I have been home for two weeks and have immediately been thrust into a new position, in a familiar yet evolving company that is undergoing changes as fast as I could imagine. The business of course is my father's, The Carpet Workroom, and I am taking over all of his business operations. After essentially being forced out of his old workshop in Newton, he moved less than 1/2 a mile away to 1238 Chestnut Street Newton Upper Falls. I returned on the first of December, the day his new lease began. In the two weeks since arriving in the new and improved space, we have dealt with unruly competitors that we share a loading dock with, our landowners who have sided with our competitor, and a former landlord that still won't let us put a sign on our old door indicating that we have moved. Amidst all this conflict, I have electronically documented almost all of his inventory, taken pictures to post on the web, cleaned up our website, continued to sell products on a regular basis, and most recently adopted the albatross of his business phone. Needless to say it has been a stressful transition back into American living but a fitting one. I wanted the American Dream and now I am chasing it.
I apologize for my recent absence from posting and hope it isn't confused with discouragement and forgotten ambition. I am not giving up on writing, but the challenge of getting back on solid ground has put it on the back burner for the time being. I still have plenty to say about my final two weeks in Costa Rica and the great time I had with Christina as well as a detailed description of how I plan on turning my father's business into something huge. Please bear with me as I attempt to work back toward more frequent posting. In the meantime, enjoy the holidays and the cold weather...
Thursday, December 16, 2010
Monday, November 8, 2010
Attaining the Maximum Level
I arrived in San Jose after 7 hours of travelling, passing through 2 time zones, and 1 layover in Orlando. I had an over sized duffel bag, a traveller's pack, and a computer case. When I walked out of the airport I was inundated with the sound of Spanish and the sight of chaos, as person after person asked me if I needed a ride. Costa Ricans are self-nicknamed Ticos, and are a very lively people. Costa Rica, which means "Rich Coast", constitutionally abolished its army permanently in 1949 deciding to invest rather in health care and education. It is also known for its picturesque landscape which boasts active volcanoes, seemingly never ending stretches of beaches, untainted rain forests, a richly diverse flora and fauna collection, and a population considered to be the happiest in the world. The place had a lot of promise, and I would be spending a significant amount of time exploring it.
In preparing myself to travel and my entry into the unknown, I read the book "Transitions" by William Bridges. The tag line reads, "making sense of life's changes", which is what I needed to do. In it, he explores the anatomy of a life transition and offers advice for people that are about to embark on such changes. He submits that in order to successfully evolve, a person must first finish an aspect in his or her life that they wish to change. It is only after that symbolic death, that a person can shed their former skin and start anew with a blank slate. The idea of the blank slate can be traced back to the earliest writings of Aristotle over 1,000 years ago, and can be found throughout western philosophy leading up to the present. Tabula rasa is the epistemological thesis that individuals are born without built-in mental content and that their knowledge comes from experience and perception. Generally proponents of the tabula rasa thesis favor the "nurture" side of the nature versus nurture debate, when it comes to aspects of one's personality, social and emotional behavior, and intelligence. It also leads to the idea that the past is the past and cannot be changed. I was first exposed to this way of thinking my first day of high school, at a time in my life that the feelings of regret and remorse were overtaking my adolescent mind. This theory helped me get through that stage and continues to be a driving force in my life.
What I needed to change was quite simple; be more productive with my time. You know the old complaint, "there just isn't enough time in the day"? Well, I found myself asking the question; why? What could I possibly do that gave me enough? I began by choosing the next challenge I wanted to take on; writing my first novel. I had always enjoyed writing, but always employed the excuse, "I don't have enough time. Now, while attacking this issue, I saw a perfect opportunity for change. I wondered what I could on a daily basis that would help me refine my skill. The answer to that contemplation was this blog. It would provide me the perfect medium for practicing my writing while also sharing stories with family and friends. Lastly, I needed to make extra room in each day so I could take on this new hobby while still progressing my career. I needed to "kill" a part of me that was obstructing my goal. The one thing that seemed to work as an ongoing distraction to me was The Party. Just for the record, I do not want to QUIT partying outright, I simply want to shift it down my list of priorities and adopt more self-control. If you look at a given week, the majority of your time is spent at work or doing something else work related (transportation to and from, research, preparation etc.). If you look at the activities that take up the second most, they will certainly be your hobbies. I have many; ranging from going to the movies, listening to music, and playing basketball. However, the one that accounts for the most money, time, and energy is partying. Imagine a life with no hangovers, no vague memories of ordering rounds of $6 shots for your friends, and most importantly a mind that is focused on the aspects of life that are the most important. That's what I did, and now I'm in the midst of making this shift. It certainly hasn't been easy, especially in a foreign country filled with travellers from all over the world, looking to share a good time with strangers. Again, I wasn't looking to become a Mormon, just simply to practice some more self-control.
At first my shift was easy. I was living with a host family, and I was afraid to let my guard down. I was also spending 8 hours a day in a classroom. Once I made friends, things suddenly became more difficult. My fellow students came from a wide variety of backgrounds, and it is my nature to want to familiarize myself with them. There was an older couple from Texas, Yemi and Faci, that share a tight bond in their African heritage. There was another older woman, Heather, that has aspirations of working in a Christian Mission in Cambodia. There were the recent university graduates; Chelsea, Michelle, Keenan, Kira, Wes, Pedro, Jacqui and Greg, that were full of energy and excitement to be travelling and meeting new people. Then there's Martin, the 27-year-old banker from L.A. who reminds me of my friends back home. We were all led by our savvy instructor, Iani, who taught us with an overwhelming zeal she picked up from her upbringing in Namibia and her travels throughout Asia. Together, we spent the month planning lessons, helping digest feedback, writing grammar papers, sharing restaurant suggestions, drinking litros, and shooting tequila (I never expected perfection). We travelled during our time off, were able to experience the surf and sneaky monkeys of Manuel Antonio and Caribbean culture of Puerto Viejo, while getting to know one another on a personal level. As much as I craved self-control, I would have been doing myself a major disservice by not experiencing life to the fullest. I gauge my happiness through socialization, and I simply cannot bring myself to that sort of censorship.
TEFL ended on the 22nd of October. I handed in my portfolio and I was finally free to wander this country on my own accord with no concrete responsibility to speak of. I said goodbye to Ugenio and Christina, my Tico parents, and found a new home 20 kilometers away with Martin and Chelsea in the formal capital, Cartago. I have a few weeks left before Christina arrives, and we explore this tropical land together...
In preparing myself to travel and my entry into the unknown, I read the book "Transitions" by William Bridges. The tag line reads, "making sense of life's changes", which is what I needed to do. In it, he explores the anatomy of a life transition and offers advice for people that are about to embark on such changes. He submits that in order to successfully evolve, a person must first finish an aspect in his or her life that they wish to change. It is only after that symbolic death, that a person can shed their former skin and start anew with a blank slate. The idea of the blank slate can be traced back to the earliest writings of Aristotle over 1,000 years ago, and can be found throughout western philosophy leading up to the present. Tabula rasa is the epistemological thesis that individuals are born without built-in mental content and that their knowledge comes from experience and perception. Generally proponents of the tabula rasa thesis favor the "nurture" side of the nature versus nurture debate, when it comes to aspects of one's personality, social and emotional behavior, and intelligence. It also leads to the idea that the past is the past and cannot be changed. I was first exposed to this way of thinking my first day of high school, at a time in my life that the feelings of regret and remorse were overtaking my adolescent mind. This theory helped me get through that stage and continues to be a driving force in my life.
What I needed to change was quite simple; be more productive with my time. You know the old complaint, "there just isn't enough time in the day"? Well, I found myself asking the question; why? What could I possibly do that gave me enough? I began by choosing the next challenge I wanted to take on; writing my first novel. I had always enjoyed writing, but always employed the excuse, "I don't have enough time. Now, while attacking this issue, I saw a perfect opportunity for change. I wondered what I could on a daily basis that would help me refine my skill. The answer to that contemplation was this blog. It would provide me the perfect medium for practicing my writing while also sharing stories with family and friends. Lastly, I needed to make extra room in each day so I could take on this new hobby while still progressing my career. I needed to "kill" a part of me that was obstructing my goal. The one thing that seemed to work as an ongoing distraction to me was The Party. Just for the record, I do not want to QUIT partying outright, I simply want to shift it down my list of priorities and adopt more self-control. If you look at a given week, the majority of your time is spent at work or doing something else work related (transportation to and from, research, preparation etc.). If you look at the activities that take up the second most, they will certainly be your hobbies. I have many; ranging from going to the movies, listening to music, and playing basketball. However, the one that accounts for the most money, time, and energy is partying. Imagine a life with no hangovers, no vague memories of ordering rounds of $6 shots for your friends, and most importantly a mind that is focused on the aspects of life that are the most important. That's what I did, and now I'm in the midst of making this shift. It certainly hasn't been easy, especially in a foreign country filled with travellers from all over the world, looking to share a good time with strangers. Again, I wasn't looking to become a Mormon, just simply to practice some more self-control.
At first my shift was easy. I was living with a host family, and I was afraid to let my guard down. I was also spending 8 hours a day in a classroom. Once I made friends, things suddenly became more difficult. My fellow students came from a wide variety of backgrounds, and it is my nature to want to familiarize myself with them. There was an older couple from Texas, Yemi and Faci, that share a tight bond in their African heritage. There was another older woman, Heather, that has aspirations of working in a Christian Mission in Cambodia. There were the recent university graduates; Chelsea, Michelle, Keenan, Kira, Wes, Pedro, Jacqui and Greg, that were full of energy and excitement to be travelling and meeting new people. Then there's Martin, the 27-year-old banker from L.A. who reminds me of my friends back home. We were all led by our savvy instructor, Iani, who taught us with an overwhelming zeal she picked up from her upbringing in Namibia and her travels throughout Asia. Together, we spent the month planning lessons, helping digest feedback, writing grammar papers, sharing restaurant suggestions, drinking litros, and shooting tequila (I never expected perfection). We travelled during our time off, were able to experience the surf and sneaky monkeys of Manuel Antonio and Caribbean culture of Puerto Viejo, while getting to know one another on a personal level. As much as I craved self-control, I would have been doing myself a major disservice by not experiencing life to the fullest. I gauge my happiness through socialization, and I simply cannot bring myself to that sort of censorship.
TEFL ended on the 22nd of October. I handed in my portfolio and I was finally free to wander this country on my own accord with no concrete responsibility to speak of. I said goodbye to Ugenio and Christina, my Tico parents, and found a new home 20 kilometers away with Martin and Chelsea in the formal capital, Cartago. I have a few weeks left before Christina arrives, and we explore this tropical land together...
Thursday, November 4, 2010
The Light at the End of the Tunnel...
As the summer of 2010 approached, I began looking toward future endeavors. I had just graduated from Emmanuel, and the mundane routine of teaching everyday was weighing on me heavily. I began having disagreements with my principal and had little energy left. What kept me motivated was knowing my goal of travelling to a foreign country to teach English was in sight. I had pined through plenty of online materials until I found Maximo Nivel, a foreign language school in San Jose, Costa Rica. Initially, I wanted to travel to Spain, but the job market was weak for Americans. In Spain they tend to hire European citizens for the types of jobs I was looking for. My desire to reignite and refine my knowledge of the Spanish language was pointing me toward Latin America and so was my love for hot weather and exploring the world's best beaches. Maximo Nivel would provide me with that opportunity along with the chance of obtaining my TEFL (teaching English as a foreign language) certificate which would allow me to teach anywhere in the world. I paid my deposit and spent the rest of my summer preparing myself for this trip financially and mentally.
