If anybody knows and medicine I can take for powers like running fast, please let me know.
if your looking on Google, don't try these because I already did:
"Medicine for super powers"
"Medicine to make you run really fast"
"Medicine that lets you run at incredible rates"
"magic pills"
"magic pills, magic hero medicine"
"Go the extra mile in less time- Pills to make you run faster than anyone"
"medicine, mutant, awesome"
It would just be nice to get to the train faster or not have to wait for the bus. please let me know asap (as soon as possible:)
Tuesday, March 31, 2009
Change is good
The other day I found out that I can record stuff on my phone and then use that recording as my ring. I decided to bring back a classic and record myself saying,"Hueso. Hueso. Hueso." thats what the kids called me in Honduras. It translates to "Bone." I listened to it and it sounded like Kings (Good). I was really excited to hear it.
Days went by and no one called me. I got all depressed.
I changed it to something else and then the calls just rolled in like rich peoples money.
Days went by and no one called me. I got all depressed.
I changed it to something else and then the calls just rolled in like rich peoples money.
Friday, March 27, 2009
getting going
I had to watch Jerry Springer today.
Even though I was late for tudor help, I was hooked.
I sat and watched an hours' worth of it with my jacket and backpack on. Each time I got up to leave I saw the title, "I used to be a man," and "Jerry Springer Wedding."
And that was it. There was nothing I could do.
This is so typical of me.
Even though I was late for tudor help, I was hooked.
I sat and watched an hours' worth of it with my jacket and backpack on. Each time I got up to leave I saw the title, "I used to be a man," and "Jerry Springer Wedding."
And that was it. There was nothing I could do.
This is so typical of me.
Thursday, March 26, 2009
JOBS AND INTERVIEWS
I was looking for a job when I starting writing this. Thanksgiving was last week so seasonal jobs are getting taken up on quickly. I turned down two Borders jobs because I thought I would be visiting home this Christmas. But that is not going to happen. If I want to work I have to be available to work the holidays. I have been to a few interviews. And it only took a few times to realize how terribly awful interviewee I am. I just had an interview at Old Navy. I never thought I would work there, but now, as no other job has come up, I have to be willing to take anything I can get. Like a humble, homeless man. Something you don’t see in Chicago often enough. Normally I would try to convince myself that I am modestly confident. It’s always easier with a woman interviewer for some reason. These are the moments in our lives when we can be anyone we want. Those first impressions are the ones that sell, right? So, when it’s one-on-one, the interviewer and me, I smile, make eye contact and am relatively a great guy. They ask me to tell them about myself. This is where I really shine and smother on my experience in Honduras. Its smooth sailing from here until they get to questions like, “What do expect from your supervisor?” “How do you sell a product?” “Why do you want to work for us?” “Tell me about a time when you gave great customer service.” At this point I usually look out the window and rub my sweaty palms together. When there are no windows I notice how warm it is in the room because I feel the beads of sweat running down my under-arm. I may look at the posters on the wall. After stumbling with words I reply, “…well, I want a supervisor who…respects me. Someone who respects the way I interact with customers…” she looks at me, nodding her head, saying, “hmmmm.” If I look passed her dark eyes I can see her real reaction- what the hell are you talking about?
“…Well…Ummm, to sell a product, I say hey, have you tried our new Mojo Mocha? We can make it with non-fat milk or sugar-free syrup... Or we could just go all out and make it so chocolaty that your head would blow up. And hey, did you hear we got our new sixty-four oz. cups in. So now you’ll have enough to last until Hell freezes over.”
Why do I want to work for you? Back at home I knew this answer. Before I left, I knew this answer. At least, I knew the right answer. Something they would want to hear. Unfortunately, for all of us, the only response that keeps on repeating itself in my head is, “I just need a job.” And that’s not exactly what employers want to hear. It seems when these questions come up, my mind remembers what “worked” before. So, now all I hear is “I just need a job.” I don’t know what stopped me from saying that, but I didn’t say it. Instead, I answer with something “much better” like, “Seems like a fun environment”, “I like the clothes” and “You guys are on top.” After one of those responses they give me a smile. The kind you get from genuine pity. In the moment you feel great about it. But later when you leave and think about it and remember what he looked like as you said it, you stop walking and say to yourself, son-of-a-bitch! I have given great customer service in all my years of being employed. Working at Starbucks, your whole life is revolved around making customers happy. I couldn’t think of one particular time when I gave great customer service, so I usually come up with some rendition of “selling a product.” At Starbucks when a new drink is out they sample it to everyone for free. So, its hard to feel what these clothes retailers want from me when I can’t give a free pair of pants to the people, just so they could try them. Also, I use the phrases, “mix’n match, non-fat, and “happy smiles all around,” hoping this would put me up a few notches.
