Tayari Jones Review

Prior to having enrolled in this English class I had never heard of Tayari Jones, and I probably never would have either. Being a white, male, college student my chances of coming across any of her work on my own is slim to none. That being said, I’m glad I’ve been exposed to some of her work and can now say I’ve read some of it too.

This was also the first author reading I had ever been to. I had absolutely no idea what to expect going into it. Prior to having arrived at the library I had prepared myself for I assumed was going to be some stuck up author lecturing us about how we all suck at writing and need to buy their book so we can learn from them. I couldn’t have been more wrong.

The chapters that Tayari Jones read were good, but they were not my favorite part. She is no doubt an extremely talented writer, who has strong skills in developing dialogue, but the stories were hard for me to relate to. I have no idea what it’s like to grow up in a city, have a father who neglected me, or to go through the struggles of being a young girl. But the one part of the reading that did strike a chord with me is how she read the stories. This was the first I had ever heard an author read a story the way they meant for it to be read. The way she got inside the characters was amazing. You could feel her passion for the little girls, the sympathy towards the mother, and presence of the stern, cold tone in the father’s voice. Not to sound cheesy or anything, but she really did bring the characters to life.

Looking back on it I’m really glad that attending this event was mandatory because otherwise I never would have been exposed to anything like it. I liked how personal Tayari Jones was with the audience and how she made everyone feel welcome. Who know, if all the author readings turn out to be like this, I may even start going to them own.

Imperfect Perfection

Every day it’s there. The first thing in the morning, the last thing at night. At times it’s exactly what I need; nothing else in the world comes close to it. It helps me to concentrate when I get frustrated. It allows me to refocus my thought, to regain my composure. At other times it is the polar opposite. Sometimes I want nothing more than to give it up, to be done with it. It is relentlessly unforgiving, either you get it right or you don’t. There is no in between. It demands that you give time to it, dedicate yourself to it. Yet in spite of all of this, I stick with it. I can’t simply walk away. I don’t plan on walking away either, it has become a part of who I am. Perseverance is the only path to success.

It all started on the first day of my final year in high school. It wasn’t even fourth period yet and I was already on my way to the councilor’s office to get a schedule change. Physics was sixth period and there was no way in hell I was going to that class. This left me with me an open period and a few options to play with. Something needed to be done. I rarely came all the way down to the far end of the North Building but I had some time to kill. My friend Jacob was walking with me when all of the sudden we came to a few small rooms that were empty. We glanced in and saw what we thought was old wooden furniture. We couldn’t have been more wrong. Inside was a dark, worn, wooden bench. No bigger than a couple feet long and no doubt designed for only one person. Before this bench, in all its glory, stood a five foot tall upright string instrument. I say it like this now because I can appreciate it. At the time I thought it looked like a piece of shit. I messed around on it for a little while attempting to play what I could remember from a YouTube clip of Apologize by OneRepublic. Next thing I knew I was enrolled in a class that would begin my journey of attempting to master a craft.

Every day for the rest of the year I would spend almost an hour of my day in the music wing. Practicing chord, rhythm, meter, and all the basic rudiments of music and its theory became a daily habit. It wasn’t until about half way through the year when I began to become fond of the playing. This is because quite frankly I sucked for a while. But once you start to hear the sounds, once you start to feel the beauty in the notes as they progress in one direction and then another, it all begins to change. I began to feel a connection with the keys.

Jump forward to June. I am officially no longer a high school student. Most people should be happy at this time in life, but I was not. My high school sweet heart and I called it off. I was distraught. I don’t know why, I wasn’t happy with her so it made no sense that I should be even more miserable after. But whatever.

In order to pass the days of summer I made the decision to invest a little bit more of my soul into the blacks and whites that had begun to take over my life. And so I went to the local music shop, dropping almost my entire pull of graduation money in a heartbeat. To this day I’m not sure if this was the best or worst decision I could have made at the time.

Jump forward another three months and it is almost time for classes to start. Over the summer I would sit in front of the 88 keys whenever I got the chance frantically moving my fingers across the hard plastic. My skills no doubt progressed, but so did my love-hate relationship with it.

Everyone who has played an instrument has come to that point in their life at one time or another. By no means do I claim to be a musician, I am merely a college kid with an addictive habit. I’m talking about when you reach your block. That point is when it is no longer fun to play the simple pieces, to play the shortened condensed version of the classics out of a book. There comes a time when you can make the choice of being mediocre without much devotion, or you can choose to create a talent. I went with the talent. At the time of this decision however, what you don’t know is that it comes at a price.

Move forward another year and six months to the present day. As I sit here now the piano I purchased two summers ago is behind me. It sits opposite my bed and is directly behind my desk so I can’t look at it when I work. This is no accident.

Whenever I go to play I begin to get a strange feeling. It is neither a feeling of happiness nor a feeling of calm. It is a feeling of anxiety. I become anxious because I love being able to play. It makes my heart race, my eyes zoom across the page before me, my hands seem to have a mind of their own as they move back and forth, and for a few short lived minutes it feels amazing. But then that feeling slowly starts to die, it starts to fade away as you realize you have heard that piece before. You have played it before. You remember why you sat down and begin to dread it.

Nothing is more frustrating than learning a new piece. It drives me crazy. I now know why every child wants nothing more than to quite practicing and go outside to play. Love-hate is the only way to describe it. I love being able to say I learned a new song, that I mastered something. I also hate learning it. Hit one note wrong and everything is ruined. You must spend countless hours reading the music, putting it to heart, trying to play the music in a way that it was meant to played. To hear the music the way the composer or artist meant for it to be heard. It is frustrating, infuriating to pursue perfection like this. Yet I keep at it. I don’t know why, but I do. It bothers me now that I can’t even begin to describe the feeling and put it in words. All I know is that I love piano, and I love the reward you get back from it for all of you time and effort. I also know that I hate it for the passion it demands and its endless mockery of perfection. If there one thing that we all strive for yet simultaneously hate, it is the idea of perfection.

