick, but the bat would have none of it and flew right passed his head. He screamed so high that only dogs could hear him and ran down the hallway to safety. This went on for twenty minutes; Amanda and I still engrossed in the action. Merrell eventually grew tired and sent for reinforcements. Aldon came out of his apartment with a baseball bat and a second pillowcase, ready to exterminate. The boys decided to turn off the lights so that the bat couldn't see them. I found this funny as bats are blind. In the darkness we heard frightened screams. Finally, Merrell and Aldon had the visitor cornered and were about to swoop it into the pillowcase when Aldon exclaimed, "It touched me, that's so gross, it touched me!" He shook his whole body in disgust and dropped the pillowcase releasing the creature.

Just then, Ashley, Aldon's six-months pregnant wife came hurriedly back from her walk as could hear her husband screaming from two blocks away. "What on earth is going on," she inquired. Amanda and I opened the glass window just wide enough to squeeze our faces through. "There's a bat," we said. "Oh, okay." Ashley went into her apartment and a few seconds later came out with a collapsed cardboard box. She looked at her husband cowering in corner, looked up at the bat, and then down at her husband. Without a word, Ashley raised the cardboard and slammed it against the bat. The only sound was a thud as the bat hit the ground, now struggling to fly away as he flapped his broken wings. She scooped up the bat and catapulted it out the front door to fend for itself in the wilds of the parking lot. "Gone." She went back into her home and closed the door. Merrell and Aldon still stood there in the corner shaking.