Kendal Gast
ENGL 305
2-23-16
10 Pages
Untitled College
Reflection
Latching on to a
thought, I let it take me. It’s like
grabbing onto a rope dangling from a helicopter: I have to jump before it
swings away. There’s obviously stuff I
want to say and experiences I know will benefit others, but they’re locked away
in my supposed forgetfulness. Because we
remember everything that happens to us apparently. That’s where all the wrinkles come from. Or maybe that was just a joke by some friends
who always thought my brain was smooth.
Either way, I’m going to talk about college, because that’s where I am,
that’s what a college student does,(because its our whole life, as we are
always more than happy to loudly boast) and I need reflection time… because I’m
graduating. And that’s pretty fucking
scary. Six months from now I don’t have
a clue where I’m going to be and my first federal loan payment will be
due. I don’t know how much its going to
be. My parents will not be around to
help. Sure, its 2016 though and they’re
only a phone call away - if there’s good service.
Can you hear me
now?
I only have two
months left of school. I’ve been going
to school for 16 years of my life. I am
21 years old. Only five years of my life
have not been in the presence of a teacher, or someone telling me what to
do. Now, that isn’t very fair to
educators and should not be taken in that way.
My mom is a teacher and so is my grandmother. I probably want to be a teacher. The point is, for all the western world has
given me, I am free to do as I wish.
Can you hear me
now?
And as Spidey’s
uncle always said, “With great power, comes great responsibility”. That is another obvious statement, a commonplace
if you’re studied in classical rhetoric.
The power, obviously, is freedom. Within the borders of the United States, I
have freedom to do whatever I want. I
could become a trucker and pay back my loans within a year. I could write for a regional newspaper or
publication and take a decade to pay back my loans. I could go back home and take over the
thousand acres we farm. But I don’t know
how to wield this power that was given to me.
Indeed, I did not earn the power nor freedom that I or some other college graduate
possesses. It was more or less handed to
me with the expectation that I would go along with what everyone else did and
end up with a job somewhere, happy to slowly pay off my loans with a job I only
kinda-sorta like.
I believe the way
I or anybody else to fully utilize the power they’ve been given is to have a
set of guiding principles. Or laws. But I do have a set of laws I already follow,
its just more unconscious and… buried.
Take, for instance, the desire to do no harm, or non-maleficence. If there is a non-violent way to reach an
agreement, then that’s the way I prefer to go.
However, if someone is threatening my life or a life that I love with
violence, then violence is warranted.
Another example would be finish whatever I start. My parents drilled this into me all the time
when I wanted to quit band, football, musicals, or little league baseball.
Can you hear me
now?
I’m going back to
my first semester here at Iowa State. I
moved into Helser by myself and lost two boxes for an hour. My roommate and I found each other on the
freshman Facebook page and he moved in soon after I did. His parents were strange, both business
executives and rather out of touch with college life and a younger
generation. We both were pledged to different
fraternities, much to my disappointment, and he was there every night those
first four days. That was probably part
of the reason why I decided to listen to my “brothers” (huge quotations right
there) and move in that fourth night.
After a concerned and very hesitant talk with my mom and dad, the one
guy from my high school who signed me up and three others bros arrived and
packed up all my stuff.
The next semester
was an uphill battle. Every weekend I
would go home and try to nurse my ego and confidence to a level that would get
me through the next week, but the constant back and forth only made things
worse. It made me question everything on
top of the daily school workload and annoying bros never thinking they needed
to clean the food off their plates.
There was one weekend, though, that really taught me the attitude of
frat guys. Living in a house with
unsupervised adolescent boys creates a lot of… explosions, not messes. That week it wasn’t even my job to clean the
party room bathrooms, but the house manager decided to be a wimp and
micromanage by sending out a text telling the general house population that the
toilet and sink needed to be cleaned.
Painfully aware of his fruitless demand, I took the stairs down into the
sticky floor depths of the party room.
What I found could
only be a product of fraternities. Ignorance
refused to fix the sink, or the toilet.
And as a result, puke, urine, shit, spit, alcohol, and a number of other
unidentifiable objects festered in the toilet.
The sink on the other hand, contained all that except shit. Who poops in a sink, even if you are
drunk? Determined to show my worth and
team spirit, I ran upstairs for ammonia and bleach, among other cleaning
utensils. Among the nefarious smells
that I had to get way closer to than I ever wanted to be, there was another
acidic, ammonia smell that overpowered everything else. Little did I know the combination of ammonia
and bleach produces a toxic gas not meant to be inhaled by human lungs. Luckily the bathroom door was open and I took
several breaks.
