Below Par

I don't claim to be an excellent golfer, but I certainly do enjoy playing a round here and there with my dad and brother. Golf gives us an opportunity to spend about four hours rolling around in golf carts, chatting and competing with each other. The problem is, golf can be incredibly frustrating at times, especially on an off day. I don't play enough to be consistently good, but every once in a while a shot goes as planned and nothing is more satisfying than watching a golf ball soar into the air and gracefully arc back down onto the fairway. Unfortunately, that doesn't happen nearly as often for us plebeians as you would think after watching a PGA tournament.  

Every once in a while though, you feel like nobody in the world could have made a better shot than you just did. I first experienced this phenomenon when I was 14. My dad and I took the opportunity to spend a mild--for Texas--June day out on the golf course. Things weren't going well through the first seven holes as I was about three or four strokes higher than normal 48 or 50 strokes by the eighth tee. 

As I stepped up to the tee box, the wind picked up from right to left across the fairway. I could see the trees along the left side wavering under the breeze, but it would likely work to my advantage, mitigating my usual slice off the tee. The pin was in the middle of the green, which was nestled in between a pair of bunkers about 370 yards away and slightly to the left of the tee box. 

My dad chimed in after my first practice swing, "Good smooth stroke here Ryan."

After another two practice swings with the driver, I stepped forward, took a breath, and swung. 

"Oh boy! That'll be a good one." Something that my dad said after most of my tee shots, but this time it wasn't said out of a fatherly obligation to be encouraging. The ball sailed off, flying about 190 yards before hooking slightly left and rolling another 20 yards down the fairway. 

We hopped in the golf cart and proceeded down to hit our second shots. I hit a 4-iron pretty solidly on my second shot, with the ball landing in some tall grass just to the right of the right bunker. By this point in my life, I had only made par on a par 4 a couple of times before, so I was reasonably excited at the opportunity to chip the ball on the green and hopefully sink the first putt to make par. 

Pulling my pitching wedge and putter out of my bag, I walked over to my ball and waited for my dad to take his shot. He chipped it from about 50 yards away, landed near the top of the green and had enough back spin on the ball to roll back to within 10 feet of the pin. If I could match his shot, I'd set myself up for a doable putt to make par. 

Deep breath.

Smooth swing.

I definitely one-upped my dad this time. The ball lazily cleared the bunker, landed just above the pin and rolled back down the hill to drop into the hole. I had a birdie on a par 4 for the first time in my life, without even putting. Shots like that make you want to keep playing, no matter how many balls you lose to the water or how many triple bogeys windup on your scorecard. I haven't made a better shot than that since, but I know I have it in me, and that keeps me going through all of the rough times spent in the rough.

Leave to Stay

"How much longer Mom?"

"It'll just be a little bit longer, maybe another hour or so, then we'll get our bags and be on our way."

If she only knew...

I asked that question almost ten hours ago, when I was looking out of the window of a Boeing 777 at the verdant landscape below. We were in the final portion of the 9-hour flight across the Atlantic from Dallas to London. The patchwork arrangement of the rolling fields below, separated by dark green hedgerows, reminded me of a quilt that laid out on the foot of my sister's bed at home. I was homesick before I even set foot in England. My parents got divorced a month earlier, and now my mother was embarking on a new adventure. At the age of 9, I was along for the ride.

Other than a tearful goodbye to my dad, sister and brother at the airport, the trip had been uneventful so far. About an hour into the overnight flight, dinner was served and I began planning out which in-flight movies I would watch and ignoring my mom's claim that I would be unable to stay awake the entire flight. Turns out she was right all along--I fell asleep halfway into the first movie only to wake up when breakfast was being served before landing.

After taxiing to the terminal, we got our carry-on bags and proceeded down what seemed like a mile of hallways before reaching Immigration. The whole process seemed absolutely daunting to me when really it's no different than a bank teller. We simply had to walk up, answer a few questions, show our passports and go about our business. So why were we now sitting in a white hallway amidst British Immigration officials? Because of a simple answer to a ridiculous question.

After waiting in a long line of groggy-eyed travelers, it was finally our turn to step up to the counter and pass through as we had watched tens of people do before us. My mom led with a smile and offered a chipper "Hello" to the official as she handed our passports over. A series of questions about our reason to visit England and if we had any contraband items in our luggage (like fruit or illegal imports) followed without any hiccup. Problems started to snowball when the woman behind the counter asked what day we would be returning to the United States. It being 6:00 AM and after a long night of travel, my mom could not recall the exact date from memory, so she pulled out her computer to look at the return ticket. My mom's uncertainty must have raised suspicions because the official followed up with another question.