In my Old Navy interview I was pretty proud of myself to show up fifteen minutes early. After I was told to “go talk to So’n so," twice, I was told to wait in the break room for about twelve minutes. There I was, at a circular table, alone. I was one of about five others, with other people coming and going the whole time. But they were the ones who were actually working and on a break. Who was I? I was nobody. No one made eye contact with me. After ten minutes I couldn’t take it any longer. I left the break room to find this “Jason” guy or whoever it was that was going to interview me. When someone saw me hanging around outside his office they asked what I was doing. Bringing me inside the office, there was a red, comfy chair and I was instructed to sit in it. And wait. There were, at least, posters on the walls in this room, so I had something to look at. Soon, “Jason” popped his head in and said, “We’re going to go to another room if that’s okay. Sorry about the musical rooms we’re playing here with you.” That’s when I realize it- its not just Jason and me. Its Me, Jason, and two other girls. What kind of mind games is Jason playing with me now? We walk inside a new room with a big red table in the middle. Its another break room. To the far right, as you walk in, is a counter with a sink. There are plastic plates and dirty, crumpled napkins scattered around the counter. On the end is a round plate of cookies. That is not going to help. I love cookies. Jason tells us to all sit on one side and he on the other. In that moment he throws us a curve-ball and leaves the room for five minutes. Neither one of us said one thing to anyone ever. The tension became increasingly thick. Like getting mammoth muffin at Perkins and thinking you get all the free ones you want after the first the purchase…until you confront the waitress only to find out that its not true. I was about to burst into one of those, “WELL!…” comments just to break the awkwardness, but was relieved to see Jason pop back in. First thing he said, as he sat down, was that he didn’t have my application. I was off to a good start. He was a big guy. A bit round, like his associates could have just rolled him in the room similar to the way the Oompa-Loompas rolled away the big blueberry of a girl. His head was about the shape and size of your Olympic approved basketball and when he turned to look and talk to each one of us, his face jiggled like there was cake mix inside. Second thing he said was that he wanted to go around and have us just tell him about ourselves. Of course, with this question, I was about as worried as any drunken man could be as he wanders in a restaurant for flap-jacks at 3 AM. It started with me. I said, “Well, I’m from Minnesota. I moved here about four years ago. I have been out of the country- working in Honduras, at an orphanage. I am working on a promotional video/ documentary/ movie for the orphanage right now to help raise money and awareness. But, now I’m back and going to school in January. And that’s me in thirty second nutshell.” Jason just looks blankly at me but I don’t realize it. Feeling pretty proud of my answer, I put on a smile that says I know I look good and turn to my left for the next girl’s story. With a bright smile and eyes that seem to actually be buried in her face, Anisha-Angel begins her story. She jumps right in with being a single mom then shifts over to her eight years experience working at Wal-Mart and all the positions she held there. “…And I’d like to work at Old Navy because I love working with customers and making everyone’s shopping experience one that makes them come back. I think I would be a great addition to this company because I know and understand this kind of environment. From my past experience I know how to work with customers and help them find what they need…” Inside, I am screaming at myself. Caught off guard, I look at her and loose my smart-ass-of-a-smile. What was I thinking, talking about myself? How is going to Honduras and working with kids going to get me this job? Its not and I had to learn that the hard way. In most of the job interviews I have had, employers usually eat up all the Honduras stuff. Going into this one I naturally thought the same. I have never had a group interview, but learned that it’s really a competition, a battle to work at a cash register for eight hours a day. A battle to say, “how many?” in the fitting rooms. No. This is no battle. It’s war. And if I had any experience in this kind of combat, maybe I would have a chance. Unfortunately, I have none and the best my silver tongue struck out was asking what kind of activities they do if the workers have to stay late. It was a little comment, probably in everyone’s mind, but in this head it was big. It sounded great until it came out. Anisha-Angel finished her explanation under five minutes and looked to the other girl on her left. Rackel began telling about her experiences working in a few, smaller clothing stores. I look down at my lap. I am scratching my stomach under my sweater, maybe to put a hole there. It feels warm and red like a hot pad. There is a lot of noise in my head. Shouting. I think it’s my voice. Beyond that, I can hear the faint hum of Rackel, convincing them she would be a great candidate for the job. I should have taken my jacket off. Its so hot in here, I think to myself. I’m trying to act normal. As if nothing could be against me. The right answers and physical mannerisms become hard to concentrate on. I keep looking over at the plate of cookies and garbage on the counter to my right. There is no way they don’t notice. I have to completely turn away from everyone in the room. Jason isn’t even asking me anything anyway. This is all a process. He asks us all, one at a time the questions he has on his clip bored. But at this point its like he just skipped me to move on to the girls. They have so much more to say. All I can ramble about is all the combinations of flavor and espresso you can mix together. I begin to take more notice of my environment. There are Old Navy posters on each wall. I shouldn’t be doing this. I should be paying attention. Maybe if I switch my sitting position, something will happen. Maybe Jason will talk to me. I shift and turn my body to be facing Anisha-Angel. With my elbow on the table, too, I hope something will change. I’m not surprised when it doesn’t. It just gets hotter. Everyone always says to make eye contact. I do, do that. But I always remember it at the wrong times. I think I do it in spurts. So I may be looking at a table or a crumb from a brownie one minute. The next I could be in a trance of staring eye contact. If I want the attention, this is definitely one option. Though, in this case, it may not be the best option. I found myself with my fingers folded together, placed in front of my mouth. From Jason’s point of view, I could have been the man in the windowless van that sits across the street from the park wearing sunglasses. This is just my luck. I always make people feel uncomfortable with the way I look at them. Its always too late when I find out I’ve been doing it. This isn’t going well at all. I was never good at competition. This is a perfect example. What a relief I felt when Jason stood up and began thanking us for taking the time to come in. He said if one of us gets hired on, then we would get a call confirming it. If not, then we would get a letter in the mail saying, “sorry, this just isn’t going to work out. Maybe if you hadn’t made Jason, your interview, feel he would be in physical danger when he left the store, we might have thought about welcoming you on our team. Thanks for playing."
I don’t expect to be hired there.
“…Well…Ummm, to sell a product, I say hey, have you tried our new Mojo Mocha? We can make it with non-fat milk or sugar-free syrup... Or we could just go all out and make it so chocolaty that your head would blow up. And hey, did you hear we got our new sixty-four oz. cups in. So now you’ll have enough to last until Hell freezes over.”
Why do I want to work for you? Back at home I knew this answer. Before I left, I knew this answer. At least, I knew the right answer. Something they would want to hear. Unfortunately, for all of us, the only response that keeps on repeating itself in my head is, “I just need a job.” And that’s not exactly what employers want to hear. It seems when these questions come up, my mind remembers what “worked” before. So, now all I hear is “I just need a job.” I don’t know what stopped me from saying that, but I didn’t say it. Instead, I answer with something “much better” like, “Seems like a fun environment”, “I like the clothes” and “You guys are on top.” After one of those responses they give me a smile. The kind you get from genuine pity. In the moment you feel great about it. But later when you leave and think about it and remember what he looked like as you said it, you stop walking and say to yourself, son-of-a-bitch! I have given great customer service in all my years of being employed. Working at Starbucks, your whole life is revolved around making customers happy. I couldn’t think of one particular time when I gave great customer service, so I usually come up with some rendition of “selling a product.” At Starbucks when a new drink is out they sample it to everyone for free. So, its hard to feel what these clothes retailers want from me when I can’t give a free pair of pants to the people, just so they could try them. Also, I use the phrases, “mix’n match, non-fat, and “happy smiles all around,” hoping this would put me up a few notches.