I moved back to Canton in February, allowing me to pay off my credit card debt and prepare myself for the upcoming repayment of my student loans. I finished my contract at PJP, continued to run my after school program, and started working for my father's business. As a kid, I would work as his assistant, learning the art of installing carpet. However, it never really occurred to me that I could eventually make a living doing it. My drive to play professional baseball and the sight of my father doing such painstaking work on a daily basis led me to pursue a college education. This time around though, I began to see the immense benefits of running a small business independently.
The turbulent September went by quicker than the fleeting summer, and I left on the 20th. I had a lot to learn about myself and felt an overwhelming need for change. I would be 26 in October, and the next phase was about to begin.
I moved back to Canton in February, allowing me to pay off my credit card debt and prepare myself for the upcoming repayment of my student loans. I finished my contract at PJP, continued to run my after school program, and started working for my father's business. As a kid, I would work as his assistant, learning the art of installing carpet. However, it never really occurred to me that I could eventually make a living doing it. My drive to play professional baseball and the sight of my father doing such painstaking work on a daily basis led me to pursue a college education. This time around though, I began to see the immense benefits of running a small business independently.
- Contrary to popular belief, teaching is a very strenuous career choice. It doesn't necessarily require physical labor, but the mental stress that it causes is oppressive. I chose it because I liked the lifestyle that it allowed me, but after doing it for 3 years, I came to see the lifestyle is not all that different than the corporate path chosen by many of my peers.
- There is something innately wrong with working your ass off to make somebody else rich or prosperous. This is the reason that most people accept mediocrity in the workplace. If there is no incentive to perform above the mean, people tend to calm their efforts. This isn't in my nature. I attacked teaching with such exhausting ambition, that in my short time, I became burnt out. If I am going to approach work in this manner, than I need to see more clear results from my effort.
- My hatred for business school really deterred me from all things corporate. However, if I had made it far enough into management courses, things could have been very different. I felt like my creativity was being drained in statistics, economics, and most of all; accounting. In spending time learning how to run a successful business, I learned that creativity plays a huge role in entrepreneurship.
The turbulent September went by quicker than the fleeting summer, and I left on the 20th. I had a lot to learn about myself and felt an overwhelming need for change. I would be 26 in October, and the next phase was about to begin.
Saturday, October 30, 2010
Mr. Loveman
Running simultaneously aside my second and third years in Southie, a different story of my life was being told in the Savin Hill section of Dorchester. Huge changes were being made to the leadership and layout of the Catholic schools in Boston, and I was pitted deep into the core of it all. Simply put, the old model was failing, and fresh air needed to be breated into the old souls of the parish schools. To do this meant closing the doors on the learning sactuaries that were once the cornerstones of these respected communities. In what was called the "2010 Initiative", Catholic Schools were going to adapt.
I remember sitting through meetings held by Sister Paula at Saint Kevin where teachers would question and wonder while she delivered sobering news. Of the 8 parish schools in Dorchester and Mattapan, only 5 would be selected as the foundation of the new Pope John Paul II Catholic Academy. Each principal would have to plead their case as to why theirs should be kept. Saint Kevins was old, incomplete, and in dire need of a makeover. We were an obvious target for closure. I could see this clearly in my first year, but denial quickly spread through our faculty and staff. Eventually their fears became reality, and we all would receive the news that we would need to move on. I can't say I was surprised or unhappy at first, but the words and faces of those teachers who had sacrificed so much for their school depressed me in a way I had never felt before. In feeling this, I quickly adopted a comraderie with my peers and wanted to make the spring of our last year the most memorable. We did our best to stay focused while updating resumes, filling out applications, and going on interviews. It was terribly difficult, but we stood as cruches for one another in times of need and celebrated with cake when good news was told. I quickly felt part of the community, and learned more from those people than I ever did in any classroom I ever sat down in. Luckily, as a young male teacher I was at a high premium. I was a novelty in the Catholic schools, and possessed ambition and energy that was absent in many of the candidates. Because of this, I was hired at the new PJP Columbia Campus, the biggest and most innovative K-8 Catholic School in the city of Boston.
I spent two years there, contributing more time and energy than I ever put into anything. I rarely missed a day, and when I did it was for good reason. At different points, I taught English/language arts and religion to grades 5,6, and 8. I also spent time working for the afterschool program and creating the Sports Academy. I even volunteered more of my free time to coaching a boys 5-6th grade CYO basektball team that improved from 1 win in our first year to 7 in the second. I proudly watched as my former students graduated, and continued onward into high school. I helped tutor and mentor a few students that I'd eventually help gain entrance into Xaverian and BC High, two of the most well respected college prepatory schools in Massachusetts. I grew fond of helping people, but not with the politics of teaching. I really started to notice that the culture of a school is similar to the corporate world I tried so hard to avoid. The hours of a teacher are advertised as 6 hours a day, 180 days a year, at least that's what we were compensated for. What goes unnnoticed is the amount of energy put forth toward planning lessons, assessing performance, and meeting with colleagues. I will never miss the days of getting into my classroom before the sun rose and leaving during a dark, blustery winter night. I worked 50-60 hours a week, but surely wasn't being paid like it. Not to mention during those days how little free time we were given to prep. This meant that our lessons suffered, and in turn, the quality of education for our students. I try not to speak negatively about my experience, but it became obvious to me during these 3 years that the leaders of Catholic schools take full advantage of the hospitality and generosity of their teachers and staff. I feel that this is going to haunt them as they continue with their mission to rejuvenate Catholic education. However, the positive things I took from this experience far outweigh the negatives, which gives me hope for them in the future.
One thing I will most certainly miss is the diverse community of students. Like Saint Kevins, there was a convergance of cultures that is rarely seen. When we closed, so did Blessed Mother Theresa in Fields Corner and Saint Peters in another neighborhood. It wasn't forced integration, but it was an absolute melting pot of learners. This past year I asked each class which students spoke a language other than English when they went home in the afternoon. Half of the students in each class raised their hands. Out of those 10 students some spoke Creole (which comes in many forms ranging from Cape Verdean Creole to Haitian Creole), Vitnamese, Korean, Polish, and Spanish. Aside from ethnic differences, I really got to observe the differences between male and female learners, especially at the pre-teen level. I now realize why teachers always told us that girls developed cognitively more rapidly than boys. We always bood and hissed, but I can now say it's absolute fact. Lastly, there was a huge disparity between learners in respect to their personalities. Never in my life have I witnessed this many people having a new experience and socializing in a way I saw in my two years at PJP. To see each student find their niche in such a short time was absolutely astounding. Furthermore, to see the way in which each culture rubbed off on one another was equally amazing. I witnessed as a Cape Verdean class clown taught his white and Asian classmates how to loosen up and have fun while learning himself how to take his academics more seriously. I can also proudly say that in those two years I didn't witness one single fight. Of course there was conflicts, but never did they come to physical altercations. This was a far cry from the race riots that resulted from forced bussing 35 years prior.
Aside from hands on practical teaching, I spent time in a classroom as a student myself. For 10 straight semesters I attended Emmanuel College graduate school of education. In two and a half years I had earned my master's degree in the arts of teaching. There were a few points I thought I'd rather commit myself, but the dream of travelling upon graduation kept me motivated. It was a great experience because I was able to put to use what I was learning in my own classroom. I could easily see the transition in myself between novice teacher and classroom veteran, because I was constantly putting theory into practice.
When alll was said in done, I really felt as if I had grown as a student, a teacher, and a human. People have recently asked me if I miss teaching. I simply tell them, "I miss the kids".
I remember sitting through meetings held by Sister Paula at Saint Kevin where teachers would question and wonder while she delivered sobering news. Of the 8 parish schools in Dorchester and Mattapan, only 5 would be selected as the foundation of the new Pope John Paul II Catholic Academy. Each principal would have to plead their case as to why theirs should be kept. Saint Kevins was old, incomplete, and in dire need of a makeover. We were an obvious target for closure. I could see this clearly in my first year, but denial quickly spread through our faculty and staff. Eventually their fears became reality, and we all would receive the news that we would need to move on. I can't say I was surprised or unhappy at first, but the words and faces of those teachers who had sacrificed so much for their school depressed me in a way I had never felt before. In feeling this, I quickly adopted a comraderie with my peers and wanted to make the spring of our last year the most memorable. We did our best to stay focused while updating resumes, filling out applications, and going on interviews. It was terribly difficult, but we stood as cruches for one another in times of need and celebrated with cake when good news was told. I quickly felt part of the community, and learned more from those people than I ever did in any classroom I ever sat down in. Luckily, as a young male teacher I was at a high premium. I was a novelty in the Catholic schools, and possessed ambition and energy that was absent in many of the candidates. Because of this, I was hired at the new PJP Columbia Campus, the biggest and most innovative K-8 Catholic School in the city of Boston.
I spent two years there, contributing more time and energy than I ever put into anything. I rarely missed a day, and when I did it was for good reason. At different points, I taught English/language arts and religion to grades 5,6, and 8. I also spent time working for the afterschool program and creating the Sports Academy. I even volunteered more of my free time to coaching a boys 5-6th grade CYO basektball team that improved from 1 win in our first year to 7 in the second. I proudly watched as my former students graduated, and continued onward into high school. I helped tutor and mentor a few students that I'd eventually help gain entrance into Xaverian and BC High, two of the most well respected college prepatory schools in Massachusetts. I grew fond of helping people, but not with the politics of teaching. I really started to notice that the culture of a school is similar to the corporate world I tried so hard to avoid. The hours of a teacher are advertised as 6 hours a day, 180 days a year, at least that's what we were compensated for. What goes unnnoticed is the amount of energy put forth toward planning lessons, assessing performance, and meeting with colleagues. I will never miss the days of getting into my classroom before the sun rose and leaving during a dark, blustery winter night. I worked 50-60 hours a week, but surely wasn't being paid like it. Not to mention during those days how little free time we were given to prep. This meant that our lessons suffered, and in turn, the quality of education for our students. I try not to speak negatively about my experience, but it became obvious to me during these 3 years that the leaders of Catholic schools take full advantage of the hospitality and generosity of their teachers and staff. I feel that this is going to haunt them as they continue with their mission to rejuvenate Catholic education. However, the positive things I took from this experience far outweigh the negatives, which gives me hope for them in the future.
One thing I will most certainly miss is the diverse community of students. Like Saint Kevins, there was a convergance of cultures that is rarely seen. When we closed, so did Blessed Mother Theresa in Fields Corner and Saint Peters in another neighborhood. It wasn't forced integration, but it was an absolute melting pot of learners. This past year I asked each class which students spoke a language other than English when they went home in the afternoon. Half of the students in each class raised their hands. Out of those 10 students some spoke Creole (which comes in many forms ranging from Cape Verdean Creole to Haitian Creole), Vitnamese, Korean, Polish, and Spanish. Aside from ethnic differences, I really got to observe the differences between male and female learners, especially at the pre-teen level. I now realize why teachers always told us that girls developed cognitively more rapidly than boys. We always bood and hissed, but I can now say it's absolute fact. Lastly, there was a huge disparity between learners in respect to their personalities. Never in my life have I witnessed this many people having a new experience and socializing in a way I saw in my two years at PJP. To see each student find their niche in such a short time was absolutely astounding. Furthermore, to see the way in which each culture rubbed off on one another was equally amazing. I witnessed as a Cape Verdean class clown taught his white and Asian classmates how to loosen up and have fun while learning himself how to take his academics more seriously. I can also proudly say that in those two years I didn't witness one single fight. Of course there was conflicts, but never did they come to physical altercations. This was a far cry from the race riots that resulted from forced bussing 35 years prior.
