Tag Archives: reflection

Fingernails

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Finally getting around to reading Naked by David Sedaris, I was drawn to his narrative regarding his smoking addiction. While I expect my lungs would explode if I took up cigs, I realised that I had a similar habit that I needed to kick.

I’ve been gnawing on my fingers for as long as I can remember. It was just something that I always did. Insanely short fingernails were the norm, and I always wondered how people opened pocket knives, unclasped watches, and did other activities that most take for granted. In the back of my mind I always thought about what my stubby fingernails presented a rather bad image of myself to friends, interviewers, and assorted strangers. When I was applying for jobs or such, I made an effort to stop for about a week before. If I remembered, that is. And I usually didn’t.

Whenever I actually did make a legitimate effort to stop, I either found myself unintentionally chewing, or purposely diving in to relieve stress and clear my mind. It’s weird, but yes, they were a stress reliever and helped me think through things.

So one of my New Year’s Resolutions was to stop munching down on my fingernail like rednecks eat TV dinners. (Find better metaphor). This was the resolution I expected to fail immediately. I would be back on chewin’ in no time at all, based on my previous efforts.

I think the key is the first fortnight. And gum, lots of gum. Amazing amounts of gum. I’ve been accused of having an oral fixation, but it’s true. (insert joke here) I’m constantly putting random objects in my mouth and chewing. Paper, glue, fingers, thumbtacks (just the plastic part!), you name it, I chewed on it. And I still do, but now it’s gum. Did I mention gum? Like Costco-sized packs upon packs of gum? Whenever I get the urge I pop one in my mouth and keep at it until it passes.

Once you get to the point where your nails look presentable and your fingers aren’t resembling a shantytown, it’s difficult to justify destroying that.

It’s been a month now.

Typing feels weird, like my finger angle is wrong. Pressing buttons and other tasks I brute-forced with my fingers is now being messed with because my nail isn’t giving in as much as my finger would have. Simple tasks are being totally re-evaluated, because my fingers don’t feel like they always have. And they aren’t responding like I’ve always expected them to.

Since I’ve never had nails, I’m not entirely sure how to care for them. How long should they be? How do I clean underneath them? WHAT THE HECK.

Still. They’re pretty cool so far.

Bright Lights In The Fog

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During the dark Winter months, I frequently find myself on the seemingly abandoned Bremerton-Seattle ferry. If one sits on the Southern-facing side of the ship, they are rewarded with a blinking beacon from the Alki Lighthouse in the distance. It’s not the brightest light ever, and is certainly not on any sort of fancy blinking pattern. When the night is belching wind and spitting out moisture, I often walk up to the upper passenger deck and stand by the crew cabin: where no lights shine from the vessel.

Standing alone, the skyline of Seattle slowly draws into view while being beckoned by the shepherding sentinels. With nobody in sight, and the elements falling around you, it’s when I can remove myself from the world around me and fall deep into my thoughts. As the soothing voice of Skye Edwards and the trip-hop beats of Morcheeba softly filter through my headphones, I’m no longer afraid to repress my thoughts.

The fog was perfect tonight. As the blurry city comes into focus, the thick layer begins right about at the forty-fifth or fiftieth floor of the skyscrapers. Only the brightest lights can shine through the haze that was blanketing the sky.

As I ponder my future, I’m reminded that no matter of the fog that obscures our lives, there are always beacons that will guide us to the correct destination. But once we arrive and look up towards the star, all that is left is a few bright lights. Everything else is a mystery that can only be explored by elevating ourselves to the next level.

Hunkering against the wind, a juvenile seagull was standing on the enormous arresters designed to stop a wayward ferry. It seemed to be in the same position I was in. Staring into the wind and rain, he or she was taking the opportunity to reflect on its seagull life, and knowing that despite what happened, there is always the rain.

After The Last Paper: Raw

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After turning in my last final paper as an undergrad, I wrote this. Below is the full, unedited text:

I just turned in my final paper a few minutes ago for Scandinavian 445, and with that I’m done with my undergraduate degree. After shuffling up the stairs at Raitt hall I went outside to my favorite sitting place in the quad: an exposed root for one of the cherry trees I always found made a perfect bench. It’s shady and sightly hidden, yet I can still hear the silent students passing by and the songbirds amongst the rustling leaves. And of course the campus squirrels and crows make occasional appearances.