In my Old Navy interview I was pretty proud of myself to show up fifteen minutes early. After I was told to “go talk to So’n so," twice, I was told to wait in the break room for about twelve minutes. There I was, at a circular table, alone. I was one of about five others, with other people coming and going the whole time. But they were the ones who were actually working and on a break. Who was I? I was nobody. No one made eye contact with me. After ten minutes I couldn’t take it any longer. I left the break room to find this “Jason” guy or whoever it was that was going to interview me. When someone saw me hanging around outside his office they asked what I was doing. Bringing me inside the office, there was a red, comfy chair and I was instructed to sit in it. And wait. There were, at least, posters on the walls in this room, so I had something to look at. Soon, “Jason” popped his head in and said, “We’re going to go to another room if that’s okay. Sorry about the musical rooms we’re playing here with you.” That’s when I realize it- its not just Jason and me. Its Me, Jason, and two other girls. What kind of mind games is Jason playing with me now? We walk inside a new room with a big red table in the middle. Its another break room. To the far right, as you walk in, is a counter with a sink. There are plastic plates and dirty, crumpled napkins scattered around the counter. On the end is a round plate of cookies. That is not going to help. I love cookies. Jason tells us to all sit on one side and he on the other. In that moment he throws us a curve-ball and leaves the room for five minutes. Neither one of us said one thing to anyone ever. The tension became increasingly thick. Like getting mammoth muffin at Perkins and thinking you get all the free ones you want after the first the purchase…until you confront the waitress only to find out that its not true. I was about to burst into one of those, “WELL!…” comments just to break the awkwardness, but was relieved to see Jason pop back in. First thing he said, as he sat down, was that he didn’t have my application. I was off to a good start. He was a big guy. A bit round, like his associates could have just rolled him in the room similar to the way the Oompa-Loompas rolled away the big blueberry of a girl. His head was about the shape and size of your Olympic approved basketball and when he turned to look and talk to each one of us, his face jiggled like there was cake mix inside. Second thing he said was that he wanted to go around and have us just tell him about ourselves. Of course, with this question, I was about as worried as any drunken man could be as he wanders in a restaurant for flap-jacks at 3 AM. It started with me. I said, “Well, I’m from Minnesota. I moved here about four years ago. I have been out of the country- working in Honduras, at an orphanage. I am working on a promotional video/ documentary/ movie for the orphanage right now to help raise money and awareness. But, now I’m back and going to school in January. And that’s me in thirty second nutshell.” Jason just looks blankly at me but I don’t realize it. Feeling pretty proud of my answer, I put on a smile that says I know I look good and turn to my left for the next girl’s story. With a bright smile and eyes that seem to actually be buried in her face, Anisha-Angel begins her story. She jumps right in with being a single mom then shifts over to her eight years experience working at Wal-Mart and all the positions she held there. “…And I’d like to work at Old Navy because I love working with customers and making everyone’s shopping experience one that makes them come back. I think I would be a great addition to this company because I know and understand this kind of environment. From my past experience I know how to work with customers and help them find what they need…” Inside, I am screaming at myself. Caught off guard, I look at her and loose my smart-ass-of-a-smile. What was I thinking, talking about myself? How is going to Honduras and working with kids going to get me this job? Its not and I had to learn that the hard way. In most of the job interviews I have had, employers usually eat up all the Honduras stuff. Going into this one I naturally thought the same. I have never had a group interview, but learned that it’s really a competition, a battle to work at a cash register for eight hours a day. A battle to say, “how many?” in the fitting rooms. No. This is no battle. It’s war. And if I had any experience in this kind of combat, maybe I would have a chance. Unfortunately, I have none and the best my silver tongue struck out was asking what kind of activities they do if the workers have to stay late. It was a little comment, probably in everyone’s mind, but in this head it was big. It sounded great until it came out. Anisha-Angel finished her explanation under five minutes and looked to the other girl on her left. Rackel began telling about her experiences working in a few, smaller clothing stores. I look down at my lap. I am scratching my stomach under my sweater, maybe to put a hole there. It feels warm and red like a hot pad. There is a lot of noise in my head. Shouting. I think it’s my voice. Beyond that, I can hear the faint hum of Rackel, convincing them she would be a great candidate for the job. I should have taken my jacket off. Its so hot in here, I think to myself. I’m trying to act normal. As if nothing could be against me. The right answers and physical mannerisms become hard to concentrate on. I keep looking over at the plate of cookies and garbage on the counter to my right. There is no way they don’t notice. I have to completely turn away from everyone in the room. Jason isn’t even asking me anything anyway. This is all a process. He asks us all, one at a time the questions he has on his clip bored. But at this point its like he just skipped me to move on to the girls. They have so much more to say. All I can ramble about is all the combinations of flavor and espresso you can mix together. I begin to take more notice of my environment. There are Old Navy posters on each wall. I shouldn’t be doing this. I should be paying attention. Maybe if I switch my sitting position, something will happen. Maybe Jason will talk to me. I shift and turn my body to be facing Anisha-Angel. With my elbow on the table, too, I hope something will change. I’m not surprised when it doesn’t. It just gets hotter. Everyone always says to make eye contact. I do, do that. But I always remember it at the wrong times. I think I do it in spurts. So I may be looking at a table or a crumb from a brownie one minute. The next I could be in a trance of staring eye contact. If I want the attention, this is definitely one option. Though, in this case, it may not be the best option. I found myself with my fingers folded together, placed in front of my mouth. From Jason’s point of view, I could have been the man in the windowless van that sits across the street from the park wearing sunglasses. This is just my luck. I always make people feel uncomfortable with the way I look at them. Its always too late when I find out I’ve been doing it. This isn’t going well at all. I was never good at competition. This is a perfect example. What a relief I felt when Jason stood up and began thanking us for taking the time to come in. He said if one of us gets hired on, then we would get a call confirming it. If not, then we would get a letter in the mail saying, “sorry, this just isn’t going to work out. Maybe if you hadn’t made Jason, your interview, feel he would be in physical danger when he left the store, we might have thought about welcoming you on our team. Thanks for playing."
I don’t expect to be hired there.
Monday, March 23, 2009
Standing up for My Rights
KINDERGARTEN
I remember early back in my life. I don’t know why. But I don’t question it. It is funny for me to recall what I was like as a kid. When I do look back I usually have a good laugh because of how awkward I was. The things I did. The things I thought but didn’t say and what I really panicked about- all the things that make me who I am today. It all adds up. I am the way I am supposed to be, judging by my past.