Aside from hands on practical teaching, I spent time in a classroom as a student myself. For 10 straight semesters I attended Emmanuel College graduate school of education. In two and a half years I had earned my master's degree in the arts of teaching. There were a few points I thought I'd rather commit myself, but the dream of travelling upon graduation kept me motivated. It was a great experience because I was able to put to use what I was learning in my own classroom. I could easily see the transition in myself between novice teacher and classroom veteran, because I was constantly putting theory into practice.
When alll was said in done, I really felt as if I had grown as a student, a teacher, and a human. People have recently asked me if I miss teaching. I simply tell them, "I miss the kids".
Thursday, October 28, 2010
A Southie Story
I would be lying if I said I was not at all influenced to move into South Boston by watching "Good Will Hunting". The same goes for "American Pie 2" and my topless Ford Bronco. But what really brought me to Southie was that it was the neighborhood of my origin. My mother spent the first 2 years of her life in a project on D Street, and before that, my grandmother in Old Colony. I grew up visiting Castle Island for a burger from Sullivan´s or a baseball game at BC High, but never to see where my family called home. Up until a couple of years ago, the truth of my roots was kept secret from me. Maybe it was the fact that the west side of South Boston was the poorest white neighborhood in the U.S. until the late 90´s, or it was possible that the stories from that setting were tucked away and suppressed deeply in my mother´s memory. All I know is that my mother had a difficult time understanding the irony of me looking for a place to live in the neighborhood her family had fought so hard to get out of.
It took me awhile to find a place with three bedrooms in the right part of town, but we settled in a weathered, green triple-decker on M Street overlooking a park where dogs and their owners socialized and cleaned up feces. What sold me was the all-wooden kitchen, decorated in pub green and stained plywood , leading out to the back deck with a beautiful view of Boston´s skyline. We lived here for over a year, only a short walk to The Boston Beer Garden and Murphy´s Law, a sanctuary for recent university graduates to get away from home and relive college life. Our days were short and our nights long, there always seemed to be something going on. Whether it was a Sunday afternoon Pat´s game, a Red Sox playoff, Harpoon Fest, or a night singing karaoke at The Farragut House, people seemed drawn to our new place. At the time, it was frustrating because of my new lifestyle and career, but looking back I wouldn´t have wanted it any other way.
About 3 miles west was Upham´s Corner, Dorchester. This was the commute I made every weekday from September to July barring a holiday or the occasional snow day. I had become a teacher, and with it, accepted the responsibility of aiding the development of children ages 10-15. That year I taught reading, language arts, science and religion. I taught these subjects as one of only 15 white people in a community of about 150. The other 13 were other teachers and administrators, and the last 2 were the only white students at SKS. It was quite the experience being the minority in an overwhelmingly black community. My homeroom was comprised of about 15 6th graders; Rindal, Ibrahima, Miguel, Benhur, Fast Freddy, Tijah, Elizabeth, Aysha, Diana, Jelani, Jasae, Brittany, and Trisha amongst others. At other points of the day I would also teach grades 5, 7, and 8. To them, I had a few names to my knowledge; Mr. L, Mr. Lovetear, and Mr. Loveman, which was adopted by a group of my friends. I taught them the best I could with the materials I was provided, but my lessons were focused more on character development. I was not yet equipped academically, but I felt I had collected enough wisdom in my first couple of decades that I could impart some on them. I threw footballs to the boys at recess, set up a basketball hoop on the playground, and listened as they taught me their worldview. I was fascinated by the different cultures that comprised this ecclectic crew; Cape Verdean, Hatian, Jamaican, Honduran, Puerto Rican and many more. I watched as a group of these kids were ultimately raised by the white, Catholic women that put so much love and attention into their teaching. They didn't know anything different. I was their youngest teacher by 15 years, and only the second male teacher these kids ever had. I really like to think that I learned as much from them as they did from me, but isn´t that what education should be about?
This was also the period in which I met my current girlfriend Christina. We met through the business and romantic venture of my friend Greg. Without revealing the details of a separate story in and of itself, we didn't start hanging out right away. Instead it took an independent backpacking trip to Europe to expand my mind. I returned, saw her walkingthe one afternoon, and a few weeks later, on my 24th birthday, we started dating. She stuck with me that night when most of my other friends were busy doing their own things. We swayed together at Trinity late into the night, 2 weeks later jumped out of an airplane, and soon after shot our first machine guns. We were partners in crime in training and Southie was our playground.
I cannot even begin to express the amount of new friendships I made during this time. It was easy because South Boston began to resemble college 2.0; a city filled with recent graduates looking to launch careers in their respected professions. Many of my friends who had previously hesitated at the idea of moving away from home now started to matriculate into the city. We lost Colin to marriage but we gained access to a new group of characters who had graduated from BC High the year after Colin and Greg. Our new roommate, Ryno, stepped into Colin's role perfectly and we continued exactly where we left off barring one minute detail; we had to find a new place to live.
Again, without providing any revealing details, a visiting friend caused a bit of a scene one night, which acted as the final straw in an ongoing series of unfortunate conflicts with our aging landlord. We were provided an eviction notice the next morning, which caused a brief heart attack and a pressing need to find a place to live. As fate would have it, we found that place after we had just about given up hope at a local barbershop. It was the first time I had been there, and after some chit-chat with the Italian barber, we had a new elderly landlord, this one of Mediterranean flare. We moved our things to 19 Ticknor St. and made a new home between the L. Street Tavern and Bath House of the same letter. From there, more and more characters entered our lives as the city of South Boston recycled its tennants every September. I continued to work in the Catholic Schools of Dorchester and life got easier as I settled into a routine. Another year passed and I began, once again, to crave the sultry taste of change. I moved home this past February to pay off credit cards and save for my next adventure. This change would prove to be far different...
It took me awhile to find a place with three bedrooms in the right part of town, but we settled in a weathered, green triple-decker on M Street overlooking a park where dogs and their owners socialized and cleaned up feces. What sold me was the all-wooden kitchen, decorated in pub green and stained plywood , leading out to the back deck with a beautiful view of Boston´s skyline. We lived here for over a year, only a short walk to The Boston Beer Garden and Murphy´s Law, a sanctuary for recent university graduates to get away from home and relive college life. Our days were short and our nights long, there always seemed to be something going on. Whether it was a Sunday afternoon Pat´s game, a Red Sox playoff, Harpoon Fest, or a night singing karaoke at The Farragut House, people seemed drawn to our new place. At the time, it was frustrating because of my new lifestyle and career, but looking back I wouldn´t have wanted it any other way.
About 3 miles west was Upham´s Corner, Dorchester. This was the commute I made every weekday from September to July barring a holiday or the occasional snow day. I had become a teacher, and with it, accepted the responsibility of aiding the development of children ages 10-15. That year I taught reading, language arts, science and religion. I taught these subjects as one of only 15 white people in a community of about 150. The other 13 were other teachers and administrators, and the last 2 were the only white students at SKS. It was quite the experience being the minority in an overwhelmingly black community. My homeroom was comprised of about 15 6th graders; Rindal, Ibrahima, Miguel, Benhur, Fast Freddy, Tijah, Elizabeth, Aysha, Diana, Jelani, Jasae, Brittany, and Trisha amongst others. At other points of the day I would also teach grades 5, 7, and 8. To them, I had a few names to my knowledge; Mr. L, Mr. Lovetear, and Mr. Loveman, which was adopted by a group of my friends. I taught them the best I could with the materials I was provided, but my lessons were focused more on character development. I was not yet equipped academically, but I felt I had collected enough wisdom in my first couple of decades that I could impart some on them. I threw footballs to the boys at recess, set up a basketball hoop on the playground, and listened as they taught me their worldview. I was fascinated by the different cultures that comprised this ecclectic crew; Cape Verdean, Hatian, Jamaican, Honduran, Puerto Rican and many more. I watched as a group of these kids were ultimately raised by the white, Catholic women that put so much love and attention into their teaching. They didn't know anything different. I was their youngest teacher by 15 years, and only the second male teacher these kids ever had. I really like to think that I learned as much from them as they did from me, but isn´t that what education should be about?
This was also the period in which I met my current girlfriend Christina. We met through the business and romantic venture of my friend Greg. Without revealing the details of a separate story in and of itself, we didn't start hanging out right away. Instead it took an independent backpacking trip to Europe to expand my mind. I returned, saw her walkingthe one afternoon, and a few weeks later, on my 24th birthday, we started dating. She stuck with me that night when most of my other friends were busy doing their own things. We swayed together at Trinity late into the night, 2 weeks later jumped out of an airplane, and soon after shot our first machine guns. We were partners in crime in training and Southie was our playground.
I cannot even begin to express the amount of new friendships I made during this time. It was easy because South Boston began to resemble college 2.0; a city filled with recent graduates looking to launch careers in their respected professions. Many of my friends who had previously hesitated at the idea of moving away from home now started to matriculate into the city. We lost Colin to marriage but we gained access to a new group of characters who had graduated from BC High the year after Colin and Greg. Our new roommate, Ryno, stepped into Colin's role perfectly and we continued exactly where we left off barring one minute detail; we had to find a new place to live.
Again, without providing any revealing details, a visiting friend caused a bit of a scene one night, which acted as the final straw in an ongoing series of unfortunate conflicts with our aging landlord. We were provided an eviction notice the next morning, which caused a brief heart attack and a pressing need to find a place to live. As fate would have it, we found that place after we had just about given up hope at a local barbershop. It was the first time I had been there, and after some chit-chat with the Italian barber, we had a new elderly landlord, this one of Mediterranean flare. We moved our things to 19 Ticknor St. and made a new home between the L. Street Tavern and Bath House of the same letter. From there, more and more characters entered our lives as the city of South Boston recycled its tennants every September. I continued to work in the Catholic Schools of Dorchester and life got easier as I settled into a routine. Another year passed and I began, once again, to crave the sultry taste of change. I moved home this past February to pay off credit cards and save for my next adventure. This change would prove to be far different...
Tuesday, October 26, 2010
Back Home...
As my time at Fordham was coming to the end, I started going through a common but unfamiliar transition. I simply had no idea what would come next, and for the first time in my life, I felt lost. I figured I had two options; I could stay in New York City and attempt to find a job contributing to some facet of the media. or I could move home to Boston and take a chance at trying something new. I chose the latter due primarily to the materialistic nature of the former. In my mind, the overwhelming attitude projected in NY was greed. I was tired of hearing about the nice things people owned and the people that could get them into clubs. I craved the familiarity of home and the comfort that Boston offered. Also, I really wanted to learn and explore the neighborhood of my origin. I moved home in May, and I would not settle until I had a plan.
During the short breaks for Christmas and the summer, I worked part time as a substitute teacher in Canton. My mother worked in a special ed classroom so I was lucky to have an in. I enjoyed the work, and even more, the lifestyle that teaching provided. I did some research as to what it would take to be a certified teacher, and what I found was promising. I didn't need to have any experience nor a degree in education. I needed a bachelor's degree and the ability to pass a couple of exams. I took them both in attempt to gauge the necessary aptitude, but was fortunate enough to pass. I applied for licensure, and a few weeks later I was granted a preliminary license in teaching English for grades 5-12. Now I had a direction.
