The List

[So the thing with my schedule this semester is that I'm not doing any writing. At all. I decided this was weird and got into a writing workshop where we're each responsible for writing a short story. This is mine. It's not quite an essay but it should fit in well enough.]

This is crazy, I'm not kidding you--I couldn't make this shit up. All of a sudden while I was walking along the pier this seagull just flies into me, almost whacks me in the head. And while I'm staring after this stupid bird I see it's carrying a piece of paper in its beak, and when it opens its mouth the paper drops and blows in my front of my face, swirls around and gets caught against the leg of a bench like a kite stuck in the power lines or something. I pick it up and take a look, expecting some kind of doomsday prophecy, God’s message from a stinking seagull. But it's not. It's just someone's trashy old shopping list. They needed milk.
*****
Yeah, I have a job. It’s nothing special. I wake up and go there and come home, and I guess I just live, you know? I guess I walk a lot—through town, down the streets, not really knowing where I’m going. Sometimes for the hell of it I look at a map before I take off, but then I mostly just follow whatever street looks good to go through, sometimes the little alleyways. My friends ask me what I spend my money on (because I work my ass off, and my job isn’t as slouchy as you’d probably think, but I never really spend that much) and I tell them—shoes. I wear them out. Holes go straight through them. Shoes like that are the best though, the really busted kind where the rubber is cracked and the soles are worn down in the front and the laces are all ratty and stained.
*****
I can’t decide whether to hang on to these or toss them out someplace and let the wind grab them and run away. What would someone say if they found this stupid old piece of a french fry bag flying around with writing on it? I wonder if that seagull would come back and find this paper, too. Someone told me once that birds use paper and hair and stuff for their nests, and I wondered if it’d work for these scraps. They’re not all that impressive. But if I was some bird that needed to make a nest in a hurry I probably wouldn’t care all that much.

*****
*****

Wow. I remember that summer like I remember last week, always out wandering like some kind of restless ghost haunting the sidewalks. I know I was happy then. Who am I now? Well, I don’t walk all that much anymore. It’s too hard on the feet and it gives me blisters. I go to the gym because my doctor told me to lower my cholesterol, like it’s the volume knob of my car radio. How are you supposed to lower something you don’t even understand? Every time I turn on the television I see a commercial for some new miracle drug that I should talk to my doctor about right away. What if I just want to whither away quietly, in un-medicated peace? I’ve taken enough pills in my lifetime and I’m getting sort of tired of them. How is it that a juicy steak and a crisp apple, reading a good book, breathing in the ocean air, do less to keep you healthy than a little pellet? My doctor is a very smart man and I sometimes wonder seriously if he knows very much. I try to think back on where all these suspicions came from and wonder the same thing about myself too.
I remember that job, too. It was your typical setup for the wayward teenager looking to stay busy during the summer. From there I went back to school in the fall. Then there was more school, a few more walks. I grew up sometime in between and then rolled through life, ending up here. The present always seem to feel like that, like you’re suddenly waking up on the threshold of some new doorway, picking yourself up to dust yourself off.
I went out to see my son today. He’s doing well. He looks like me, I’d say, except for his nose—you can see his mother there. I took him out for a bite to eat, to a deli I brought him to a few times years ago, and he looked around at the black bar stools and cracked marble countertop, giving a small nod like he might have remembered. The cashier was different, with a different accent than the previous man, but the sandwich was good and the fries were the same, the best you can get for miles. When he was much younger I had taken my son into the city, just as my father had taken me, and I bought him a paper bag of French fries and we threw them to the birds, who jumped about, cocking their heads and fluttering their wings every time he reached his hand into the bag. Those fries tasted the same, too. Ha, maybe it’s that people and places change but fries never do. My son had fun that day, but he didn’t like the birds. He didn’t take to the city quite like I did, I suppose—when I was younger, you couldn’t have pried me away from it.

*****
*****

I never cut class because my dad would have a cow, but I would come by here during the year sometimes, too, walking down once jail—school, I mean—let out and pretending it was summer already. I like it better now. I can come nice and early in the morning and stay for as long as I want without getting nagged at too much. Everything just moves around going on their own paths, and I like being able to walk around and watch. It might seem a little weird to you but it doesn’t to me. Besides, my walks are good. I see lots of neat stuff.