I began my first year of kindergarten like any other kid. My cubby was full of crayons, my scissors were sharp, and I was in line to turn in my box of Kleenex. I was a bit scared of Ms. Statem. Maybe it was her curly hair that formed that sort of 90’s fro- A phase that all women seemed to go through. I was nervous around her. And as much as I wanted to be comfortable in her presents, I never was. I don’t know why. And Things just didn’t go right, right from the start it seemed like. I wasn’t happy. Who would think that a 5 year old could be so unhappy in kindergarten? But now when I look back I figure it wasn’t the big things. It was just the little things that added up. Ms. Statem had the biggest puzzle any kid could imagine in a classroom, with pieces the size of party pizzas. And the best part about this puzzle was not putting it together, but the reward you receive when you finished. Statem had a gold colored tin box on her desk chalked-full of random assortments of candy. That was all the motivation one needed. When a kid completes “the big floor puzzle” he or she earns one piece of candy. Unfortunately it wouldn’t be until 40 or so years later that these kids would realize that the real reward was not the sweet treat, but really the fond memory of the journey it is to put it together. At this point in life if there wasn’t a reward of candy, what motivation was there? The only real reason they did it was for the candy. It was always about the candy. That’s the way it is with kids. If there’s candy involved, there’s no question. Later in my life, when Halloween rolls around, my friend Paul and I prepare our plan of attack so we can get as much candy as our pillow cases could hold. We always grabbed the biggest one we could each find. Even though when we got out to collect, our sacs rarely filled much passed half way. But this only encouraged us to work harder. By the end of the night I was never disappointed and I treated my candy like gold. I had to save it. Only eat it a few pieces at a time. I don’t know if this was the greatest idea as I had candy for months after Halloween. Most years I was left with just the “Almond Joy,” “Mounds,” and then all the international treats I was not accustomed to.
I finish that big puzzle and I was ready for my prize, so I went to tell Statem that I had done it. And after she saw the proof, I had permission to partake from the tin. When I opened it, only to find it was barren, I looked around to see who playing this sick, sick joke on me. But no one noticed. I felt sick to my stomach as I told Statem the bad news and she said that she would get some for me later. Some how I decided that that was ok, which was wrong, because that’s all I got from her- a rein check. I was betrayed. And this was not the end. Not even close. That same year on Halloween I was superman- a classic move. But some how I thought that the superman outfit I had- pajamas, would work famously. How wrong I was. I think it may have only been a superman top at most and being short the bottoms I improvised a bit and used red sweatpants. Superman has blue tights, by the way. And since I was using the opposite of what the pants should be, I had to substitute the outer red underwear for my actual blue underwear complimented with yellow trim. The cape looked nothing more than a red dishrag with two squares of Velcro on the corners and on the shoulders of my shirt. I don’t know why it didn’t bother me then, but later I realized that a cape that only goes to the top of you ass is a sin. This was probably the biggest mistake that I let my older brother and my mother talk me into. I bet he doesn’t even remember it now, but I’m sure he had a good, cheap laugh at the cost of a child’s self confidence that will have stunted him for the rest of his life. I don’t know why I agreed to this but I did, actually, wear this to Statem’s class and Halloween party. It was too late to turn back for me when a neighboring classroom came through ours to show their costumes and one boy had a spandex-like superman outfit with a cape that went all the way to his ankles. My jealousy for this boy, who I didn’t even know, was deep. And it didn’t end. One of my own classmates, Dustin, who lived in my own neighborhood, and rode my bus, and was a cowboy that day, made sure the whole class knew that I had it all wrong. Dancing around, pretending to shoot his toy gun, he was out of control. The whole class laughed so hard because of him. I felt like a fool and I was not laughing. They believed him. They followed him. He was crazy and I was the only one who knew it. Ridding home on the bus, I looked back on the day and felt I had been emotionally crucified by my whole class. I recall no support from Statem, who should have been at my side telling me that the workmanship and creativity that went into my outfit was superior to those of my classmates. But, I suppose she may have felt a little awkward around me that day. She was outnumbered. I mean, if a kid is being harassed to the point of tears by everyone, you may want to help them, but the chances of making a difference are pretty slim. And if you can’t beat a gang of angry kindergarteners, join them.
My mother pulled me out of school around December, setting me back a year. But this was the right thing to do because of the way I was treated. The way Statem treated me. The injustice. So I turned in my cubby and sold all my crayons. I took back my Kleenex and booked it out of there. Boy, this was a great day. I didn’t have to go to school and everything just seemed too good to be true. In the following years growing up, I told all my friends that I was removed because Statem was a bad teacher. It wasn’t until I was in my 20’s that my mother told me that the real reason I was pulled out was because of my underdeveloped motor skills. It was quite a surprise to find out that I was a bit slow. But that’s the way it is with me. It’s always been a challenge to keep up with the other students my age. I started my second year of kindergarten pretty confidently. I watched the new kids come in. Scared. Knowing nothing. Not knowing where the closest bathroom was if there was an emergency. Or confused about what hall it is to the drinking fountain. But I knew. If a kid didn’t know- Bam! There I was. I had Mrs. Morris that year. She was wonderful. I felt as if I could have been her very child. As if she could be my very own mother. The second round of kindergarten for me seemed to just be more packed with fun. They must have made many additions to the class rooms to make them more kid-friendly. Like a welcome mat. We went to the library to read books, but never, never to check them out. When winter came Mrs. Morris and a few volunteer parents took us outside to make home-made ice cream. We all couldn’t help at the same time so we did it in shifts. And in between these shifts we were allowed to just play in the snow. I remember the taste of the ice cream when we got back to the class. Vanilla. So smooth and creamy. Delicate, yet more complex than a five year old could ever imagine. How does ice cream come from a little wooden bucket full of snow? But it did. When spring rolled around we had a “choir concert” to match the delight in our hearts of the coming season. This was held in the small gymnasium of our school. Looking out and seeing my mom and Mrs. Morris, and a packed gym, I became pretty uneasy. I knew my mother was looking at me because she is my mom, and now that I think about it, I think Mrs. Morris was looking at me too. Not just because I think she liked me best, but because I was yawning the entire time. All those hours of practicing back in the classroom and it all came down to this. Since I hadn’t figured out how to suppress me edgy nerves, a nice display of yawns contributed more or less to our ensemble. Maybe she was laughing at me because I was trying so hard to stay with it. Even though I was older and much more mature, I still lacked quite a bit in this performance: Singing technique, Posture and definitely composure. I don’t remember singing one word at our little concert. Having all these new situational experiences, I had more confidence this year for sure. I didn’t show off a lot. I was never that type. But I spoke up more. I saw kids fight all the time, like kids do. It was usually something small, like a toy, or paints, or who gets to be the person on register in our little “play store.” Everyone wanted to be that person. Especially me. But back then I rarely had it my way due to shyness-something that always lingered with me. At this age, if your arguing with anyone, all you need to do, is drop the “I-am-older-than-you,” bomb, and there is nothing they could do to win. So I always had that in my back pocket, ready to go. And I did use it a lot because I was older. When a birthday comes to pass, so do the rights to this phrase. Those once-a-year days come along, and it is so vital to be invited to the parties. You have got to be someone. If you are not invited to Brian’s 5th birthday party kiss your kindergarten social life goodbye. Sarah was a girl who lived in my neighborhood. Her birthday was coming up and I was getting keyed up for it. My mother helped me wrap a Barbie doll for her. Now all I needed was to wait for that invitation in the mail or our front door. But it didn’t come. It was the day of the party and she never invited me. I could hear the fun they were having at her house across the street. I was so hurt. So angry. I screamed that I hated them and I didn’t want to go to their stupid party. My mother didn’t realized how much this meant to me, of course, and it hurt her to see me so distressed. So she proceeded to make a call, pulled a few strings and before I new it, the gift was under my arm, she was walking me over and I was wiping my tears away. All of a sudden this party was important again. It was not stupid anymore because I was invited. It all felt good until I walked in the door and it hit me. That feeling where you want something so badly, but when you finally have it, your not so sure this was the best option for you. I felt like “that guy” at the party. Everyone knows him. The one that is never invited but shows up anyway. No one really talked to me at Sarah’s party anyway. She probably told everyone about me. So I dropped off my present for her and grabbed some cake for the trek home. Some party.