I frantically began applying for jobs. The hiring season had began, and with no experience I was at a major disadvantage. I didn't want to work in the suburbs, as I had seen how stifled those teachers became between standardized testing and overbearing parents. I wanted to teach in the inner city as both a challenge and a reason to relocate. After sending out at least 15 application packets, I received one answer; Saint Kevin School in Upham's Corner, Dorchester. I recall parking my car in a neighborhood less secure than the Bronx and approaching a building in dire need of restoration. I walked through a concrete parking lot, eroded to the point of vehicular immobility, through a crowd of curious eyes, and into the office of Sister Paula Kelly. The interview went well, and my walk portrayed my confidence. I felt oddly at home in this alien place, and saw SKS as a great place to start my career. The next day I received a call from Sister Paula along with an offer for a one-year contract. The money was not great, but was a hell of a lot more than I ever had before. I promptly took the offer. A few weeks ago someone asked me if I considered myself an adult, and I quickly replied "yes". He then asked if I could recall the first time I felt this way. I replied, "When I received my first salary".
Up to this point, I had gone through a rough couple of months. I couldn't feel comfortable without a direction, and this new adventure provided me one. I now had the ammo to cover my first and last month's rent. It was time to begin looking at new apartments in the city of Boston. Nobody else was ready, but I was about as restless as a Naval officer coming to port. The rest of my life was ahead of me, and I was ready to go. I contacted everyone I knew, but they were all happy with where they were. Finally, I got in touch with a friend and teammate of mine from Fordham, Greg Smith. He was a year ahead of me in school and finishing up a valiant attempt at playing professional baseball. He was also dealing with a lot of uncertainty, but ready to make a move. As soon as he agreed to go along for the ride so was I. We needed a third, and luckily for us, a great man named Colin Maxey was finishing up a year as a Jesuit Volunteer. He too was looking for a change, and the three of us found it in South Boston, in the second floor apartment on 57 M. Street.
During the short breaks for Christmas and the summer, I worked part time as a substitute teacher in Canton. My mother worked in a special ed classroom so I was lucky to have an in. I enjoyed the work, and even more, the lifestyle that teaching provided. I did some research as to what it would take to be a certified teacher, and what I found was promising. I didn't need to have any experience nor a degree in education. I needed a bachelor's degree and the ability to pass a couple of exams. I took them both in attempt to gauge the necessary aptitude, but was fortunate enough to pass. I applied for licensure, and a few weeks later I was granted a preliminary license in teaching English for grades 5-12. Now I had a direction.
I frantically began applying for jobs. The hiring season had began, and with no experience I was at a major disadvantage. I didn't want to work in the suburbs, as I had seen how stifled those teachers became between standardized testing and overbearing parents. I wanted to teach in the inner city as both a challenge and a reason to relocate. After sending out at least 15 application packets, I received one answer; Saint Kevin School in Upham's Corner, Dorchester. I recall parking my car in a neighborhood less secure than the Bronx and approaching a building in dire need of restoration. I walked through a concrete parking lot, eroded to the point of vehicular immobility, through a crowd of curious eyes, and into the office of Sister Paula Kelly. The interview went well, and my walk portrayed my confidence. I felt oddly at home in this alien place, and saw SKS as a great place to start my career. The next day I received a call from Sister Paula along with an offer for a one-year contract. The money was not great, but was a hell of a lot more than I ever had before. I promptly took the offer. A few weeks ago someone asked me if I considered myself an adult, and I quickly replied "yes". He then asked if I could recall the first time I felt this way. I replied, "When I received my first salary".
Up to this point, I had gone through a rough couple of months. I couldn't feel comfortable without a direction, and this new adventure provided me one. I now had the ammo to cover my first and last month's rent. It was time to begin looking at new apartments in the city of Boston. Nobody else was ready, but I was about as restless as a Naval officer coming to port. The rest of my life was ahead of me, and I was ready to go. I contacted everyone I knew, but they were all happy with where they were. Finally, I got in touch with a friend and teammate of mine from Fordham, Greg Smith. He was a year ahead of me in school and finishing up a valiant attempt at playing professional baseball. He was also dealing with a lot of uncertainty, but ready to make a move. As soon as he agreed to go along for the ride so was I. We needed a third, and luckily for us, a great man named Colin Maxey was finishing up a year as a Jesuit Volunteer. He too was looking for a change, and the three of us found it in South Boston, in the second floor apartment on 57 M. Street.
Tuesday, September 28, 2010
A Bronx Tale
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| My New Home: The Bronx |
If you haven't figured it out yet, I like to compartmentalize my life into three very distinct divisons; mind, body, and spirit. In my world as a university student, the mind was academics, the body was baseball, and my spirit was the party. I was told upon entering that it would be impossible to balance all three, but as a thick-skinned libra, I tried my best to utilize my trusty scale. For this reason, my story will be told trilaterally.
Academia
I feel it is very unfair to force an 18-year-old boy to decide what he wants to do when they grow up. If you asked me at the time, I would have told you that I still wanted to be a professional baseball player. I began my collegiate career by announcing my major as "liberal arts" but I barely even knew what that entailed. I knew that I had interest in the human mind so my natural inclination was toward psychology. However, in choosing psych, I would need to take a plethora of science courses of which I had zero interest nor ability. Luckily, I would be able to procrasticate my declaration for another few years. My first semester I was placed into an aweful set of classes. I was never a morning person, but my rigorous baseball schedule required me to take most of my classes in the am. This was my schedule:
- Middle Eastern history taught by a nice Turkish man with an impossibly difficult accent and a lisp.
- A relatively easy sociology course with a strong-willed, feminist black woman.
- A course on historal religious texts taught by a mean, antique version of "The Flying Nun".
- An intermediate Spanish course with a former "Telemundo" actress that spent more time skipping class then the stoner across the hall.
- And my favorite, an introduction to philosophy class that was expertly run by a dude named Josh with bloodshot eyes and a tendency to walk up stairs half a step at a time.
At the end of my freshman year, I met with the dean of Fordham's school of suits(CBA) and informed him of my intent to transfer. He obliged and quickly made my move. The problem with this decision was that it was heavily influenced by my roommate and teammates. I never had any interest in becoming a businessman, in fact, I hated the idea, but it seemed like the easy way out at the time. Turns out, it absolutely wasn't. My gpa was under 3.0 for exactly 1 of the 4 years. I bet you can guess which one. I was a pretty good cheater so I was able to get through stats, and a good enough bullshitter to get through math, but accouting made me want to rip out my hair and donate it to Rogaine. I simply couldn't bring myself to pay attention because it literally gave me a stress headache. Later I would find out that there is something called "math anxiety", and if I wasn't the poster boy for it I don't know was. I made it through 1 year of CBA, enough to call business a minor, but it was time to stop procrastinating, I needed to declare a major.
At the time, I was living off-campus with Steve and two other fantastic young men, Smokin' Joe and Dufe. Steve was a suit, but both Joe and Craig were studying communications. They seemed very happy and gave me a persuasive recommendation, so I decided to choose that. Can you believe that was the way I chose my major? Paying almost $50,000 a year for tuition and room and board, I mindlessly chose what my roommates were doing. I told you, it is irresponsible to allow young men at that age to choose something that had such a huge bearing on their future. All joking aside though, I really enjoyed the courses that I took and the opportunities I was given. I focused on journalism and television production which gave me a chance to write for the sports section of the school newspaper and anchor the sports segment on the Fordham Nightly News. I knew that I didn't necessarily want to pursue a career in the media, but I liked to write, and I developed a skeptical eye toward popular culture. If not anything else at Fordham, I learned how to hate commerce and the media, not a bad lesson after all.
Athletica
I had a lot of work to do on the baseball field. The game had been such a huge part of my development that even at 18, I was still chasing my childhood dream. I definitely had a strenuous hill to climb as I needed to prove myself worthy of the same attention of the top recruits, but I was open to the challenege. I thought I was being brought in as a pitcher, but during my first practice I was moved to third base, a position that never felt comfortable to me. I was happy to learn though that my only competition for playing time was another incoming freshman named Jordan Lert. Jordan and I spent a lot of time together and we developed a very good friendship despite the fact we were competing for the same position. I did failry well my first fall, impressing my coaches with a strong arm, a fearless fielding style, and a scrappy bat that could translate to the bottom of the order. I literally worked my ass off in order to make sure the coaches didn't feel they made a mistake with me. I made it all the way through the fall season, well on my way to contributing to some solid playing time, but of course, no dreams are achieved that easily. In the last week of the season I experienced a feeling that can only be described as "dead arm". I put so much effort into my skill that I ignored the signs of a shoulder injury until one day, it died. I saw the trainer, he sent me to the doctor for an MRI, and I was shut down immediately. I was diagnosed with a partially torn rotator cuff, and I would be out of baseball activities for the next 3-4 months. This meant no hitting, throwing, or lifting weights. My hope for contributing that year were virtually over. The fall season ended, and the difficult task of rest before rehab would ensue.
The spring season began, but I was able to do nothing more than sit on the bench and chart the tendencies of opposing hitters. This actually turned out to be a pretty good job because many of my benchmates were really good guys. The camaraderie of a baseball club cannot be given justice through words, it can only be experienced first-hand. I had never had the experience because I was always on the field, but the friendships I made on that bench were some of the strongest I would develop at Fordham. Many of the guys were seniors, experienced all there was to experience, and more than happy to share their wisdom. I actually learned some of my most valuable lessons about college life cheering for my teammates, filling out charts. We did pretty well that season hovering around .500 and did well enough to make the Atlantic 10 Tournament. I was finally healthy enough to play. Because our skipper had gotten angry at the starters for underperforming down the stretch, I was actually given a couple of spot starts going into the tournament. I did the most with my playing time, getting a few timely hits while saving a few runs playing second base. I finished the season on a strong note, but it would start going downhill from there.
That summer I made the worst decision I could have made as a ballplayer. Given that I was out of shape from my lack of physical activity while rehabbing, I decided to forego playing summerball, choosing instead to focus on building my strength and conditioning. The idea made sense at the time because I ednded up putting on 15 pounds of muscle over the summer. I came back the following fall the strongest I had ever been, impressing everyone at our incumbent strength test, and getting excited looks from my coaches. Then baseball activities began, and for the life of me I couldn't get the timing of the game back. I struggled at the plate, strained muscles trying to run, and babied my arm to the point of near embarassment. The coaching staff was very helpful, giving me every chance to get my confidence back, but it was gone. I played more during my sophomore year but did less with my chances. I finished the season as a major disappointment to myself and my coaches.
That summer I made the easy decision of playing ball. I decided to join a league in Boston on a team called "The Town Club". I made the team at my natural position, shortstop, and battled the unpredicatble infields to a near all-star season. For most of the summer I even remained in the top-10 batters, helping my team to a playoff birth. I went back to Fordham that fall with my confidence back, feeling the best I had since the middle of my freshman fall. I performed well and got back in good graces with my coaching staff. I switched positions, but I was open to the change; anything to get back on the field and compete. I did very well that fall, becoming a clubhouse leader and someone that could come in and play any position on the field. I made the team again and started to prepare for the upcoming spring. That winter it all changed.