The Delivery Boy

It was around 3:00am when the last call-in order of the night was phoned in. The order was for one large cheese pizza. The date was January 14, 2012. As the delivery boy stumbled through the front door, furiously blowing on his hands to warm them up, the new pizza was being thrown into the oven.

“This is your last order of the night.”

The delivery boy quickly shot up at the sound of this. It had been a long night. Earlier in the night it had begun to storm here in Happy Valley. Between the harsh and howling winds and the small specks of snow whizzing through the air, the pizza boy’s face was left scarred and red. Streaks of wind burn glowed on his cheeks like hot metal over a fire. His left shoe had a hole in it, no doubt a result of having to trek up and down hills and across the campus that is University Park. This boy is nothing short of a modern day hero. Facing the harshest weather this winter has yet to bear, at an hour when no man should be awake, simply to deliver a fresh out-of-the-oven pizza to the drunk and belligerent crowd of students scattered across town.

“What’s the address on the delivery?”

“Hoyt Hall, right across from Redifer commons. They said they would meet you at the door to the building. And don’t bother coming back in, just deliver the pizza and you free to head home.”

The pizza boy tried his best to hold onto the cardboard box with is fingers. He braced himself to step out into the streets of downtown State College that had recently transformed into an arctic tundra. His fingers were numb and stiff from the cold. As much as he wanted to turn around, run back into the pizza shop and curl up next to the warmth of the oven, he knew he had no choice. This was his job and he was going to finish it. One more pizza. One more delivery.

Within five minutes he was parking his car at Redifer Commons. He couldn’t help but think to himself “Man, it’s amazing how fast you can get around town at 3:00am. This might be the quickest delivery ever.”

Not sure where exactly the Hoyt building was, the pizza boy had to do a few 360s in order to find his bearings. He was lost in a sea of what appeared to be crumbling brick towers. The red from the clay in the bricks reflected off the street lights, giving everything an orange tinge. Almost like the color of blood when you mix it with water. He could hear a few drunk students off in the distance, but there was no one near enough to ask for directions. He began walking through the dark of the night, hoping to catch a glimmer of the silver letters attached to the sides of the buildings surrounding him. The hole in his shoe tore a little bit more with each and every step. His feet were numb, his hands were numb, his face was burnt.

Then, no more than 30 yards ahead of him he could see what appeared to be a group of four men making their way in his direction. “Yes, finally someone who can help me.”

He could tell they were wearing hoods so it was hard to make out their complexions. They were only a few yards away now. As they neared closer to him he could hear them mumbling amongst themselves. Then, the tallest one of the group stepped forward.

“You gotta wallet on you?”

http://www.collegian.psu.edu/archive/2012/01/17/delivery_driver_attacked_.aspx

I guess I'm a blogger now

“Er sieht so dumm aus!” Yes, thank you random German kid. Never before had I been to Europe, and never before had a complete stranger called me out for the way I dressed. It was my first time traveling abroad. I was only 16, and like any high school kid I thought I knew everything there is to know about life and the rest of the world. I was a scrawny little kid who dressed like a skater with an ego so big it had to be unhealthy. When the odd teenage German boy blatantly expressed his opinion to everyone on the subway that I looked stupid in my cargo shorts and Billabong t-shirt, he was probably right. But there was no way in hell he was talking about my bright, neon green, Nike 6.0s. I don’t care how many people think Europeans have the trendiest styles, but when a kid wearing capris and a faux hawk called the 16 year old me dumb, I nearly lost it. Of course I wasn’t going to confront the kid, but in my head it was like an explosion of dumbfoundedness.

I have to be honest; I have an obsession with shoes. I don’t know why but for some reason I like them, a lot. Currently I have somewhere around 15 pairs of shoes, 3 of which I have bought within the last month. But of all the shoes I have bought between now and that moment three years ago when the fruity German insulted my style, none are as awesome as the neon green Nike’s I used to wear.

I didn’t realize it at the time but walking around Europe in a pair of neon shoes probably looked really weird, but I loved it. I knew I looked like an American tourist but I didn’t care. All I cared about was how awesome my shoes were. Not two days before I left for the trip I had bought the legendary leather low-tops at a skate shop for the sole purpose of wearing them everywhere. All across Europe I wore them to fancy restaurants, climbing around castle ruins, and even to a German formal for a high school in Hannover. They were my trademark. Or so I thought.

Upon returning to the United States I continued to wear these shoes until I had ripped holes in both the right and left foot. I even got to write a short paper about them in my high school English class. I was elated when my teacher told us we had an assignment to write about our shoes and what they meant to us. But that’s not even the best part. Two years after I had roamed the European countryside in my vibrant sneakers, I was visiting my girlfriend at the time, in Pittsburgh. By this point I had already thrown out the old shoes, when out of nowhere on a sales rack in Journey I saw the exact same pair. They were the same tan leather, they had the same drawn out green swoosh on the side, they were even already laced up with the neon green laces to match. It was too perfect. I nearly knocked my girlfriend over when I saw them. In less than two minutes I was walking out the store with the shoes in hand. And as I sit here writing this right now, the same pair of shoes are sitting on the floor behind me. They may not carry the same sentimental value as the original pair I took with me half way across the globe, but they’re still pretty damn sweet.