One day, while I was playing in the sandbox that was in our classroom, I went into a little daydream and began to unconsciously write with purple marker on the Air Conditioner that happen to be directly behind the sandbox. I don’t recall what I was writing. That didn’t matter. What did matter was that there were rules in these places and I was breaking them. These rules were made for us to follow and keep us safe. This is what must have gone through Jeff’s mind when he saw me treat them like un-played-with garbage. “What the hell are you doing?” he demanded. I look at him then back at what I’ve done. Then back at him again. My heart began to race as hundreds of excuses fly in and out my mind. “Oh, please don’t tell Mrs. Morris,” I beg. “I’m going to tell Mrs. Morris,” he tosses back at me. I think of the disappointment in her eyes if she were to ever find out what I’ve done. I couldn’t bear to experience it. “Please don’t!” I plead. “Your going to be in so much trouble.” “Pa-leaze!” I begged. “NO!” He snapped back. We must have gone back and forth like that for about five minutes before I came to my last option. “I’ll invite you to my birthday party if you promise you wont tell on me…because I know how important these things are.” He thinks for a moment…and then I saw some acceptance in his eyes. I saw a peace agreement. “Ok, fine,” he replays, after what seems like a thousand kid years. When In reality, it just took all of free-time. I’d like to think the mark I made would still be there if I went back today, but probably not. I don’t think I told anyone. Not even my girlfriend at the time, Alison. At least that’s what I thought. I’m sure she was just a playmate. Maybe I wanted more in the relationship. I liked her a lot. In elementary school I’m pretty sure its unwritten code that the birthday kid brings treats for the whole class. Its not something you learn but something you just know. Of course I did this because I go with the crowd. It wouldn’t before I was 15 years before I would take a step “into my own”. I brought fun-size ‘3 musketeers’ for my class. They sat in a circle and I walked around in the middle dropping a candy bar into each and everyone of their little hands. I could see Alison was coming up, and coming fast. What should I do? She is my girlfriend, I thought. Then I thought I would maybe, accidentally drop two candy bars in her hand. When she came around I was too nervous the class would be angrily confused with me as to why I gave her two and not anyone else. This wasn’t a risk I couldn’t afford to take. I had also just gotten off the hook with Jeff and didn’t want to fall deeper into debt. I only had one birthday this year and I’m sure she would have felt a bit awkward too, being treated like a high-class kindergarten girl. Alison had been in a more of my classes growing up all the way to high school. She was in my 3rd grade class with Mr. Williams. Even at this point, when I gathered up the courage to ask her if she remembered me, the response was always a disappointing, flat “No.” I wanted her to remember and couldn’t understand why she didn’t. One day, while she was with her best-friend-for-the–year, Daira, I told her that I had a question for her. I was then, as I am now, an eternally curious boy. She was still nice to me… She allowed me. I was grateful for that. But I think she was turned off a bit more to our friendship when I asked her if she had hairy armpits. The first thing she did was look me in my eyes and burn them with disgust for my curious question. And that followed with running to her best-friend-for-the-year, Daira. As soon as she turned to leave me, I was, once again left alone, very aware that I was alone, and that I definitely didn’t know how to impress a girl. I try to imagine the response I would get had I told her of our true relationship all those years back in kindergarten. Probably perfect denial, coupled with laughter. Our friendship was on the skids so I layed low for the next ten years. I felt relieved when in 11th grade she didn’t remember me, once again. Maybe this was an act on her part. Maybe she knew it all. But I went along with it. Every time I saw her in later years, all I really thought about our first time together. How I thought that this was the beginning foundation to a really great relationship. But that was just kindergarten.
I remember early back in my life. I don’t know why. But I don’t question it. It is funny for me to recall what I was like as a kid. When I do look back I usually have a good laugh because of how awkward I was. The things I did. The things I thought but didn’t say and what I really panicked about- all the things that make me who I am today. It all adds up. I am the way I am supposed to be, judging by my past.