"Is that a work laptop?"

"I do work on it, yes" my mom replied.

"I see that you have a tourist visa here. You cannot work while on a tourist visa."

"I know that."

"Yet you have your work laptop with you."

"Yes I do."

"I'm going to ask the two of you to step over to those chairs and have a seat while I go see my supervisor."

And with that, she closed her lane and went off into a door behind her. We sat there for a good twenty minutes, unsure of what was happening before being called into a room for more questions. My mom explained that she was just flustered when answering the questions and that she had no intention to do any work while in England, but the supervisor wasn't convinced. He explained that we did not have leave to stay in Britain and that we were going to have to return to Dallas on the next flight and speak to the British Consulate about a more comprehensive visa.

So here we were, waiting to be put back on the next flight with seats available. I fought back the urge to ask how much longer we had to wait and instead focused on my Gameboy. I guess some times adventures don't turn out the way you plan all the time.

Final Meeting

My sixth meeting with Haya (which took place this past Tuesday) went quite well. It had been several weeks since we had met because of a string of inopportune occurrences. I had to cancel a meeting because of an increasing workload in one of my classes and she was sick on one occasion. The difficulties of reconciling two schedules to allow for our meeting at a time other than the normal Tuesday at 3pm prevented any "make-up" meetings.

We talked about what each of us had been doing over the past month, catching each other up through the hiatus in our meetings, before speaking of Saudi culture again, specifically the misconception that women in the Arab world have little power. Haya explained to me that quite the opposite is true. She said that women could be quite influential when needed, but that they typically deferred to men on most decisions because, as she put it, "man is man." By this, I believe she meant that men like to take charge of a situation and steer it towards the expected result. A woman's deference to her husband was not a sign of subservience, but rather an opportunity to allow the man to feel powerful. As evidence of this, she pointed out that before getting married, a man must provide a dowry to the bride's family. After the marriage, the man is then obligated to provide for his wife. In a sense, the wife has power over the husband because he is culturally required to provide her every need. I think this facet of Saudi culture is misinterpreted in Western society and I'm glad Haya corrected my perspective of her culture.

While Haya undoubtedly garnered more from our conversations than I, it was certainly a mutually beneficial pairing. She has come a long way in her grasp of English, with the capability to carry on complex conversations now. I'm sure that cannot be solely attributed to our meetings, but I hope (and believe) they played some small role.

On the other hand, I learned quite a bit about Saudi culture and Islam that I didn't know previously. Haya corrected many of my misconceptions about Muslims and their practice of religion, not to mention Arabic culture itself. Through these meetings, I have gained a new, more accurate perspective of the world--realizing that at the most fundamental of levels, all cultures and countries share commonalities. We live in tumultuous times, but I think the waters would be a little calmer if we all took the time to deeply understand each other first-hand, asking for clarification and keeping an open mind. Maybe that's naive of me to wish for, but surely it couldn't hurt.

Haya and I are meeting for the last time tomorrow to wrap things up. She wants to read all of these blog posts to ensure that I have accurately portrayed her as well as her culture. Hopefully I did, and if not, I'm sure she'll correct me again tomorrow.

Spring Break

My fifth meeting with Haya was the week after spring break, and therefore was primarily centered around what each of us did over the break. I spent the first half of the break camping before returning home to finish out the break working and catching up on all of my classes. She went on a trip to Los Angeles with her sister, staying there the entire break.

After exchanging pleasantries, she began showing me pictures of all of the places she visited while on vacation. The majority of the pictures were from Disneyland, which I found surprising. Out of the twenty or so pictures she cycled through, perhaps 12 of them were from Disneyland, with about 7 of those being pictures of her and her sister wearing Minnie Mouse ears. Haya was absolutely fascinated by Minnie Mouse--the ears, polka dot bow, everything. At one point she even pulled out a pencil with the eraser in the shape of Minnie Mouse ears.

I probably shouldn't be surprised at this, but her fascination with Minnie Mouse seemed totally American in nature. It completely caught me off-guard. For whatever reason, I never would have considered a foreigner being so enthralled with a character that seemed (at the time) purely American. I guess I thought that because Haya grew up thousands of miles away from America and spoke a language that wasn't just unfamiliar to me, but that didn't even use the Latin alphabet, she would have no notion of Disney characters.