I can certainly tell it’s been four years, despite the fact that still fresh in my mind is waiting in the parking lot of E-1 while we were about to move me into McMahon room 464. I was about to live with someone I never met, go to a school where I knew less than five people, and live in a city where the population was measured in hundreds of thousands instead of simply hundreds. As we moved all of my possessions into that room, I knew I was about to embark on a journey which was completely different than any I had experienced before.

My initial intuition was correct.

I had to learn how to write papers, conduct research, critically read texts, and yes, even learn how to study.

While I was still in a relationship from high school that lasted for two additional years after starting college, and I had to learn how to balance school with a long-distance relationship.

King County Metro was at first a threat, but I quickly learned how to ride the bus, figure out the cryptic schedules, and read the odd maps that metro provided.

I was no longer the star in every class, but just another student trying to find their way in life. Still, I [almost] always did well in my courses.

After spending an interesting and often complicated four years with my best friend in high school, I’m blessed to have that friendship still be strong 4 years after graduation.

Selecting and getting into my major was an easy choice, and I don’t regret my decision. I’m well prepared to be a critical thinker, writer, and reader.

Husky football games were always a highlight: even when we were losing. One of my fondest memories is storming the field in Pullman after we won the Apple Cup in 2006, and the subsequent ride home with four happy husky fans and one dejected cougar. We almost died on that trip back, but that’s another story.

I always tried to take classes which were interesting to me: I graduated with 219 credits and got the opportunity to take additional Astronomy, Scandinavian, Economics, English, and other courses that were above and beyond my electives requirements.

Italian and Calculus were two courses that I didn’t need to take yet made myself, and I highly recommend both. Foreign languages have many benefits, and you’ll feel smarter after you’re done with just a year of work. Math too is not required, but I feel that everyone needs a good basis for calculus, no matter what field they go into.

Rome was one of the best months of my life, and after being prepared well with my Italian and comparative law courses, I spent all my time applying all of my classes up to that point.

After living in the dorms for two years, I moved into an apartment with my roommate from freshman year. This transition was not a great one, as we get along well and together had enough stuff to make our living comfortable.

After three summers as a public affairs intern, I went on to work in IT for a while. Both jobs taught me how to deal with people, to communicate clearly, and to prioritize my work. Both jobs were difficult for me in different ways, but I feel that I’ve learned a lot from both of them.

My vision isn’t as good as it used to be, and I have a few scars on my chest now. Despite this, I don’t feel at all disadvantaged. I drew from inner strength that I didn’t know I had and managed to make it through the quarter while dealing with constant medical tests and exams.

A Life In Reflection, Part One: Introduction and My Childhood.

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This will represent the first in a series of posts where I reflect [in a somewhat public manner] upon various aspects of my journey these past four years. I debated calling this experience a “journey,” but that is quite the accurate term for what occurred: a journey is a experience where one starts out with a vague goal in mind and posses only a general understanding of how they will accomplish that. The rest is entirely up to the traveller to figure out. I will be breaking up my posts into a series where each focuses on a specific theme or event. Today, fittingly, I will focus on my life until high school. The goal of this section is to introduce my experiences and environment in which I grew up.

Life Until 18, or “How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Lived to Deal with North Mason”

I unknowingly have followed quite a bit in the footsteps of my parents, especially that of my mother. My mother was raised in the same physical house that I grew up, and we graduated from the same high school. After graduation, we both graduated from state universities in Western Washington, and we both got our degrees in liberal arts. Our education was paid for by our parents, and we came from a family where both parents were degree holders and expected that their children would follow in their footsteps. Following a rather different path: my father was raised by a single mother in Bremerton, but through hard work and determination gradated from the same university which I soon will be earning an undergraduate degree from.

Yet they both ended up in the same place: Seattle. Eventually marrying, I was the first child of two successful adults in their mid-30s with respectable careers. They bought their first house in West Seattle, in the Admiral District. We lived there for two years while they decided to move back closer to where they grew up: I think parents have an urge to raise their children where they themselves grew up. They had purchased property and were building a house in Seabeck when my mother’s father made a fateful offer: he was thinking about selling the house that he owned [and where my mother grew up] and build a smaller house more suited for a retired individual right next door. Needless to say, the offer of living in her childhood home was alluring and we moved to rural Mason County.