I began my first year of kindergarten like any other kid. My cubby was full of crayons, my scissors were sharp, and I was in line to turn in my box of Kleenex. I was a bit scared of Ms. Statem. Maybe it was her curly hair that formed that sort of 90’s fro- A phase that all women seemed to go through. I was nervous around her. And as much as I wanted to be comfortable in her presents, I never was. I don’t know why. And Things just didn’t go right, right from the start it seemed like. I wasn’t happy. Who would think that a 5 year old could be so unhappy in kindergarten? But now when I look back I figure it wasn’t the big things. It was just the little things that added up. Ms. Statem had the biggest puzzle any kid could imagine in a classroom, with pieces the size of party pizzas. And the best part about this puzzle was not putting it together, but the reward you receive when you finished. Statem had a gold colored tin box on her desk chalked-full of random assortments of candy. That was all the motivation one needed. When a kid completes “the big floor puzzle” he or she earns one piece of candy. Unfortunately it wouldn’t be until 40 or so years later that these kids would realize that the real reward was not the sweet treat, but really the fond memory of the journey it is to put it together. At this point in life if there wasn’t a reward of candy, what motivation was there? The only real reason they did it was for the candy. It was always about the candy. That’s the way it is with kids. If there’s candy involved, there’s no question. Later in my life, when Halloween rolls around, my friend Paul and I prepare our plan of attack so we can get as much candy as our pillow cases could hold. We always grabbed the biggest one we could each find. Even though when we got out to collect, our sacs rarely filled much passed half way. But this only encouraged us to work harder. By the end of the night I was never disappointed and I treated my candy like gold. I had to save it. Only eat it a few pieces at a time. I don’t know if this was the greatest idea as I had candy for months after Halloween. Most years I was left with just the “Almond Joy,” “Mounds,” and then all the international treats I was not accustomed to.
I finish that big puzzle and I was ready for my prize, so I went to tell Statem that I had done it. And after she saw the proof, I had permission to partake from the tin. When I opened it, only to find it was barren, I looked around to see who playing this sick, sick joke on me. But no one noticed. I felt sick to my stomach as I told Statem the bad news and she said that she would get some for me later. Some how I decided that that was ok, which was wrong, because that’s all I got from her- a rein check. I was betrayed. And this was not the end. Not even close. That same year on Halloween I was superman- a classic move. But some how I thought that the superman outfit I had- pajamas, would work famously. How wrong I was. I think it may have only been a superman top at most and being short the bottoms I improvised a bit and used red sweatpants. Superman has blue tights, by the way. And since I was using the opposite of what the pants should be, I had to substitute the outer red underwear for my actual blue underwear complimented with yellow trim. The cape looked nothing more than a red dishrag with two squares of Velcro on the corners and on the shoulders of my shirt. I don’t know why it didn’t bother me then, but later I realized that a cape that only goes to the top of you ass is a sin. This was probably the biggest mistake that I let my older brother and my mother talk me into. I bet he doesn’t even remember it now, but I’m sure he had a good, cheap laugh at the cost of a child’s self confidence that will have stunted him for the rest of his life. I don’t know why I agreed to this but I did, actually, wear this to Statem’s class and Halloween party. It was too late to turn back for me when a neighboring classroom came through ours to show their costumes and one boy had a spandex-like superman outfit with a cape that went all the way to his ankles. My jealousy for this boy, who I didn’t even know, was deep. And it didn’t end. One of my own classmates, Dustin, who lived in my own neighborhood, and rode my bus, and was a cowboy that day, made sure the whole class knew that I had it all wrong. Dancing around, pretending to shoot his toy gun, he was out of control. The whole class laughed so hard because of him. I felt like a fool and I was not laughing. They believed him. They followed him. He was crazy and I was the only one who knew it. Ridding home on the bus, I looked back on the day and felt I had been emotionally crucified by my whole class. I recall no support from Statem, who should have been at my side telling me that the workmanship and creativity that went into my outfit was superior to those of my classmates. But, I suppose she may have felt a little awkward around me that day. She was outnumbered. I mean, if a kid is being harassed to the point of tears by everyone, you may want to help them, but the chances of making a difference are pretty slim. And if you can’t beat a gang of angry kindergarteners, join them.
My mother pulled me out of school around December, setting me back a year. But this was the right thing to do because of the way I was treated. The way Statem treated me. The injustice. So I turned in my cubby and sold all my crayons. I took back my Kleenex and booked it out of there. Boy, this was a great day. I didn’t have to go to school and everything just seemed too good to be true. In the following years growing up, I told all my friends that I was removed because Statem was a bad teacher. It wasn’t until I was in my 20’s that my mother told me that the real reason I was pulled out was because of my underdeveloped motor skills. It was quite a surprise to find out that I was a bit slow. But that’s the way it is with me. It’s always been a challenge to keep up with the other students my age. I started my second year of kindergarten pretty confidently. I watched the new kids come in. Scared. Knowing nothing. Not knowing where the closest bathroom was if there was an emergency. Or confused about what hall it is to the drinking fountain. But I knew. If a kid didn’t know- Bam! There I was. I had Mrs. Morris that year. She was wonderful. I felt as if I could have been her very child. As if she could be my very own mother. The second round of kindergarten for me seemed to just be more packed with fun. They must have made many additions to the class rooms to make them more kid-friendly. Like a welcome mat. We went to the library to read books, but never, never to check them out. When winter came Mrs. Morris and a few volunteer parents took us outside to make home-made ice cream. We all couldn’t help at the same time so we did it in shifts. And in between these shifts we were allowed to just play in the snow. I remember the taste of the ice cream when we got back to the class. Vanilla. So smooth and creamy. Delicate, yet more complex than a five year old could ever imagine. How does ice cream come from a little wooden bucket full of snow? But it did. When spring rolled around we had a “choir concert” to match the delight in our hearts of the coming season. This was held in the small gymnasium of our school. Looking out and seeing my mom and Mrs. Morris, and a packed gym, I became pretty uneasy. I knew my mother was looking at me because she is my mom, and now that I think about it, I think Mrs. Morris was looking at me too. Not just because I think she liked me best, but because I was yawning the entire time. All those hours of practicing back in the classroom and it all came down to this. Since I hadn’t figured out how to suppress me edgy nerves, a nice display of yawns contributed more or less to our ensemble. Maybe she was laughing at me because I was trying so hard to stay with it. Even though I was older and much more mature, I still lacked quite a bit in this performance: Singing technique, Posture and definitely composure. I don’t remember singing one word at our little concert. Having all these new situational experiences, I had more confidence this year for sure. I didn’t show off a lot. I was never that type. But I spoke up more. I saw kids fight all the time, like kids do. It was usually something small, like a toy, or paints, or who gets to be the person on register in our little “play store.” Everyone wanted to be that person. Especially me. But back then I rarely had it my way due to shyness-something that always lingered with me. At this age, if your arguing with anyone, all you need to do, is drop the “I-am-older-than-you,” bomb, and there is nothing they could do to win. So I always had that in my back pocket, ready to go. And I did use it a lot because I was older. When a birthday comes to pass, so do the rights to this phrase. Those once-a-year days come along, and it is so vital to be invited to the parties. You have got to be someone. If you are not invited to Brian’s 5th birthday party kiss your kindergarten social life goodbye. Sarah was a girl who lived in my neighborhood. Her birthday was coming up and I was getting keyed up for it. My mother helped me wrap a Barbie doll for her. Now all I needed was to wait for that invitation in the mail or our front door. But it didn’t come. It was the day of the party and she never invited me. I could hear the fun they were having at her house across the street. I was so hurt. So angry. I screamed that I hated them and I didn’t want to go to their stupid party. My mother didn’t realized how much this meant to me, of course, and it hurt her to see me so distressed. So she proceeded to make a call, pulled a few strings and before I new it, the gift was under my arm, she was walking me over and I was wiping my tears away. All of a sudden this party was important again. It was not stupid anymore because I was invited. It all felt good until I walked in the door and it hit me. That feeling where you want something so badly, but when you finally have it, your not so sure this was the best option for you. I felt like “that guy” at the party. Everyone knows him. The one that is never invited but shows up anyway. No one really talked to me at Sarah’s party anyway. She probably told everyone about me. So I dropped off my present for her and grabbed some cake for the trek home. Some party.