Disneyland seems so quintessentially American, yet she liked Disneyland and Minnie Mouse just as much, if not more, than many Americans I've met. I'm sure thousands of college kids have travelled to Los Angeles for spring break, visiting Disneyland along the way, but Haya's enthusiasm reminded me that even with all of the cultural differences between us, we really are the same at some basic level.

If anything, there might be an argument that Haya is more American than I am in at least one way: I haven't been to Disneyland.

Now that is somewhat of a fallacious argument, as there is more to life than going to Disneyland, but it's an interesting thought. I think it shows how pervasive American culture is throughout the rest of the world. For example, I lived in England for 5 years, and the depth of knowledge about American culture was quite powerful. (Please excuse my gross generalization following.) Yet we, as Americans, don't seem to have much knowledge about other cultures. And to the extent that we do is superficial at best, constructed from stereotypes and movies.

With so many countries looking at us, learning our culture, and visiting our attractions, shouldn't we make an attempt to do the same in return? Most foreigners I've met have already had a pretty accurate picture of what life in America was like (excluding the usual "do Texans ride horses to school?" question that crops up), but I doubt the same could be said the other way. I certainly don't have a detailed knowledge of culture outside of America and England, and even then I only know about England because I lived there for 5 years.

Maybe we should put more focus on learning about other cultures.

The New Yorker

My second foray into the library went about as well as the first. I am thoroughly convinced that the periodicals section is designed to be as confusing as possible. A simple alphabetical organization seems the simplest to me, but I'm sure the system used is eminently more useful to those who are more knowledgable. After about ten minutes, I managed to find the row with volumes of TIME on one side, pulled down a volume covering the summer of 1963 and began to search through its pages for a suitable story.

Unable to find anything other than news reports (none of which suitably embodied a coming of age theme), I glanced around to find another magazine that I might be able to find an article in. Thankfully, The New Yorker was on the row opposite TIME and I quickly pulled down a volume containing issues from September to November of 1963. I settled on an article about taking care of plants and picking furniture for a house. The article was written from the point of view of a early 20's man, newly out into the world and unexperienced.

Being a young man myself, I understand the rigors involved with moving into a house not owned by your parents. I didn't realize just how much furniture it takes to fill up a house. A couch, TV stand and small coffee table certainly doesn't fill up a large living room.

Gathering furniture is part of growing up--a rite of passage even for some. Without a well-furnished house, some might think less of you upon seeing your house. When was the last time someone said "I really like what you didn't do with this space"? And how can you expect to throw a dinner party at your house with only two chairs and four plates to your name? Adulthood involves having more dishes and furniture than anyone could possibly use in a single day, and the author makes a point of that.

However, the article isn't confined only to matters of furniture. The author also dives into horticulture. He speaks of a 5-week class for amateur gardeners he attended whilst house-sitting for some friends. The plants in the house he was watching had begun wilting under his care, so he decided it was necessary to learn something about the proper care of plants. He was unable to attend the first night of class, but on the second day he noticed just how much the other students seemed to know. Eventually, he asked a woman in the class if she had done any gardening before. She told him that before the first day of class, she was hopeless with plants, but the first lesson had been quite good.

Nine classes later, he agreed. Plants flourished under his care, so much so that he even began gardening at his own home.

Plants require an immense amount of attention, more than some cats. Responsibility is a hallmark of adulthood, and maintaining a garden isn't exactly fun for most of us. But when done well, a garden can look exquisite and compliments a well-furnished house.

The article shows how much of an emphasis was placed on appearances in the 60's, just like the 20's. Today, magazine articles deal more with the practicality of building projects than the wood with the best grain or the nicest species of flower. "How-to" is emphasized over "How-it-used-to-be-done-in-English-manors."

I think that's a good trend.

House on Mango Street

Cheated. That's how I feel now that I've finished Sandra Cisneros' House on Mango Street. My copy of the book is a deceptive 108 pages long, but without all of the white space separating chapters, I doubt it would be longer than 65. A hour after I started, I was finished. Sunday editions of newspapers have taken me longer to peruse for only a few dollars compared to the $11 cost of Mango Street. If I didn't have a conscience, I probably would have just sat in the bookstore to read it without buying it. The book simply seems too short to get value from, but that assumes that value increases with length.