The night before our indoor practices started we went out together as a team. We partied at a local bar, consuming ample amounts of alcohol knowing that we had to get down to business for the next few months. What came next is a whole entire story in and of itself, but I will keep it short for now. I was involved in a fist-fight with a friend who lived at the baseball house. Nobody took us seriously because we had always gotten along in the past. That night however, he seemed to have something to prove. He ended up calling an ambulence and I went home unscathed. He had claimed that I sucker-pinched him but that's not how I remembered it. I tried to exercise restraint, but that proved to be difficult after getting slapped and spit on multiple times without acting. Finally I made my move and the fight didn't last very long. I went to practice the next day with a sick feeling in my stomach, the one when I knew I had done something wrong. In a fit of rage, my opponent called the police and security at Fordham. Eventhough the fight happened off-campus it got back to our coach. I arrived in the locker room and was immediately approached and told to go to security to give my side of the story. I remember what happened that night perfectly, but I wasn't the one with a fat lip and two black eyes. Unfortunately in this world, a man's word doesn't count as much as someone's reputation. My opponent was a well-connected, pre-law student that worked in the president's office. I was a baseball player, a newspaper writer and not much else. I was suspended indefinitely until the problem was resolved, and 6 weeks later I was finally found to be innocent. My opponent had taken responsibility for losing the fight, but the damage was already done. I feel out of graces once again with my coaches and they never again took me seriously as a baseball player. They allowed me back on the team, but it was obvious it was only because they felt bad. I decided to finish my life on the baseball field while we were on a trip to Miami. I remember telling my parents of my decision through tear-filled eyes over a late night meal at Dennys. It was time for me to move on from the sport I had dedicated my life to.
The Party
Like most freshman, my first home away from home was a dorm room. Mine was in the basement level of Alumni Court South. Many people have a difficult time transitioning to life in the dorms but mine was easy. I loved the idea of being surrounded by people my age, from all over the world, looking to cause the same kind of mischiev. Coming from a single-sex, strict Catholic high school I was curious to be a part of a social scene of both young men and women. I also had an advanced approach among my peers because I already new many upperclassmen that lived off-campus. This way I was able to introduce my fellow freshman to the lifestyle of our elders. I saw some unbelievable things living and partying in the Bronx. First off, the place was a virtual candyland for 18-year-old "men". Bodegas were at every corner stalked with cold beer, cheap sandwiches, and a no close policy open 24/7. The Bronx was also famous for it's pizzerias and dingy bars that were open all hours of the night. Unfortunately the Bronx has a reputation as a dangerous area, but really, I only came accross one dead body. We also had access to some of the most beautiful and lesser-known tourist attractions in NYC; The New York Botanical Garden, Bronx Zoo, and the real Little Italy (Arthur Ave). All of this was only a short walk from easy access to Manhattan. We even had a van service that ran every 30 minutes in and out of the theatrical Lincoln Center neighborhood. Our world was a playground, and I had 4 years to squeeze the most out of it.
I lived on campus, following the strict set of Jesuit rules for two years. In that time I was able to ring the victory bell signifying the first World Series win for the Red Sox in 86 years, explored the secret tunnel that stretched from Keating to Finlay, and witnessed the most controversial and entertaining indoor snowball fight in the history of the United States. I can't even begin to list the rest of the memories I made because they're either inappropriate or escape my memory. My last two years were spent living off-campus in a small, sloped apartment at 2488 Hughes Ave. I lived there at first with Steve, Joe and Dufe, but we gained a following of 6 other friends once our roach-infested neighbors moved out from below. We were known as the "Hockey House" because 5 out out of the 10 of us had spent time on the championship earning, club hockey team. We attended most games, threw intense victory parties, and earned a reputation for bringing down the house while dancing maniacally to "Shout". Life was good. I can only imagine what our landlord must have thought of us. Some of what we put him through:
- I woke him up at 7 am once after coming to life during an ice cold shower. In trying to turn it off I somehow pulled the faucet out of the wall (don't ask), and proceeded to flood the bathroom. My immediate reaction was to call 911, which I did, and was instructed to call my super. I followed the dispatcher's directions, and when he showed up I was running back and forth stark naked from the bathroom to kitchen with a bucket of water bailing out the tub.
- We threw two epic parties which were raided by the police; A New Years Eve party in September, and a Dukes of Hazard Party which ended with a semi-professional hockey team from Canada banging pots and pans until the sun came up.
- Our friend, Bubba, once stole my roommates mattress, brought it to the roof, and slept with the granddaughter of a very affluent New York business owner.
- The same friend, and the one whose mattress he stole, spent one Halloween breaking every glass item in the entire first floor apartment.
Sunday, September 26, 2010
My First Engagement with Fate
As my high school days came to a close a new phase would soon follow. My senior year was very memorable; I became a leader in my community, grew a very strong faith life, helped carry my baseball team to the state semi-finals, and bolstered my resume the best that I could. The brunt of my effort that year (2003) was spent trying to figure out my next major plot twist. Where the hell would I go to college? The following were different facets that I considered in my search:
When I was about 6- years-old my Uncle Chris decided to attend drama school in Queens, New York. Up to that point I had never seen NYC. My young self saw the move as an opportunity to see this city that stayed up so late. My father was always involved in these moves because he owned the largest vehicle and he was always up for a long drive. I remember that he laid out Chris' mattress in the back of his van so that I could sleep on the long trip down interstate 95. We left before the sun came up and arrived just as its' rays began to peak over Long Island. The first thing I saw as I awoke was a large, glowing bridge that would bring us to Queens. I looked out the back of the van and saw Manhattan, basking in the warm September sun, welcoming us the same way it did my ancestors so many years before. It was at that point I actually looked at my father and told him, "This is where I want to study". It's amazing how someone else's story has so much bearing on your own, and how you can be influenced at such a young age.
I narrowed down my list of schools to 10, just as I was instructed by my guidance counselor. I decided to focus on Boston, Philadelphia, Washington DC, New York City, and their surrounding areas. I applied to Boston Colloge, Suffolk University, UMASS Amherst, Northeastern University, University of Delaware, Villanova, George Washington, Fairfield University, Hofstra University, and my number one choice from the very beginning; Fordham University. I dont know what drew me to Fordham as I had never visited nor had seen a picture. It was just one of those things I guess, something just drew me to it.
While I was researching and compiling this list of schools I was also taking part in what are called "baseball showcases". They are exactly what the name indicates; a way in which to showcase your telent. I did pretty well but really nothing that made me stand out. Fortunately though, I was able to develop a relationship with a very important coach named Peter Hughes. At the time, Coach Hughes ran the baseball program at Boston College. Unlike many of my peers at the time, I did not fall in love with the idea of attending BC but I absolutely welcomed it. He told me that I wouldn't be a high-level recruit so I would need to get my SAT scores up, and that he wouldn't promise anything, but he would try to find a spot for me on his team. He also told me that if I ever needed a recommendation that he would gladly vouch on my behalf. Well, I didn't get my board scores up but I was accepeted into Fordham based on my academics and a few great recommendations from some very powerful people from Xaverian.
A few days upon being accepted, I contacted the coaches at Fordham and asked them if I would be able to try out for the team. My contact there was an assistant coach named Nick Restaino. He was surprised by my call because he had thought I would be picked up by then. He told me that he was happy to have me try out, but that he couldn't promise anything. He also told me that if I had anyone that had seen me play and could offer up a recommendation, to have them call him. This was all working out perfectly; I had gotten into the school of my dreams, had an opportunity to play division 1 baseball, and a perfect contact that could help me along. That was when things began to unravel.
I had felt about as good as I ever had so it was natural that I would be knowcked off my perverbially high horse. What happened next was completely unexpected and made me feel more helpless than a mouse about to be constircted by a boa. I received a letter in the mail from Fordham; it was my financial aid package. I've told you before that I come from a humble unbringing so I was relying heavily on scholarships and financial aid. Fordham is a private school and tuition at the time was running almost $50,000 per year. I opened that letter hoping to pay half that, but my hopes were not reality. To make a long story short, I would need either pay out of pocket or borrow about $160,000 in order to cover tuition. I remember sitting down to dinner that night and my parents telling me I would have to choose another school. I immediately lashed out asking, "how could I have worked so hard, done everything I was asked to do, and still be unable to follow my dream"? I just couldn't understand the unfairness. Just as I was questioning myself, my faith, and the justness of the world I received a phone call from Coach Restaino. I quickly moved to another room to hear what he had to say. He had told me that he spoke to Coach Hughes and he was calling to offer me a spot on the Fordham baseball team. I had to explain to him, heartbroken, that I had just recieved my financial aid package and my attending his school was in jeaopardy. You could hear the sorrow in my voice, but his had a glimpse of optomism. He said, "let me call a friend in the financial aid office and see what I can do". I waited anxiously by my phone for what seemed like days until he called back. The call went like this:
Coach Nick: "Matt, I have some great news, I think I may have found a way for you to afford tuition".
Me: (answering quickly and excitedly) "What is it"?
Coach Nick: "Well I spoke to my friend in financial aid and he informed me that he had an academic grant available as long as you are able to keep a 3.0 gpa".
Me: (nervously) "I can handle that".
Coach Nick: "The grant is for $18,500 per year and you will be able to keep the $7,500 that was already a part of your package".
Me: (speechless)
Coach Nick: So that would be $26,000 a year you wouldn't need to pay, is that something your family could afford"?
Me: (still basically speeachless) Yes, thank you very much for your help, this is unbelievable, thank you so much".
The rest was pretty basic but you get the point.
I returned to the dinner table with a smile reaching all the way to the bottoms of my feet, I literally felt elecrtified. I told them what had happened and we celebrated.
There I was, about as down on myself and the system of the world that I had ever been, but a sliver of hope was thrown my way. The events that had led up to that day are still so clearly entrenched in my mind. I can honestly say that was one of the most substantial events of my life. I had been raised to believe in hope and kharma but I never understood the power of these seemingly supernatural things. I remember laughing at my parents when they said things like, "what goes around comes around", and "I won't take advantage of that person for fear that I will be taken advantage of in the future". I learned that day that they couldn't have been more accurate. There I was, one step away from reaching the goal in which I had worked so diligently for, only to be disappointed. But the universe picked me back up. It was only through the gift of hindsight that I could look back and see how each event led to the next, and how they led me so carefully through the learning process. I would never again doubt the system of the universe, nor would I lose hope. I needed to experience the feeling of hurt in order to realize how lucky I was to be in my position. From here on I would avoid the feeling of discouragement because if you continue to believe, anything is possible.
- I knew that I wanted to play baseball so I narrowed down my search to schools that had division 1 programs that I feel I could play at.
- Obviously my gpa (3.0) and SAT scores (1160) would limit where I would be accepted.
- I wanted my setting to be urban and close enough to home in order travel easily on hollidays.
- I loved the city of Boston, but I wanted a change of scenery while I had the chance.
When I was about 6- years-old my Uncle Chris decided to attend drama school in Queens, New York. Up to that point I had never seen NYC. My young self saw the move as an opportunity to see this city that stayed up so late. My father was always involved in these moves because he owned the largest vehicle and he was always up for a long drive. I remember that he laid out Chris' mattress in the back of his van so that I could sleep on the long trip down interstate 95. We left before the sun came up and arrived just as its' rays began to peak over Long Island. The first thing I saw as I awoke was a large, glowing bridge that would bring us to Queens. I looked out the back of the van and saw Manhattan, basking in the warm September sun, welcoming us the same way it did my ancestors so many years before. It was at that point I actually looked at my father and told him, "This is where I want to study". It's amazing how someone else's story has so much bearing on your own, and how you can be influenced at such a young age.
I narrowed down my list of schools to 10, just as I was instructed by my guidance counselor. I decided to focus on Boston, Philadelphia, Washington DC, New York City, and their surrounding areas. I applied to Boston Colloge, Suffolk University, UMASS Amherst, Northeastern University, University of Delaware, Villanova, George Washington, Fairfield University, Hofstra University, and my number one choice from the very beginning; Fordham University. I dont know what drew me to Fordham as I had never visited nor had seen a picture. It was just one of those things I guess, something just drew me to it.
