The Left Coast Biased

Chances are very good that you do not know me. You may have met me, possibly even know who I am, where I went to school, what I do for a living, but knowing about a person is not the same as knowing a person. Let's take Michael Jordan as an example of what I mean. I could tell you an inordinate amount of facts about Michael Jordan: where he went to school, what size shoe he wears, what his career scoring average is, where his mother lives, where his kids go to school, how he was feeling on April 20th, 1986, and so much more. I am not alone in this, literally thousands of people could tell you these things and more, but we don't know Michael Jordan. He would not stop and talk to me if we passed each other on the street, he doesn't even know my name. Insert your own particular celebrity fascination for a clearer picture. This is the age in which we live. The Information Age. Relating has been replaced with communicating. Instead of stopping by my neighbor's house to say hello, see how he is doing, put my feet up on his coffee table and share stories of the holiday over a tin of popcorn and a tasty beverage I will just shoot him a text: how was the trip? To which he will respond: great.

Text message. Email. Facebook. Myspace, if anyone is still using that who isn't 12 or a spamdroid. Twitter. All of these are born out of a need to get more done in less time, and all of these are robbing us of the depth and reality of our relationships. Information is passed along so quickly and with so little effort that the business of getting to know someone has become burdensome and tedious. It has gotten to the point that we don't even recognize the difference in our relationships anymore, as though a black and white lens has been dropped over our emotional eyes and we no longer can even recognize the depth and vibrancy of colors. We are losing the ability to sit and enjoy time with people. It is easier to 'hang out' with someone by texting them than to go for a walk and spend time in actual physical proximity.

I miss my friends. I miss my brother. I realized this Christmas that I don't know all that much about my brother. I got home from Christmas vacation and people were asking me questions for which I had no answer. Has he been arrested? Has he had a girlfriend? Does he drink? Has he smoked? Has he ever been in a fight? What tv shows does he watch? I don't know any of those answers, and a million more I am sure. But I am also sure that I know him as well as any person on this planet. I know him because we shared experiences together, shared joys and pains. Even if the pain was mostly his. There is a knowing of someone that is deeper than facts and details, that is built on emotions together, and that is the knowledge that we are slowly losing, as surely as global warming is stealing our ice caps.

My personal solution for this is stories. We need more stories, and better stories, stories that bring you into the moment and invite you into the emotions. Ancient societies recognized the power of stories. Certain Greek cultures would evaluate your entire life based on how good the story would be. Good story? Good life. So I will share some stories with you, even if they would be better shared in a dingy 24 hour dinner, competing with the accordion in the next room for acoustic dominance over a plate of over done tater tots and more or less fresh coffee. Baby steps. Here's hoping this story, which would be completely impossible in a world where 10 year olds have cell phones, helps you get to know who I am a little better.


So, the first girlfriend. Here's how it went down. I was in fifth grade. And let me be clear, I was a pretty dang cute fifth grader, a little behind the style curve, but dang cute. I am the one with the killer blue sweater, the other one is the aforementioned brother. This might be a little before fifth grade, but I'm sure you get the impression. Personally, I think I might have peaked, aesthetically, right about the time this story takes place. My boy Webster thinks it was freshman year, but given that he didn't even meet me until junior year of high school, how could he really know? I'm going to keep my money in elementary.

Let me back up. I went to a private school through elementary and middle school. Not exactly a social powerhouse, so when I fell in love in second grade I didn't really know what to do about it. In all honesty it was probably just a proximity crush on the cutest girl in our class of twelve, but it's all the same when you're eight. In any case, I didn't even realize that there were steps to be taken in response. You just liked a girl, and then maybe you would kick a ball at her at recess, or make fun of her freckles. Then in fourth grade a friend that I had gone to preschool with transferred back from the realm of wisdom and lore that was public school. He explained all manner of wonders to me, including girls and curse words. To the former I was a sponge and the latter I pretended I already knew.

If you liked girls, you asked them to be your girlfriend.

Changed my whole perspective on stuff. How do you do it? You just ask them. Just ask. Amazing. Naturally I lacked any form of courage, and went the infamous route of 'the note'. Yeah, like the song. Little boxes- yes and no, check one. I must have given her that note twenty times in fourth grade alone, and more in fifth. No. Always no. Sometimes circled, sometimes underlined. Once with an asterisk, which I thought was a little excessive. Then one day: yes. Yes. I was the happiest little fat kid in Sierra Vista.

No, I wasn't a fat fifth grader, it's an expression of speech. Picture a a round little kid on a hot day, holding an ice cream cone that is almost dripping over his hand. His cheeks squeezed around his little smile, maybe a single drop of sweat crawling down his brow. I was that kind of happy.

I was a great boyfriend. I would sit next to her at lunch, try to hold her hand, I even picked her flowers on the way to school, though they got a bit beat up by the wind while I was peddling my Schwin. Seriously, I had a Schwin, a red one. I didn't really know what else to do with the whole girlfriend thing; I hadn't been introduced to the magic of the makeout, yet (thank you church camp) but I felt like I was making a pretty good go of it for a first timer.

Then the world fell out from under my feet. The same alleged friend who had opened wide the world of youthful angst approached me at recess when I was on the way to swing with my little lady and broke it to me gentle like, "Look, Ryan, I've been going out with @#&*# for the last three months. She was just pretending to be your girlfriend 'cause I told her to."

"Yeah, I know...."

"I was just playing along"

Everyone knew. They laughed, sometimes out loud, sometimes silently. I cried, sometimes out loud, sometimes silently to myself. I didn't talk to anyone for the next two weeks. Ruined my whole fifth grade year. Then I moved to Illinois and there was that whole "Mexican poncho- is it a shirt or a jacket?" debacle. Let's just say that middle school was rough.