Student Observations: The Street Inside

He was big man. Intimidating to look at, but the nicest guy you'll meet.

He was taking classes part-time because he had a family and worked his ass off in between. He was often late, but always called. Always put in the extra time because he wanted to know this stuff. When his grades were lousy, he never complained. He asked what he did wrong. How he could do better.

He was about year into our program when he and a few evening students were still in lab. I told them about the time a stranger called my wife and told her he'd kill her if he found out who she was.



Big man's eyes widened. "I'd *69 that mutherfucker and be on his porch in five minutes."

The reaction, it was genuine. It was for real. I never knew that was in him. For a moment, it was right there in front of us. Probably something he didn't want us to see, but the story triggered something. Then he put it back inside.

"All this," he said, gesturing to the warm, gentle smile we were accustomed to, "it didn't always used to be this way."

He grew up in a bad part of Charleston. Knocked around the streets, gangbanged his way through the early years. For the first time, I noticed the small scars on his face. He talked a bit about it, but not bragging.

"Nothing scares me, man," he said, not boasting. Just stating a fact. Then got back to the business at hand.

It was behind him.

Questions To Never Ask. Ever.

Never ask a woman if she's pregnant. Never, ever, ever.

I have followed that rule like a religion. As far as I'm concerned, I don't see anything unless she says I do. I've had students come in with their girlfriend/wife that looked seconds away from giving birth. I said nothing.



Here's one I didn't see coming.

Ms. K is a client. I show up at her house on time. An older woman answers the door, says my client isn't here, she's running late. She'll be here shortly. I notice she looks like my client and, in the interest of making small talk, I say the following:

"You must be Ms. K's mother, you look nothing alike!" Hahahaha.

She says no. She's known my client so long they're starting to look alike. Haha.

All right. Okay. Seems a little weird that she's hanging around the house watching TV while Ms. K isn't here. But okay. Listen, she's a good friend. Maybe she's house-sitting. Maybe she's taking care of an invalid cat. Maybe she's living there...

Ooooooooooooooooooooooohhhh.

New rule: Never ask someone if they're the mother. Or partner.

Never, ever, ever.

35 Summers

Time is a funny thing. Time is a very peculiar item. You see when you're young, you're a kid, you got time, you got nothing but time. Throw away a couple of years here, a couple years there... it doesn't matter. You know. The older you get you say, "Jesus, how much I got? I got thirty-five summers left."

Think about it. Thirty-five summers.

Benny from Rumblefish (1983)

The Poem Man

He was in Barnes and Noble. An old man, white hair. Old blue eyes that looked more grey than blue.

He would hold up a book when people passed. "Would you like to read my book of poems. It's about me and my daughter."

His tone was frail. Hopeful.



People rarely made eye-contact. Sometimes they'd politely nod, smile, say no thank you. Sometimes they'd actually stop, feign interest. But most of the time they walked on by. And the old man would wait patiently at the table filled with his poem books.

I was a few isles over, watching. Each time he held up the book, I was crushed. Won't someone buy his book? But still, I just watched. And when it came time to leave, I took the long way around.

Feeding Frenzy

Definition of tourist trap: Myrtle Beach.

Water Park ticket costs $30. When you get there, you'll pay $2 to park. A Slurpee costs $6, but you'll pay $7 to include the cup. There aren't enough tubes for the water slides, so you wait until someone is done with one. Or you can rent one for $4.

It costs $1 to even look at the upside-down house.

After shelling out $250 for an ocean-view room, you realize view means leaning over the balcony to see it. Technically, they're right.

The cheapest thing at Broadway on the Beach is feed the fish for $0.25, but you feel sick after watching the massive carp maul each other in a feeding frenzy for a single pellet. Even the fish the want everything in your pockets.

You leave feeling sore, used and cheap. Everything you want from a vacation.

Tooth Fairies Hurt

Time slows the closer we reach the speed of light. And in hospital waiting rooms.

Our daughter had oral surgery to correct a host of problems. Nothing major. But we sat in the waiting room, staring at the status monitor, locating her patient number. Over and over. Tried to read magazines. Tried to have casual conversation. But always looking up, always locating the number.

When two hours passed, time began to slow. Each minute fell like a feather. Landed like a rock. Thoughts piled up. Even simple procedures can go wrong.

The doctor came out. Surely they don't deliver bad news in the waiting room. Flanked by resident medical students, he said, "Everything went fine."

And I began breathing again.

Your child in a hospital gown. An oxygen mask. An IV. These things slow time. When the doctor says all went fine, they renew life.

A Real Man

Sometimes a book is so good, you just got to share. Here's my review of Eric Greitens's The Heart and the Fist.

Too often a real man is defined by the baser elements of machismo. By his ability to annihilate his enemy. By the number of notches on his bedpost.

Eric Greitens clarifies the litmus test of a real man.

His story starts out in a liberal attempt to help humankind, detailing humanitarian trips to third-world countries when he was 19 years old to aid the abandoned, the hungry, the homeless. While we were spending summer on the beach, he was helping the people in this world with a shattered past and a hopeless future.

Greitens's epiphany is a result of these selfless acts. People need food and shelter, yes, but they also need protection from tyranny.

His journey leads him to the military's most challenging test, the Navy SEALS. He details the unimaginable training where cadets are drowned and driven into the sand. Where even the most physically fit human is often happy to quit. But Greitens does so without egotistic style, without chest-thumping. His journey is spiritual. "Hell Week tests the soul, it doesn't clean it."

The writing is good. And why not, he's a graduate of Oxford, given the option to live a life of academic freedom and comfort. A life he eschewed for a higher calling that wasn't necessarily religious. The dialogue keeps the scenes from becoming overly dry, but often reads clunky and contrived. Unnatural. Sometimes reads like a squeaky clean sitcom, more Beaver Cleaver than Nickelodeon.

However, Greitens changes the perspective of a kill-first military. Some soldiers are on a spiritual journey. They are real men. Real women.

Real warriors.