While I was researching and compiling this list of schools I was also taking part in what are called "baseball showcases". They are exactly what the name indicates; a way in which to showcase your telent. I did pretty well but really nothing that made me stand out. Fortunately though, I was able to develop a relationship with a very important coach named Peter Hughes. At the time, Coach Hughes ran the baseball program at Boston College. Unlike many of my peers at the time, I did not fall in love with the idea of attending BC but I absolutely welcomed it. He told me that I wouldn't be a high-level recruit so I would need to get my SAT scores up, and that he wouldn't promise anything, but he would try to find a spot for me on his team. He also told me that if I ever needed a recommendation that he would gladly vouch on my behalf. Well, I didn't get my board scores up but I was accepeted into Fordham based on my academics and a few great recommendations from some very powerful people from Xaverian.
A few days upon being accepted, I contacted the coaches at Fordham and asked them if I would be able to try out for the team. My contact there was an assistant coach named Nick Restaino. He was surprised by my call because he had thought I would be picked up by then. He told me that he was happy to have me try out, but that he couldn't promise anything. He also told me that if I had anyone that had seen me play and could offer up a recommendation, to have them call him. This was all working out perfectly; I had gotten into the school of my dreams, had an opportunity to play division 1 baseball, and a perfect contact that could help me along. That was when things began to unravel.
I had felt about as good as I ever had so it was natural that I would be knowcked off my perverbially high horse. What happened next was completely unexpected and made me feel more helpless than a mouse about to be constircted by a boa. I received a letter in the mail from Fordham; it was my financial aid package. I've told you before that I come from a humble unbringing so I was relying heavily on scholarships and financial aid. Fordham is a private school and tuition at the time was running almost $50,000 per year. I opened that letter hoping to pay half that, but my hopes were not reality. To make a long story short, I would need either pay out of pocket or borrow about $160,000 in order to cover tuition. I remember sitting down to dinner that night and my parents telling me I would have to choose another school. I immediately lashed out asking, "how could I have worked so hard, done everything I was asked to do, and still be unable to follow my dream"? I just couldn't understand the unfairness. Just as I was questioning myself, my faith, and the justness of the world I received a phone call from Coach Restaino. I quickly moved to another room to hear what he had to say. He had told me that he spoke to Coach Hughes and he was calling to offer me a spot on the Fordham baseball team. I had to explain to him, heartbroken, that I had just recieved my financial aid package and my attending his school was in jeaopardy. You could hear the sorrow in my voice, but his had a glimpse of optomism. He said, "let me call a friend in the financial aid office and see what I can do". I waited anxiously by my phone for what seemed like days until he called back. The call went like this:
Coach Nick: "Matt, I have some great news, I think I may have found a way for you to afford tuition".
Me: (answering quickly and excitedly) "What is it"?
Coach Nick: "Well I spoke to my friend in financial aid and he informed me that he had an academic grant available as long as you are able to keep a 3.0 gpa".
Me: (nervously) "I can handle that".
Coach Nick: "The grant is for $18,500 per year and you will be able to keep the $7,500 that was already a part of your package".
Me: (speechless)
Coach Nick: So that would be $26,000 a year you wouldn't need to pay, is that something your family could afford"?
Me: (still basically speeachless) Yes, thank you very much for your help, this is unbelievable, thank you so much".
The rest was pretty basic but you get the point.
I returned to the dinner table with a smile reaching all the way to the bottoms of my feet, I literally felt elecrtified. I told them what had happened and we celebrated.
There I was, about as down on myself and the system of the world that I had ever been, but a sliver of hope was thrown my way. The events that had led up to that day are still so clearly entrenched in my mind. I can honestly say that was one of the most substantial events of my life. I had been raised to believe in hope and kharma but I never understood the power of these seemingly supernatural things. I remember laughing at my parents when they said things like, "what goes around comes around", and "I won't take advantage of that person for fear that I will be taken advantage of in the future". I learned that day that they couldn't have been more accurate. There I was, one step away from reaching the goal in which I had worked so diligently for, only to be disappointed. But the universe picked me back up. It was only through the gift of hindsight that I could look back and see how each event led to the next, and how they led me so carefully through the learning process. I would never again doubt the system of the universe, nor would I lose hope. I needed to experience the feeling of hurt in order to realize how lucky I was to be in my position. From here on I would avoid the feeling of discouragement because if you continue to believe, anything is possible.
Life at the X...
Here is a bit of information about Xaverian Brothers High School:
Catholic college preparatory school for boys in grades 9 - 12
A Xaverian Brothers (C.F.X.) sponsored school
Over 900 students enrolled from over 60 communities
Established in 1962 in Westwood, Massachusetts
10,000 alumni living throughout the world
A highly educated faculty; 88% hold graduate degrees
82% of all students taking Advanced Placement Exams scored 3 or higher
44 extracurricular activities allow students at all levels to be involved in the Xaverian Brothers High School Community
The Campus Ministry Department conducts 18 volunteer programs allowing students to further their spiritual development
16 Division 1 athletic programs allow student-athletes to compete with the best in Massachusetts
16 Advanced Placement Courses
Many campus improvements including Campus Ministry Center, Music Center, renovated Theater, renovated Cafeteria, and new athletics facilities
Xaverian is equipped with eight teaching computer labs designated for Computer Science, Modern Language, Science, Music, and the Art Center
Those are some pretty serious credentials, but to be honest, I was blissfully unaware of just about all this information upon entering. The information I carried was that it was known for having a rigorous academic curriculum, a challenging and uber-competitive athletic program, and NO girls. All three of these things were extreme deapartures from the friendly confines of Canton Public Schools. I was placed into mostly honors level courses so I knew that I'd be challenged academically. I had heard rumors of over hundreds of young men going out for every athletic team so I knew I'd be challenged athletically. I knew few students entering my first day so I knew I'd be challenged socially. Overall I knew my inate competitive nature and the confidence I had built up would get its first real test.
My freshman year of high school can be assessed in a couple different ways. Academically, I did fairly well, receiving second honors (80 average or above) for the entire year. I was very proud of this feat because I accomplished it while also excelling athletically. I had made and contributed to the football, basketball and baseball teams, the three most popular sports at Xaverian. Socially however, I had failed . I finished the year without making many friends, and worse, without even trying. Even at single-sex schools your social status is defined by whom you sit with in the cafeteria. To sum up my freshman year, I was still sitting with my friends and aquaintances from Canton. I had a very difficult time transitioning into my new setting, and as a result, I was unable to grow. To describe my attitude as poor would be an understatement. I had a very strong appetite for socialization and after one full year I was left starving.
During the next few years I ended up adapting much better but my development came very slowly. I quit basketball after one year because I felt burnt out. Varsity football turned out to be a disaster as I never fully adopted the mindset that translated to success on the football field. I called it a career after my sophomore year. The one sport that I stuck with was baseball, the sport that had been a part of my life from the very beginning and the one I wanted to pursue at the highest of levels. A few injuries had curbed my progress as a player but my childhood dream had remained strong. The new addition to my life, which came at a time that I had pushed my jock characterization to the side was leadership. After quitting football and basketball my hands felt very idle. I needed a new focus and direction outside of the classroom, and for the first time of my life it wasn't athletics. I decided to join a program called Spirit Hawk that was designed to allow students of all ages to develop and share ideas of faith, politics, current events and basically anything else on their minds in a small group setting. I joined as a sophomore, but during my junior and senior years I took on a leadership role. I also began to lead and design retreats, part religious, but mostly social develoment. I learned at this time that I had gained a lot of wisdom for a 17-year-old, and more importantly, the skills required to share that wisdom. I didn't know it then, but this was the very beginning of my teaching career.
Also at this time I began experimenting with alcohol and I took a liking to it quite quickly. I had always been a reserved person but drinking made me feel more outgoing and more confident. Drinking also allowed me to get back in good favor with my friends from Canton. Not that they were a bunch of lushes, but going to parties helped me feel like I was back in a group. I will get back to this at a later date, but I will say now that partying became a very big part of my life from this point on. By the end of my senior year I was a much different character then the one I had walked in as. It took me a while but I was able to grow in all three facets of life; cognitively, physically, and socially. I developed many new friendships, some of which I still cherish today. I also received guidance from teachers and administrators who gave me invaluable advice that has helped carry me to where I am today. My journey through high school, like all trips, had its peaks and troughs, but it helped form the man that I am today.
Some of the advice I received: (I'm sure there's more, but this is what stands out)
- Keep a journal
- Physical conflict will only lead to trouble
- You don't need to prove yourself to anyone but yourself
- Don't use cliches, come up with something original
- Your faith is unique, it must be formed independently to you
- Everybody sees the world through their own unique worldview
Saturday, September 25, 2010
The Origin of Zeal...
During the opening orientation at Xaverian Brothers High School, we were welcomed as incoming freshman of the graduating class of 2003. We listened as many teachers and administrators spoke to us in an attempt to give us a glimpse of the wisdom they would be passing onto us. It was obvious that they spent much time in choosing their words, editing their diction, and rehearsing the inflection of their voices, but 10 years later I can honestly say I remember very little, sorry guys. The one thing that I have carried with me though was an address given by the principal of the freshman class, Michael Welch, who is now the Headmaster at Saint John's High School in Shrewsbury, MA. He began by explaining to us the importance of what he called our worldview. He defined worldview as the unique perspective that each of us had developed through the first 13 years of our existence. Without knowing it, I was already being trained in the art of seeing the world through different lenses by trying to empathize with the diverse perspectives of the people around me. He continuously emphasized that although our worldviews were diverse, they would be converging in this unique learning experience we were about to embark on. He then went onto explain the Xaverian Brothers' philosophy on their approach to education. Their Mission Statement is as follows:
What was left out of this statement, and what Mr. Welch wanted to add was the element of zeal. It was the way in which we, as students, should approach every new challenge in our lives. The word zeal is defined as a fervent or enthusiastic devotion, often extreme or fanatical in nature, as to a religious movement, political cause, ideal, or aspiration. Now, I didn't follow Mr. Welch's advice at first, it has taken me many years to understand it's importance. I spent many years aspiring for goodness and avoiding mediocrity, but what I lacked was zeal. I can unhappily say that I have never given anything the 110% effort it takes to become great. Fortunately, I have done pretty well for myself up to this point, but I am done accepting it. In choosing the namesake for this blog I wanted to embrace the new approach I have adopted in my relentless pursuit toward greatness.
Xaverian Brothers High School, a Catholic college-preparatory school for boys, cherishes its identity as a Xaverian Brothers Sponsored School. Drawing on the traditions of the past, living in the strength of the present and preparing for the needs of the future, Xaverian Brothers High School is a community of faith and learning that is committed to developing the integration of spiritual, moral, intellectual, physical, emotional, cultural and social dimensions within each young man. Through participation in academic, extracurricular, athletic and campus ministry programs, a Xaverian graduate will be prepared to meet the demands of higher education, to contribute to society, and to answer the call of Christian service.
What was left out of this statement, and what Mr. Welch wanted to add was the element of zeal. It was the way in which we, as students, should approach every new challenge in our lives. The word zeal is defined as a fervent or enthusiastic devotion, often extreme or fanatical in nature, as to a religious movement, political cause, ideal, or aspiration. Now, I didn't follow Mr. Welch's advice at first, it has taken me many years to understand it's importance. I spent many years aspiring for goodness and avoiding mediocrity, but what I lacked was zeal. I can unhappily say that I have never given anything the 110% effort it takes to become great. Fortunately, I have done pretty well for myself up to this point, but I am done accepting it. In choosing the namesake for this blog I wanted to embrace the new approach I have adopted in my relentless pursuit toward greatness.