After finishing
the bathroom, I went to find an older bro who supposedly knew how things worked
in the junky house, because I definitely didn’t know anything about unclogging
a sink or toilet. They were shocked upon
witnessing the clean bathroom.
“Oh this won’t go
unnoticed, trust me, we notice shit like this,” he said in his forced lower
register. Did I mention frat guys have a
really bad habit of swearing? This bro
obviously did not how to fix the plumbing, and neither did the little pledge
that showed up along with the older bro.
For some reason, he (the pledge) decided to take over and assert his
“frat bro masculinity” over the two of us and explain how the repair needed to
be done. By this time I was out, and
left the two bros to argue things over.
Can
you hear me now?
But
that’s not to say the frat was completely awful. They didn’t physically haze any pledge. No one laid a hand on me, nor anyone else
that I heard of. The food was alright
and didn’t poison anybody. Even if the
first chef that was there got fired. New
pledges were always given a chance and tried to feel welcome, even if only from
the same handful of dudes every time. But
really, they all gave me a chance. They
were willing to invite me amongst their ranks and live the shared experiences
unique to fraternities and sororities. I
never would have learned, had I not
joined a fraternity, that supporting conformity was definitely not something I
wanted to be a part of or have to deal with.
I never would have learned to be that much more confident in myself so I
can stand up to those fools who yell at me for not wanting to go to some dumb
football game. I learned that I wanted
to be on my own, and I was okay with that.
The
next semester, after looking on craigslist and finding what appeared to be a
great apartment very near campus, I moved into my first apartment. There were three other guys living there, me
being the first rando craigslist kid. I
got all excited about my first real place and bought a bunch of posters and
tacked them all over my walls. I bought
a bookshelf so I could display a portion of my book collection, and my dad
bought me a single bed. The dresser I
was handed down sat beneath my hand picked television and Playstation 3. I shared a bathroom with one of my roommates
and the other two shared the second bathroom.
Unsurprisingly and rather to my preference, I did all the cleaning in
the bathroom. Had I relied on Tim, (all
names are changed in this paper) the toilet would still have pee and hair caked
on it while the sink showed permanent toothpaste stains.
My
biggest challenge was food. The first
time I went into HyVee, all I could think was, “These people know that I don’t
know what I’m doing. They know I’m a
freshman and think I’m weird cause I want to buy peanut butter from the peanut
grinding machine.” But then I remembered
I could buy whatever I wanted, and I forgot about all that. I bought Honey Bunches of Oats and Captain
Crunch Berries. For some reason I wanted
oatmeal and bought a container of Quaker Oats.
My family always bought that nasty blue called skim milk, and whenever we travelled
and our hosts had 2%, I jumped at the chance and always asked for a glass. So obviously I bought a gallon with the blue
cap and walked out with a huge grin on my face.
Things
got a little out of hand when I started incorporating exercise into my daily
routine. Being a skinny guy with stickly
arms, I knew I had the opportunity to change things and grow biceps as large as
I wanted. I read in this book called The Four Hour Body, a unique book about
hacking your way to extreme fitness and better human performance, that drinking
a gallon of milk a day was a surefire way to pack on the pounds. So I did.
I was concerned about the cost and logistics of having to purchase two
to three gallons of milk every few days, but I knew things would work
themselves out. By day four I felt funny
and could never seem to clear my throat of phlegm, and for two weeks I kept
this up. The book recommended I do this
for a month. By the end I had only
gained a bigger gut and a strong aversion to any food with dairy. Luckily I did not develop an unpleasant
reaction to any type of dairy product I consumed thereafter. Instead, I learned that while authors may
have good intentions with wanting to improve peoples’ lives, readers experiment
at their own risk.
Sophomore
was not quite as memorable, aside from my 30-year-old Columbian roommate. The spring of 2015 introduced me to the
absolute perils of over sharing and a non-receptive, critical audience. It happened in English 404, Advanced
Fiction. We were practicing aspects of
fiction stories like dialogue, setting, internal thought, and actions. All of our proactive led up to a substantial
short story with no page limit. During
the dialogue exercise, I made a food of myself by writing with only inside
jokes and esoteric topics only very few people know about. (Read: my best friends). That initial story colored everyone’s
perception of my work. I could see and
feel this weird tension when we all had to discuss my writing during
workshop. And this is only my
perspective; I’m making it into a bigger deal than it probably needs to
be. Which brings me to what I took away
from that class: I can’t care about what
everyone thinks. Caring isn’t possible,
it isn’t helpful, and it doesn’t allow any more growth if I focus on it so
much. Instead, I focus on those people
who are willing to read my work rather than out of obligation because of a
class. But more importantly, I focus on
composing words that I know I can stand behind and believe in. Ones that make me happy I suffered through to
put down on the page.