The format is certainly intriguing--a series of vignettes (or snapshots) of a childhood--but the discontinuity created by this style left me craving flowcharts and diagrams. Almost all of the "chapters" were written just like a child was trying to verbally tell an adult a story at an exasperated, breathless pace. At the end of many, I was unsure of exactly what happened or how it affected the characters. While many novels build on previous events to give a deeper understanding, most of the events in Mango Street are seemingly unconnected. At one point, the main character Esperanza Cordero describes the first day at her first job, then doesn't refer to any other events at the job for the rest of the book. Life doesn't progress discretely, rather it's continuous with events (work, sleep, food, visiting with a good friend, etc.) reoccurring.

Looking back on the book, it reads like a Facebook timeline. Each event or portion of Esperanza's life gets 15 seconds of fame before being relegated to posterity. The shortness of each section precludes a deeper understanding of Esperanza. I know all of the major events, but not what happens in between. If that were enough to understand a story, then why would I want to watch a movie after seeing a trailer?

With that being said, there is a definite change in Esperanza's demeanor. At the beginning of the story, she is obviously still lost in the innocence of childhood. One of the hallmarks of childhood is an inability to develop cause and effect relationships when making decisions and she doesn't seem to understand the implications of some of her actions. For example, when she decides she wants to eat lunch at school in the "canteen," she doesn't think about her food being cold by that time. Before, her lunch was always warm because her mom made it fresh when she returned for lunch. Instead, she suffered through a cold lunch after asking her mother to lie to the nuns at the school about why she had to eat in the canteen rather than go home.

In the latter half of the book, she suddenly becomes more of an adult when facing the mature concepts of sexuality and the death of loved ones. Her friend Sally obviously is not a child anymore and by hanging out with her, Esperanza gets dragged into adulthood. This change happens in just a few pages with little clear delineation between childhood and young adulthood. With a longer novel, the change would have been more gradual and comprehensible. Thirty pages after eating lunch at the school, Esperanza faces the concept of sexual assault first-hand.

In my mind, a longer version of Esperanza's story would be more enjoyable and impactful. She obviously changes over the course of the novel, but it happens so quickly that there is little time to develop the distinctions between child and adult. Maybe the quick change is why the novel is so acclaimed, but I would prefer a more comprehensive version of the story.

All Tied Up

The world had an odd red tint to it. Beyond this though, I wasn't even able to stand up in my current predicament. Try as I might, I could only flop around the living room, trying to find something to brace myself against. My brother Tim had taken sibling rivalry to a whole new level. I was currently in a red mesh laundry bag after trying to tag along when he went to Sonic with his best friend, Jack.

While seemingly cruel, he insists to this day that it was a justifiable escalation in our brotherly feud. Tim was nine years my elder and a sophomore in high school. He had a car, a Nintendo, and a computer: all enviable possessions. Although I had no shortage of action figures and Nerf guns, the grass is always greener.

While he spent hours playing video games in his room, I would attempt to convince him to let me watch, swearing that I would be quiet. When that failed, I thought it necessary to bang on his door with the hope he would let me in to shut me up. What appears peevish to most seemed like a perfect course of action to my 7-year-old self. He didn't agree.

On one occasion, he used a door club (a metal bar with a rubber pad on the bottom to prevent the opening of a door, even when unlocked) in an attempt to keep me out. In retaliation, I began to shoulder bash the door, permanently deforming the door handle on the other side. I suppose being stuck in a mesh laundry bag wasn't that bad considering the amount of harassment I directed towards Tim.

I spent another fifteen minutes or so trying to put myself in the position to undo the drawstring, but eventually relented in the face of futility. With nothing else to do, I just sat there in the living room, waiting for someone to come to the rescue.

This wasn't even the first time he had gotten back at me for my annoying behavior. A few weeks before the laundry bag, Tim decided to tie me to the coffee table. Although in that instance, I was able to escape by lifting the table leg up and slipping my binds underneath. Before that, he convinced me that climbing into the front-loading dryer would be entertaining, although he didn't mention who for.

After what felt like an eternity, I heard a key go into the door lock. In my struggle to free myself from the bag, I wound up out of sight of the front door, but I knew it was about the time that my dad typically got home from work. No luck though--my brother was back. Now, I've made him out to be somewhat abusive, a bully even, but honestly he was and still can be rather nice--as evidenced by the root beer float with my name on it. He conditioned my release on me promising not to be annoying for at least a few hours and after a moment of indecision, I agreed to the truce.

Our relationship changed as soon as we weren't living under the same roof. Looking back, I'm glad that  he put me in my place. I realized the necessity for earning respect and acting mature. I certainly didn't become a cool little brother overnight afterwards, but I think he would agree that I am more palatable now than ever. Now we go weeks or months before he tries to lock me in a chest.