My First Major Plot Twist...
Up until this point, my setting had been chosen for me by my parents. The homes I lived in, the school I attended, and the time in which my life had occurred came as a result of someone else's decisions. I had attended Canton Public Schools from pre-school through 8th grade and it was now time to decide where I would be furthering my studies. Going into the 7th grade, my mother had forced me, against my will, to take the ISEE exam. This was for entrance into the Independent School system. These schools were all private, well touted, and comparitively priced to many private universities, so nothing materialized from that. It was a good experience though because I was able to see what other schools were out there, and what it would take to be a student at one of them. Eighth grade came and I continued to excel academically, athletically, and socially. I had fully intended on moving on with my friends to Canton High School but something didn't feel right. Although Canton was my home, and I loved my friends, I felt as if I wasn't being pushed to reach my full potential, rather I was able to basically coast to all my achievements. In the spring of 1999, heading toward graduation, I watched as many of my peers were admitted to some of the more prestigious private schools in the area. I knew that my skills could match, and even exceed theirs, so I took it as a challenge. I knew my parents would support me so I went home and told my mother that I wanted to take the entrance exam. Not only did she support me but she was elated that I was taking initiative toward my future. Although it was very late in the process, and there were very few spots left open, they allowed me to take the test anyway. I remember taking the exam early on a warm, spring morning. There were a few others in the room at the time, and I remember carrying myself with confidence knowing, in the back of my mind, that it was a long-shot for me to be accepted. I went home knowing that I had done what I could. A week later I received a call from Xaverian Brothers High School informing me that I had been accepted. My emotions were torn because I knew I had my first major decision in front of me. Do I take this opportunity to move out of my comfort zone and challenege myself, or do I go the more comfortable route, please my friends, and always wonder what could have been? I decided, after a few weeks of deliberation to take the road less traveled and enroll at XBHS. I look back now and couldn't even imagine another way...
The Road Not Taken- by Robert Frost
| TWO roads diverged in a yellow wood, | |
| And sorry I could not travel both | |
| And be one traveler, long I stood | |
| And looked down one as far as I could | |
| To where it bent in the undergrowth; | 5 |
| Then took the other, as just as fair, | |
| And having perhaps the better claim, | |
| Because it was grassy and wanted wear; | |
| Though as for that the passing there | |
| Had worn them really about the same, | 10 |
| And both that morning equally lay | |
| In leaves no step had trodden black. | |
| Oh, I kept the first for another day! | |
| Yet knowing how way leads on to way, | |
| I doubted if I should ever come back. | 15 |
| I shall be telling this with a sigh | |
| Somewhere ages and ages hence: | |
| Two roads diverged in a wood, and I— | |
| I took the one less traveled by, | |
| And that has made all the difference. |
Friday, September 24, 2010
My First Major Transition
When I was 10-years-old my parents began looking to buy a new home. Until then, they had rented in the town of Canton, which was the right move at the time, but they felt that it was time to actually own a home. They started looking in Canton, but unfortunately the popularity of the town had grown, and with that, the real estate prices began to grow. Living in Canton for 10 years, I had grown a very strong nostalgia for the area. I had made many friends, some enemies, but it was the familiarity that I had grown to love. Once I felt comfortable there, it was very difficult to convince me that settling somewhere else was the right decision. It still wasn't my story, but I still had an influence over my parents in that they wanted me to be happy. Luckily for me, one morning as we were driving to the neighboring town of Stoughton (Canton's arch-rival) to look at homes, we stumbled across a "open house" sign in the last neighborhood before the town border. We drove down to 29 Rebecca Road only to find what can only be described as a natural disaster of a house, I can't even call it a home. The previous owner had grown old and quickly became reclusive, giving up on simple maintenance and upkeep. The front of the house was barely visible from the road as straggly pine trees acted as a wall separating the small ranch from the world around it. The yard was a mine field of dog and other animal feces from the two doberman's that roamed freely. The wooden shingles were scarred and covered with small blemishes from the harsh winters the house had endured. Inside, the reclusive owner had, like a pack-rat, kept every artifact from his life, from magazines to antiques, photographs, and garbage. The old wallpaper in the bedrooms reminded me of the haunted houses I had seen in the horror movies that frightened me as a child. There was no way that this would be my new home. But low and behold I could see the excitement growing on my parents' faces, "a fixer-upper", they called it. I couldn't believe my own ears as they put forth an offer to the real estate agent that was hosting the open house. I didn't understand it then, but the cost of the house was nearly half the amount of any other house they had seen, it was a new home that they could afford in the town their children wanted. They had something that I had not developed yet; a vision.
My father is a flooring man by occupation, but he is very handy with just about anything he can build or fix with his hands. He saw this new house as an opportunity to let his hands create the magic that he believed they could. My mother, who has a simple knack for decorating, trusted my father's abilities and would later add her own flare to the new home. As the construction began, my family moved temporarily with my Aunt Cheryl in my father's hometown of Dedham. There, we shared the guest room for one month as family and friends helped build the new home. It was like the olden days when the entire town would join together as a community to help build a new barn, or help make repairs to an old house that had been damaged. I can still remember the smell of the fresh paint and sawdust, which still remain as two of my favorite scents. I watched as that dingy old house transitioned into a proper home for us to live, and it became my new setting; 29 Rebecca Road.
Fifth grade going onto sixth was a very important time in my life. I had just began growing into my body and mind. Up until that point my biggest concerns were exploring the back woods, hitting baseballs into my neighbor's yard, completing 100 straight free throws, and dominating the athletic fields at recess. I was a good student, not necessarily on my own accord, but as my mother had forced me to become. She taught me during those days a very important lesson for the classroom; the schoolwork you turn in is a direct reflection of who you are as a person. This is why the projects I created had looked like mini masterpieces. This was the time in my life that I started to notice the opposite sex, and when I saw they started to notice me. I consider this transition in my life to be when I moved on from sweat pants to jeans.
I feel most people hated their middle school years, but for me they were some of my best. It was there that I was able to start authoring my story. I began to choose more carefully the clothing I wore and the friends I made. I started going to parties on the weekend where we'd play truth or dare and bounced on trampolines trying to sneak quick feels of our young female counterparts. It was a very innocent time when we started to explore our developing bodies and exert our talents. These years were very important to me, because up to that point, I considered myself to be very shy. The confidence that I gained through socialization with my peers during that time helped me build confidence. I feel that confidence is a necessary ingredient to success, which is how you come to take risks. This confidence helped me grow and cope with some major changes in my life. During this time I had my first encounter with death, as my grandmother had just passed away after a 12-round bout with cancer. I was also dealing with the transition to my new home, making new friends, and becoming a more outgoing young man. These were all things that may have knocked me down if not for my new sense of self-confidence.
Those three years passed by as quickly as I could have imagined, but I was lucky to have learned so many lessons because I had a very important decision looming. Where would I go next?
My father is a flooring man by occupation, but he is very handy with just about anything he can build or fix with his hands. He saw this new house as an opportunity to let his hands create the magic that he believed they could. My mother, who has a simple knack for decorating, trusted my father's abilities and would later add her own flare to the new home. As the construction began, my family moved temporarily with my Aunt Cheryl in my father's hometown of Dedham. There, we shared the guest room for one month as family and friends helped build the new home. It was like the olden days when the entire town would join together as a community to help build a new barn, or help make repairs to an old house that had been damaged. I can still remember the smell of the fresh paint and sawdust, which still remain as two of my favorite scents. I watched as that dingy old house transitioned into a proper home for us to live, and it became my new setting; 29 Rebecca Road.
Fifth grade going onto sixth was a very important time in my life. I had just began growing into my body and mind. Up until that point my biggest concerns were exploring the back woods, hitting baseballs into my neighbor's yard, completing 100 straight free throws, and dominating the athletic fields at recess. I was a good student, not necessarily on my own accord, but as my mother had forced me to become. She taught me during those days a very important lesson for the classroom; the schoolwork you turn in is a direct reflection of who you are as a person. This is why the projects I created had looked like mini masterpieces. This was the time in my life that I started to notice the opposite sex, and when I saw they started to notice me. I consider this transition in my life to be when I moved on from sweat pants to jeans.
I feel most people hated their middle school years, but for me they were some of my best. It was there that I was able to start authoring my story. I began to choose more carefully the clothing I wore and the friends I made. I started going to parties on the weekend where we'd play truth or dare and bounced on trampolines trying to sneak quick feels of our young female counterparts. It was a very innocent time when we started to explore our developing bodies and exert our talents. These years were very important to me, because up to that point, I considered myself to be very shy. The confidence that I gained through socialization with my peers during that time helped me build confidence. I feel that confidence is a necessary ingredient to success, which is how you come to take risks. This confidence helped me grow and cope with some major changes in my life. During this time I had my first encounter with death, as my grandmother had just passed away after a 12-round bout with cancer. I was also dealing with the transition to my new home, making new friends, and becoming a more outgoing young man. These were all things that may have knocked me down if not for my new sense of self-confidence.
Those three years passed by as quickly as I could have imagined, but I was lucky to have learned so many lessons because I had a very important decision looming. Where would I go next?
Wednesday, September 22, 2010
My Childhood Background
Yesterday I provided you with one of the philosophies I follow closely while living my life, today I will provide you with some autobiographical information so you can get to know me on a more personal level. Please bear with my as I feel that a close attention to detail is very improtant in getting to know someone...
I was born on October 6th, 1984 to Peter and Kathy Lovetere, who were married 13 months prior. Their stories became intertwined a few years earlier while Kathy was working at a restaurant with Peter's younger sister, Denise. Kathy was a city girl with a very close-knit family from South Boston. My father grew up in a suburb of Boston called Dedham, and he made it clear with his appearance that he wasn't going to be confused with a disco prince. The two couldn't be more different, yet they shared a bond rooted in adventure which allowed them to grow very close. Soon after they, met they left town on a trans-American trip with only their dreams and Kathy's ever-obedient dog, Dutchess. Their need for adventure was far reaching enough that even Kathy's mother, brother, and cousins decided to make the drive as well, albeit in different vehicles. You see, my need for adventure began even before the idea of me had, my story was already being shaped. When my parents returned, they soon chose their new setting together in Canton, a small, blue-collar town not too far from Dedham. It was also the new home of Kathy's mother, Pauline. Really, it was a perfect place to settle, quiet, but very close to the city of their origin. Soon after they found their new home, they decided to embark on an even more adventurous undertaking; parenthood.
I was born in Boston, and a few days later traveled to my parents small apartment on Church St. I was too young to remember this place, but I still consider it to be my first home. They intended on naming me William, which was a name very dear to my mother. Her father's name was William, but he was an abusive alcoholic that refused to transition into family life. However, the name was not chosen because of him, rather she had an Uncle Billy that passed away at a young age in a motorcycle accident who happened to be her favorite uncle. Also, her older brother was named William, so the name was very common in the O'Keefe/Hackett families. When I was born though, I guess I didn't look like a William, so instead they chose a name that wasn't even in their minds; Matthew. Later I would find out that the name Matthew means "gift from God", I like that. The surname of my character, Lovetere, translates to "lover of the Earth", also something I like. So there it was, a new character was born; The gift from God that loved the Earth.