One day, while I was playing in the sandbox that was in our classroom, I went into a little daydream and began to unconsciously write with purple marker on the Air Conditioner that happen to be directly behind the sandbox. I don’t recall what I was writing. That didn’t matter. What did matter was that there were rules in these places and I was breaking them. These rules were made for us to follow and keep us safe. This is what must have gone through Jeff’s mind when he saw me treat them like un-played-with garbage. “What the hell are you doing?” he demanded. I look at him then back at what I’ve done. Then back at him again. My heart began to race as hundreds of excuses fly in and out my mind. “Oh, please don’t tell Mrs. Morris,” I beg. “I’m going to tell Mrs. Morris,” he tosses back at me. I think of the disappointment in her eyes if she were to ever find out what I’ve done. I couldn’t bear to experience it. “Please don’t!” I plead. “Your going to be in so much trouble.” “Pa-leaze!” I begged. “NO!” He snapped back. We must have gone back and forth like that for about five minutes before I came to my last option. “I’ll invite you to my birthday party if you promise you wont tell on me…because I know how important these things are.” He thinks for a moment…and then I saw some acceptance in his eyes. I saw a peace agreement. “Ok, fine,” he replays, after what seems like a thousand kid years. When In reality, it just took all of free-time. I’d like to think the mark I made would still be there if I went back today, but probably not. I don’t think I told anyone. Not even my girlfriend at the time, Alison. At least that’s what I thought. I’m sure she was just a playmate. Maybe I wanted more in the relationship. I liked her a lot. In elementary school I’m pretty sure its unwritten code that the birthday kid brings treats for the whole class. Its not something you learn but something you just know. Of course I did this because I go with the crowd. It wouldn’t before I was 15 years before I would take a step “into my own”. I brought fun-size ‘3 musketeers’ for my class. They sat in a circle and I walked around in the middle dropping a candy bar into each and everyone of their little hands. I could see Alison was coming up, and coming fast. What should I do? She is my girlfriend, I thought. Then I thought I would maybe, accidentally drop two candy bars in her hand. When she came around I was too nervous the class would be angrily confused with me as to why I gave her two and not anyone else. This wasn’t a risk I couldn’t afford to take. I had also just gotten off the hook with Jeff and didn’t want to fall deeper into debt. I only had one birthday this year and I’m sure she would have felt a bit awkward too, being treated like a high-class kindergarten girl. Alison had been in a more of my classes growing up all the way to high school. She was in my 3rd grade class with Mr. Williams. Even at this point, when I gathered up the courage to ask her if she remembered me, the response was always a disappointing, flat “No.” I wanted her to remember and couldn’t understand why she didn’t. One day, while she was with her best-friend-for-the–year, Daira, I told her that I had a question for her. I was then, as I am now, an eternally curious boy. She was still nice to me… She allowed me. I was grateful for that. But I think she was turned off a bit more to our friendship when I asked her if she had hairy armpits. The first thing she did was look me in my eyes and burn them with disgust for my curious question. And that followed with running to her best-friend-for-the-year, Daira. As soon as she turned to leave me, I was, once again left alone, very aware that I was alone, and that I definitely didn’t know how to impress a girl. I try to imagine the response I would get had I told her of our true relationship all those years back in kindergarten. Probably perfect denial, coupled with laughter. Our friendship was on the skids so I layed low for the next ten years. I felt relieved when in 11th grade she didn’t remember me, once again. Maybe this was an act on her part. Maybe she knew it all. But I went along with it. Every time I saw her in later years, all I really thought about our first time together. How I thought that this was the beginning foundation to a really great relationship. But that was just kindergarten.
Its a Junkyard in there- a Nutshell
Perhaps most peoples’ brains generally work the same way. We see something and our brain tells us what it is. When we touch something, how ever it feels, it gets sent rather quickly to our brain and we feel that its hot, cold, rough, soft, or whatever. We see and experience so many things every minute of every day, but most people easily can filter out what is important or worth and what is not. If everyone were to remember every single thing emotion and sensation they experienced every minute of everyday, boy I don’t know what to tell you, then. I don’t think much would get done because we’d all by pretty distracted by something that probably doesn’t even matter. When I think about brains, that scene in the end of “Raiders of The Lost Arch” pops up in my head; the room with all those wood crates where they eventually store the Arch. That room reminds me of a brain in that everything inside it is all we know. Everything we have seen and all that we have experienced is located inside. Its all organized in different crates of different sizes and importance; each one assigned a barcode for our brain- a robot, to scan, recognize, open and bring out for use. This robot, that finds what we need, is very fast and usually knows what’s going to be needed and puts what’s needed first and foremost, closest to the door, where you are waiting for it.