Around this time my only sibling was born: a sister. My mother quit her job to raise us when I was born, and it was a stable family life with homemade meals every day and someone to walk us home from the bus. Dad always was able to provide us with a comfortable life, and our parents always encouraged us to follow our dreams and passions. We both took piano lessons, and I took a liking to the works of Henry Mancini, which I could be frequently heard playing on our upright piano in the living room. The local library was always my friend: and my favourite topics were history and science. Robert Ballard was a personal hero to me, and his exploration stories about the Bismark, Britannic, Titanic, and others inspired countless hours of reading. World War II was particularly fascinating, as was all history. On a weekly basis we would go to the library and I made ample use of the reservation system to get my hands on as much knowledge as I could find.

We were a liberal family, and politics were always a topic of discussion around the dinner table. Trips were made often to Seattle and other areas around the Sound, and vacations to Arizona and California helped expand our horizons even as small children. We weren’t allowed to watch TV much: we could only watch one show a day. Game systems were objects of desire: we never owned any gameboys or nintendos. Our family computer was also limited: only half an hour a day on weekdays. With the electronic entertainment of our youths limited, we of course explored other hobbies: we hiked around the property, along the beach, and visited our grandparents often. During the summer my mother took us to museums, taught us how to use a sewing machine, instructed us on how to weave [I made a few placemats!], had us cook and bake, and helped us figure out budgets and keeping track of money. My mom used her home economics major well: we were taught all the basic skills to survive and be self-reliant.

Only 90 minutes from Seattle, Mason County is a world apart from the thriving metropolis on the eastern side of Puget Sound. I grew up in a town where we had a restaurant, post office, liquor store, and gas station.  You could drive through the “town” in under a minute, and probably would not even notice you went through it. Fifteen minutes away was where I went to school. At least this town had a proper grocery store and multiple gas stations. Where I grew up the distinctive feature was the water.

Scenic beauty attracts people to Mason County: the thick forests, tranquil streams, rolling hills and calm inland waters of Puget Sound sooth the soul. I grew up with the water: I played on the beach, dug for clams, and enjoyed the moderate marine climate. And the rain! We didn’t enjoy the rainshadow that Seattle often does, and ample rain was common throughout the year. Yet for all of this water it also defined the community in another way: socioeconomic class could clearly be delineated by how far one lived from the water. Mason County is basically filled with two groups of people: the fairly well-educated and successful people who lived on the waterfront, and those lived elsewhere. There were many exceptions, of course, but this rule generally works. You can imagine the community then from this sample of population groups, and the schools suffered from a poor tax base, low population, and a lack of resources to devote to anything over than basic education.

I actually went to public school for pre-school, which is fairly rare. It turns out that nobody could understand what I was saying: the letters “l” and “s” were unknown to me, and I had speech therapy until 5th grade with near-daily sessions my first few years. Despite my horribly incomprehensible handwriting [which still exists today], I was recognized as somewhat of a bright student in elementary school. I always went to learn math with the “older kids,” read constantly, and even at that young age could be found dinking around with  computers and this new wondrous internet. It seemed I was always in experimental classes: for second grade I was in a large classroom of 50 students and two teachers that was split between first and second graders. For third through sixth grades I was in a multi-age room with 25 students, three grades, and one teacher. I went to elementary school with a very close group of friends: some of us had been in the same class for 4-5 years in a row. It’s a shame the school didn’t repeat these experiments, as I found the mixed-age environment and same teacher from year-to-year enabled Mrs. Burns to get a better understanding of who we were and shepherded  us through school. Our strengths were refined and our weaknesses were carefully eliminated through the years.

In sixth grade I joined the band. Three days a week I took the early “big kid” bus to the middle school where I learned my second instrument: the clarinet. I wish I had some big long story about how I decided on this particular device to learn, but I didn’t want to learn a brass instrument and the clarinet seemed to match my personality in ways that I’m unable to fully explain.

Middle school was a shock. Both elementary schools in our district combined for middle school and suddenly there was a huge influx of students who I didn’t know. Except for fellow band members and the few I knew from elementary, I few friends. Going to math with the older students certainly didn’t help matters much, as I missed our “advisory” classes that I suspect were designed to help students build a social network as much as to disseminate information to us.

Final fun fact: My parents didn’t want to know if I was a boy or girl until I was born. Mom picked “Nickolas” for me since she was convinced I was a boy. Dad maintains he picked “Kelsey” if I were a girl, but mom said that she would no have approved it. I’m named after “Nickolas Charles” from The Thin Man series, and he is referred to as “Nick Charles.” I actually decided to be called “Nikky,” my parents claim, although family and friends called me “Nick,” “Nickolas,” “Nikkster,” and even “Nick Chuck of the North.”

Next up:  Read how the “the piano-playing, collared-shirt wearing, nerd who played soccer” survived high school!