The setting of Canton is quite nice. During the 1970's, a time when Boston politicians were attempting to force integration in an effort known as "bussing", many residents of the city decided to move out to the surrounding suburbs. This is what inspired my grandmother to move out of Boston, and is also the reason my mother wasn't given a fair chance at a proper education. It is hard to learn about history, literature, and mathematics when you are more concerned with the territorial wars between the white students and the black. This movement was what prompted Canton to become one of the more populated suburbs in the area, that and the fact it is bordered by the two busiest thoroughfares in the state. This location is what allowed my father to build his own company from the ground up. He also didn't attend college, but his decision was based on the fact that in high school he had to choose between a college track, and that of a trade. At the time he was making excellent money laying carpet, so he decided to continue on that track. Although he would never take that that decision back, as he has been successful in building his company and working for himself, it may have been a very different story if he wasn't forced to make such a lofty decision as a 16-year-old with a hefty wad of cash in his pocket. My mother stayed at home with me, as she is inherently a nurturer, maybe moreso than anyone else on this planet. She had been taking care of people from the time she was 4-years-old, when her mother made the courageous decision to divorce her husband at the age of 24. It was in her nature from the very beginning to be a mother, so it only made since that she would be a homemaker. This would eventually change as we got older, as she would take a job working in the cafeteria of the local elementary school, which then turned into the position of office aide, and eventually to teacher's aide in a special education classroom, a position she still holds now. There we lived for three years together, a model of the Holy Family coincidentally living on Church St, go figure.
Three years later, my parents finally had their son named Billy. We had eventually moved into a faded, yellow duplex on Pequit St. I can honestly say now that I couldn't have imagined a more pleasant, more exciting place to grow up. The four of us had a whole entire world of play surrounding us. We had a huge backyard, or I thought it was huge as a young boy. I go back now to visit and see that it's not quite as big as I rememeber. It was here that I learned to love athletics. We had a big, square-shaped driveway that we turned into a basketball court. My industrious father built a wooden wall that acted as a baseball backstop, and he even hung a tire to a tree that would act as my strike zone when I learned how to pitch. Beyond that, we had what we called the "back lane", a safehaven for all the neighborhood kids to ride bikes and socialize on a paved, private road that only one car would drive down. Here was where I met my childhood and lifelong friends, the Milligans and Iwanoskis. Beyond the backlane, there was a wildlife sanctuary that was sponsored by the Audobon Society. That was the home of my first real adventures. Sometimes I would go alone, but most of the time Justin Milliagan and I would climb trees, build forts, and hunt for salamanders. Looking back, I cannot fathom how my parents allowed me to venture at such a young age to this "wild" place. When Billy was old enough, even he would tag along, trailblazing into the great unknown. When I was seven-years-old my parents had their third child, a bautiful girl they called Maeghan or "Maggie". I took the role as big brother as proudly as anyone, and we lived on Pequit St for another three years until it was time for our big move to our first real house. That is where I began telling my own story...
I was born on October 6th, 1984 to Peter and Kathy Lovetere, who were married 13 months prior. Their stories became intertwined a few years earlier while Kathy was working at a restaurant with Peter's younger sister, Denise. Kathy was a city girl with a very close-knit family from South Boston. My father grew up in a suburb of Boston called Dedham, and he made it clear with his appearance that he wasn't going to be confused with a disco prince. The two couldn't be more different, yet they shared a bond rooted in adventure which allowed them to grow very close. Soon after they, met they left town on a trans-American trip with only their dreams and Kathy's ever-obedient dog, Dutchess. Their need for adventure was far reaching enough that even Kathy's mother, brother, and cousins decided to make the drive as well, albeit in different vehicles. You see, my need for adventure began even before the idea of me had, my story was already being shaped. When my parents returned, they soon chose their new setting together in Canton, a small, blue-collar town not too far from Dedham. It was also the new home of Kathy's mother, Pauline. Really, it was a perfect place to settle, quiet, but very close to the city of their origin. Soon after they found their new home, they decided to embark on an even more adventurous undertaking; parenthood.
I was born in Boston, and a few days later traveled to my parents small apartment on Church St. I was too young to remember this place, but I still consider it to be my first home. They intended on naming me William, which was a name very dear to my mother. Her father's name was William, but he was an abusive alcoholic that refused to transition into family life. However, the name was not chosen because of him, rather she had an Uncle Billy that passed away at a young age in a motorcycle accident who happened to be her favorite uncle. Also, her older brother was named William, so the name was very common in the O'Keefe/Hackett families. When I was born though, I guess I didn't look like a William, so instead they chose a name that wasn't even in their minds; Matthew. Later I would find out that the name Matthew means "gift from God", I like that. The surname of my character, Lovetere, translates to "lover of the Earth", also something I like. So there it was, a new character was born; The gift from God that loved the Earth.
The setting of Canton is quite nice. During the 1970's, a time when Boston politicians were attempting to force integration in an effort known as "bussing", many residents of the city decided to move out to the surrounding suburbs. This is what inspired my grandmother to move out of Boston, and is also the reason my mother wasn't given a fair chance at a proper education. It is hard to learn about history, literature, and mathematics when you are more concerned with the territorial wars between the white students and the black. This movement was what prompted Canton to become one of the more populated suburbs in the area, that and the fact it is bordered by the two busiest thoroughfares in the state. This location is what allowed my father to build his own company from the ground up. He also didn't attend college, but his decision was based on the fact that in high school he had to choose between a college track, and that of a trade. At the time he was making excellent money laying carpet, so he decided to continue on that track. Although he would never take that that decision back, as he has been successful in building his company and working for himself, it may have been a very different story if he wasn't forced to make such a lofty decision as a 16-year-old with a hefty wad of cash in his pocket. My mother stayed at home with me, as she is inherently a nurturer, maybe moreso than anyone else on this planet. She had been taking care of people from the time she was 4-years-old, when her mother made the courageous decision to divorce her husband at the age of 24. It was in her nature from the very beginning to be a mother, so it only made since that she would be a homemaker. This would eventually change as we got older, as she would take a job working in the cafeteria of the local elementary school, which then turned into the position of office aide, and eventually to teacher's aide in a special education classroom, a position she still holds now. There we lived for three years together, a model of the Holy Family coincidentally living on Church St, go figure.
Three years later, my parents finally had their son named Billy. We had eventually moved into a faded, yellow duplex on Pequit St. I can honestly say now that I couldn't have imagined a more pleasant, more exciting place to grow up. The four of us had a whole entire world of play surrounding us. We had a huge backyard, or I thought it was huge as a young boy. I go back now to visit and see that it's not quite as big as I rememeber. It was here that I learned to love athletics. We had a big, square-shaped driveway that we turned into a basketball court. My industrious father built a wooden wall that acted as a baseball backstop, and he even hung a tire to a tree that would act as my strike zone when I learned how to pitch. Beyond that, we had what we called the "back lane", a safehaven for all the neighborhood kids to ride bikes and socialize on a paved, private road that only one car would drive down. Here was where I met my childhood and lifelong friends, the Milligans and Iwanoskis. Beyond the backlane, there was a wildlife sanctuary that was sponsored by the Audobon Society. That was the home of my first real adventures. Sometimes I would go alone, but most of the time Justin Milliagan and I would climb trees, build forts, and hunt for salamanders. Looking back, I cannot fathom how my parents allowed me to venture at such a young age to this "wild" place. When Billy was old enough, even he would tag along, trailblazing into the great unknown. When I was seven-years-old my parents had their third child, a bautiful girl they called Maeghan or "Maggie". I took the role as big brother as proudly as anyone, and we lived on Pequit St for another three years until it was time for our big move to our first real house. That is where I began telling my own story...
Tuesday, September 21, 2010
Life is a story, be original...
Im not so sure that a rhetorical question is the way to begin a blog, but it's my first try so I don't know another way...
Have you ever heard of a narrative paradigm? For those of you who haven't, here is the definition provided by everyone's favorite source of information, Wikipedia. The Narrative Paradigm is a theory proposed by Walter Fisher that all meaningful communication is a form of storytelling or giving a report of events (see narrative) and so human beings experience and comprehend life as a series of ongoing narratives, each with their own conflicts, characters, beginnings, middles, and ends. Basically, it is the belief that life is a story, and that all humans are essentially authoring their own stories within the events of their lives. Still confused? Let me explain...
All of our lives begin the same way, as characters in another story, our mother's and/or father's. The name of are character was chosen, we were given clothing to wear and food to eat. Our setting was also already chosen for us, the home we were brought into. The other elements of our story; the characters involved, the conflicts, and all of the plot twists were all a part of the story of our parents. Eventually, we are given the ability by them to begin making our own decisions based on the knowledge they shared with us. Although they may not have been telling our stories at this point, their influence was still very clear. As we get even older, and begin to shape our independent selves, our own stories begin to take shape. We are able to choose our characters, and eventually even our settting. We can add and subtract people from our lives as we choose, we can decide which profession we want to undertake, and the decisions we make ultimately become our plot. Are you still following?
Now, this isn't scripture, it is theory, but it's a theory that I came to adopt toward the end of my studies at Fordham University. A man named James Van Oosting, or JVO as he was known by his friends (and students) started each of his courses by explaining this idea. That idea has stuck with me ever since, and in a way is what inspired me to live my life in such a unique way. When I was given a chance to decorate my first classroom, I really wanted to teach this message to my students. They were not quite advanced as I was when I first heard it, as they were actually in the 6th grade, so I needed to tweak the message for a less cognitively developed audience. I simply put at the focal point of my classroom the following saying; "Life is a story, be original". I believe that I have followed this advice to my fullest, and my hope is that at least some of my students will remember it the same way I did.
Hopefully this will give you a new way of looking at your life if you haven't already...
Have you ever heard of a narrative paradigm? For those of you who haven't, here is the definition provided by everyone's favorite source of information, Wikipedia. The Narrative Paradigm is a theory proposed by Walter Fisher that all meaningful communication is a form of storytelling or giving a report of events (see narrative) and so human beings experience and comprehend life as a series of ongoing narratives, each with their own conflicts, characters, beginnings, middles, and ends. Basically, it is the belief that life is a story, and that all humans are essentially authoring their own stories within the events of their lives. Still confused? Let me explain...
All of our lives begin the same way, as characters in another story, our mother's and/or father's. The name of are character was chosen, we were given clothing to wear and food to eat. Our setting was also already chosen for us, the home we were brought into. The other elements of our story; the characters involved, the conflicts, and all of the plot twists were all a part of the story of our parents. Eventually, we are given the ability by them to begin making our own decisions based on the knowledge they shared with us. Although they may not have been telling our stories at this point, their influence was still very clear. As we get even older, and begin to shape our independent selves, our own stories begin to take shape. We are able to choose our characters, and eventually even our settting. We can add and subtract people from our lives as we choose, we can decide which profession we want to undertake, and the decisions we make ultimately become our plot. Are you still following?
Now, this isn't scripture, it is theory, but it's a theory that I came to adopt toward the end of my studies at Fordham University. A man named James Van Oosting, or JVO as he was known by his friends (and students) started each of his courses by explaining this idea. That idea has stuck with me ever since, and in a way is what inspired me to live my life in such a unique way. When I was given a chance to decorate my first classroom, I really wanted to teach this message to my students. They were not quite advanced as I was when I first heard it, as they were actually in the 6th grade, so I needed to tweak the message for a less cognitively developed audience. I simply put at the focal point of my classroom the following saying; "Life is a story, be original". I believe that I have followed this advice to my fullest, and my hope is that at least some of my students will remember it the same way I did.
Hopefully this will give you a new way of looking at your life if you haven't already...
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