In my brain, most of these crates are open. The majority of them are used and then not put back in the correct place. They are scattered around the floor, opened and are constantly mixing together, meshing memories. Nothing is filtered. Everything is a first priority. My helper robot, who is to recover items I need, is not a robot at all, but nothing more than an over-excited dog, ready to play fetch. Of course, he can talk because we need to communicate, but he’s not as reliable as most. When I am in math class trying to remember what formula I use to find the hypotenuse, I say, “Go get me math, Robo!” and he runs off, lost in the chaos of the crates. He comes back quickly and says, “Here’s a cheeseburger,” holding it out to me. “No, Robo. Math. I need math.” He looks me in the eyes and then down at the cheeseburger. “Here’s a Cheeseburger, buddy,” he says with a friendly smile. By this time, a hankering for a cheeseburger has most likely built up within me and I take it from him, looking forward to an enjoyable snack. In doing so, I forget about the formula, a hypotenuse, and that I’m even in a math class because as far as I know, I’m in Crate World, exploring and pondering life while eating lunch. It’s like a junkyard in there. You can always find something interesting in any direction that you look. I try to get out of there, but when I turn and head towards the door, something catches my eye. For example, it could be a mustache, corn chips, opening up a restaurant called, “Flap Jack Sunday.” One night I couldn’t sleep because I was thinking about finding bat eggs under my pillow and freaking out about it. The fact that I like just about every movie I see, including all the Batman movies, though I’d never admit it. Recently, I was on a flight back to Chicago and they were showing Batman And Robin. I got goose bumps through out it and was embarrassed for letting it happen. Someone cut in front me once in the meat line when I was eating at Old Country Buffet, but I let him have it. He was old, heavy and I figured those few hours of fine dining were all he had to look forward to per week. So, I let him have his dignity. I often think about fried chicken and I associate it with homeless people. I get Hankerings. I think about Garbage, Coffee, Not having a job, and reading brail. I think about losing my cool and taking a dump on the bus every time I go Number Two. Being socially awkward. Whatever it is, I have to check it out because I cannot pass it by. Through out my time spent in the junkyard and seeing everything that is my life, I have come to the understanding that I have the ability of memory; more like super memory, I think. Most might say, “Hey, that’s pretty cool,” with a knockout smile. And I say, “Yeah, I guess it is,” trying to balance out the enthusiasm. With this kind of power though, it is often a challenge to think straight and concentrate when I really need to. In class, I often “check out” before we are dismissed due to daydreaming. In English right now we are working on argumentation and will soon be writing papers on in. The professor asked us for an example of something that is obvious and that you don’t need to argue with it because there is no point. Without thinking twice, I think of tacos. And then burritos. I love Chipotle. I don’t see how anyone cannot like good tacos or burritos. And anyone that does disagree is just stupid. If I said that, though, professor would claim that what I attempted to do was persuade, and not to argue. Before I know it, I have a hankering for tacos. My mouth begins to salivate and anyone who may have noticed would observe slight to adequate uneasiness. Something, obviously, is missing. Paul recently got a breakfast burrito while out all night. As he enjoyed it the next morning, I watched with envy and wish I too, had a breakfast burrito. Instead, I did my best to benefit from Store Brand Apple and Cinnamon Toasty Round’s. By this time, I realized I “checked out,” and missed some of the lecture.
These are just examples of distractions that happen everyday. They are my worst enemy. In situations where someone (me) has to be vigilant, I would notice anything and everything with an alert conscience, but it would be that, which comes from within me that pulls me away from my duty. I get lost, exploring the junkyard.
In my brain, most of these crates are open. The majority of them are used and then not put back in the correct place. They are scattered around the floor, opened and are constantly mixing together, meshing memories. Nothing is filtered. Everything is a first priority. My helper robot, who is to recover items I need, is not a robot at all, but nothing more than an over-excited dog, ready to play fetch. Of course, he can talk because we need to communicate, but he’s not as reliable as most. When I am in math class trying to remember what formula I use to find the hypotenuse, I say, “Go get me math, Robo!” and he runs off, lost in the chaos of the crates. He comes back quickly and says, “Here’s a cheeseburger,” holding it out to me. “No, Robo. Math. I need math.” He looks me in the eyes and then down at the cheeseburger. “Here’s a Cheeseburger, buddy,” he says with a friendly smile. By this time, a hankering for a cheeseburger has most likely built up within me and I take it from him, looking forward to an enjoyable snack. In doing so, I forget about the formula, a hypotenuse, and that I’m even in a math class because as far as I know, I’m in Crate World, exploring and pondering life while eating lunch. It’s like a junkyard in there. You can always find something interesting in any direction that you look. I try to get out of there, but when I turn and head towards the door, something catches my eye. For example, it could be a mustache, corn chips, opening up a restaurant called, “Flap Jack Sunday.” One night I couldn’t sleep because I was thinking about finding bat eggs under my pillow and freaking out about it. The fact that I like just about every movie I see, including all the Batman movies, though I’d never admit it. Recently, I was on a flight back to Chicago and they were showing Batman And Robin. I got goose bumps through out it and was embarrassed for letting it happen. Someone cut in front me once in the meat line when I was eating at Old Country Buffet, but I let him have it. He was old, heavy and I figured those few hours of fine dining were all he had to look forward to per week. So, I let him have his dignity. I often think about fried chicken and I associate it with homeless people. I get Hankerings. I think about Garbage, Coffee, Not having a job, and reading brail. I think about losing my cool and taking a dump on the bus every time I go Number Two. Being socially awkward. Whatever it is, I have to check it out because I cannot pass it by. Through out my time spent in the junkyard and seeing everything that is my life, I have come to the understanding that I have the ability of memory; more like super memory, I think. Most might say, “Hey, that’s pretty cool,” with a knockout smile. And I say, “Yeah, I guess it is,” trying to balance out the enthusiasm. With this kind of power though, it is often a challenge to think straight and concentrate when I really need to. In class, I often “check out” before we are dismissed due to daydreaming. In English right now we are working on argumentation and will soon be writing papers on in. The professor asked us for an example of something that is obvious and that you don’t need to argue with it because there is no point. Without thinking twice, I think of tacos. And then burritos. I love Chipotle. I don’t see how anyone cannot like good tacos or burritos. And anyone that does disagree is just stupid. If I said that, though, professor would claim that what I attempted to do was persuade, and not to argue. Before I know it, I have a hankering for tacos. My mouth begins to salivate and anyone who may have noticed would observe slight to adequate uneasiness. Something, obviously, is missing. Paul recently got a breakfast burrito while out all night. As he enjoyed it the next morning, I watched with envy and wish I too, had a breakfast burrito. Instead, I did my best to benefit from Store Brand Apple and Cinnamon Toasty Round’s. By this time, I realized I “checked out,” and missed some of the lecture.
These are just examples of distractions that happen everyday. They are my worst enemy. In situations where someone (me) has to be vigilant, I would notice anything and everything with an alert conscience, but it would be that, which comes from within me that pulls me away from my duty. I get lost, exploring the junkyard.
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