The
most memorable relationships that we experience often begin without either
person realizing what is going on. Last semester
I auditioned for the 10 Minute Play festival with my roommate and we both got
parts, but in different plays. He was
placed with one other person and I was placed with two other actors and a
director. The play was called The Sin Eater, and I was the older
brother of a girl who supposedly died.
This creepy guy called the sin eater would come into my sister’s bedroom
and “eat the sins off her chest”, so that she may rest peacefully and the older
brother could continue on with his ultra-pious life. It was a tricky play; the text balanced
comedy and tragedy but in performance would usually sway one way or
another. We, the overachieving arteests
we are, aimed at performing both elements to really nail it in the feels for
the audience.
Can
you hear me now?
One
night after rehearsal, my director and I, Candice, were talking and carried the
conversation over to the library. In
these instances, both parties have intentions to study, but rarely does it work
out. Most of the time is spent talking,
which for some reason happens way more often in libraries than what should
happen. Either way, I end up doing more
listening than talking to Candice.
Besides being more talkative and energetic, Candice also had way more
experiences than I did and thus more to say, and recently, at the time, things
were not going well for her. The same
could be said of me, but on that night I was doing more listening, as I
said. I think we both walked away from
that conversation changed. I was
surprised at how much a person can go through but feel comfortable enough to
talk about it openly, and I think she was surprised that there are people who
do want to listen.
We
perform the play, and it was a hit. Of
the two nights of performances, we were told several times that ours was
particularly notable of the two. What,
did you want me to say that we crashed and burned? Christmas break roles around and Candice
comes over to sled after a snow and hang out with my friends. Upon returning for the spring semester, we
continued spending quite a bit of time together and becoming more involved with
each other’s lives. But there was
tension, and it was because of a pretty common situation: we were acting like a
couple but weren’t calling ourselves that or even acknowledging that we liked
each other more than friends. Like, like
liked each other, you know? So one night
after an argument, I asked her out. From
there, all I can say is that it was only highs and lows. There were never any plateaus in energy,
happiness, or bitterness. Intimate
relationships are really difficult, and I don’t think they’re for
everyone. Simple solutions to
disagreements are available, but rarely do they work out for either
person. There’s so much wrapped up in
one individual saying to anther individual that they choose you, that they
don’t want to share themselves with anyone else.
I have already failed. It is because I am
scared. Scared of what anyone who reads this will think. Scared of
exposing myself and what goes on within my mind to people outside of it.
The goals that I have in mind will eventually happen.
But that’s something I often struggle with. I have
these really awesome moments of inspiration and confidence not only in myself but
also in what can be done, what I have the ability to do, the ideas that I have,
and the motivation I know I possess. And then abruptly an hour or two
later, everything is back to normal and I’ve forgotten nearly all of the
revelations and mental epiphanies that washed over me.
I would be lying if I said it doesn’t happen when
substances run through my body. Of course it’s more intense then,
too. It is difficult to describe, the feeling/experience, obviously
more relatable if you, the reader/listener, have experienced something
similar. With substances it’s as if a lens is removed in front of my eyes
or the lens already there is polished to an extreme degree, revealing my
surroundings and reality for what they really are: reality. I
think. Whatever I see is sharp, detailed, nuanced, and horribly
constructed. What becomes most evident, especially in the midst of
several people and especially in public places, is how everyone tries to cover
themselves up or put on this little show. For who? Their
friends? Me?
The show is for all of us. The performer does not
want the rest of us to know that they’re performing, trying to hide the fact
that they’re uncomfortable with the way the are, look, or feel. It’s
funny to watch. Often I just stare and get lost in all the information coming
at me all at once, trying to sort out what’s important or wanting to simply let
my mind wander from the next individual or odd thing my attention latches
onto. But then after awhile, I feel bad and want to run away; leave the
public sphere and hole up in my room with a book or Casey Neistat video.
Those will make me feel better, I tell myself.
But I’m not so sure anymore.
Perhaps I never was truly sure. Either way, it seems like there’s
something missing in either situation. Some sort of lie I refuse to tell
myself in public situations or something actually meaningful to accomplish when
I escape. The missing link, however, could be the outdoors.
Typically in those wanting-to-escape situations, I’m much more happy on the
journey back to my room. It must be the outdoors. I want it to be
the outdoors. But when I’m in class and especially right now, just plain
old in the stage of school and completely engrossed in the assignments I need
to accomplish before the next class period or due date, everything gets really
mixed up and hard to pick up where I left off.
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