*****
*****

I suppose I should tell you why I’m writing all this. I started finding the slips of paper two weeks ago. It’s a miracle I even saved them for this long—I don’t know how I did it, but they turned up one day in the back of a drawer in the old dresser I’ve kept since I was a kid. At first they just looked like strangely old receipts; I went to throw the top receipt away and then noticed that it was from the shoe store I always bought my sneakers from when I was a kid. There was some writing on the back, something about wind and boats and birds, and it took me a minute to recognize it. Next I found the a ripped edge of a grease-stained paper bag, the tiniest writing yet on both sides of a wrapper, and a few more tattered, various slips of paper, all written on with blue pen in the familiar scrawl of my own writing. I forget what I was actually doing that day, probably trying to clean out some old clutter, but I stopped and I sat down, reading through each one.

*****
*****

Back in jail, in school I mean, there was this batty old teacher who kept trying to get me interested in math. She would be doing a problem up on the board, see me scribbling something on my margins or this wrapper or something, and call my name with this smile that was almost like she wanted to apologize, make nice, be friends. Nothing personal, I just can’t hold all that math stuff in my brain. Numbers fly out and I can’t make them happen the way they need to on paper, so I stop trying and just write down words instead. I like seeing stuff written out like that, I like it a lot. Reading isn’t as interesting. I guess that’s probably the reason my shitty English grade is in the toilet. A lot of times I forget that there are other people’s words I need to read and then I get to the test and only want to write something crazy. On my last exam she asked a question about plot and I wasn’t all that sure of what to out down so I told her about that stinking seagull, just without the profanity and stuff. She just circled it and wrote a big question mark on it, so I crumpled the test up and chucked it in the trash.
*****
Wouldn’t it be neat if we used the wind more? It’s real funny when you think about it, but the only time people really use the wind to move around and stuff is when they’re out sailing in the bay or something. I was out there again today, watching stuff. The boats were over there in the water, leaning back and forth like they were dancing to some kind of music. And the seagulls were flying around in patterns like they were dancing too. But see, even airplanes aren’t that great—the closest thing we can get to a bird, for really using the wind at least, is a boring boat.

*****
*****

I don’t really know why I’m writing again. Funny, how it came back to this. I had my dreams when I was a kid, but I never knew they would return to me decades too late. Oh, I remember trying, when I was a young man, but then I woke up. Reality called. I’ll take this as an acceptable affectation, a middle-aged man discovering some old trinket of youth. My mother gave me a leather-bound journal for Christmas two years past, and just lately I opened it and started writing. The book is beautiful, really—rich brown leather and a bottle-green ribbon glued into the spine to hold my place. I wish I could have just given it to the boy I was. He would have made better use of it, or at least gotten more enjoyment out of it. Or not; he probably found enjoyment in the idea of those lists and little inconsequential scraps of paper bearing something from him, something he made. Then again, maybe I just saw it in some sort of magazine at the time. I was an impressionable kid.

*****
*****

My shoes are worn through again. Maybe I shouldn’t keep buying such crap shoes, I guess. But I went out to get some new ones and I walked someplace new, and the craziest thing happened. I got caught up in a dumb tour group because they just stand there in the way and gawk, like the pigeons in the park, and take pictures of rocks and gates and each other wearing silly hats. And I was trying to get past them, getting angry that they were going crazy over the shit I see almost every day, but then some little part of my mind asked if I had it wrong, like I should be the one who gets so happy to see every little thing just because I’m the one who sees it all so much. Maybe. I don’t know. But I think it might be good to start looking harder at stuff. I’m not going to start wearing the hats or some fanny pack though.
*****
I went back to the pier where I got that shopping list to take a break from walking and I see this little girl feeding crackers to the seagulls. Her ma was there on a bench, hair blowing around her face, half reading a book and half watching her kid. Maybe she was the one who made the list. Maybe her husband drank all the milk but she really needed it for her coffee. Maybe the little girl spilled it or put it in a bowl for stray cats or had a fake tea party with it or something. She looked like the kind of lady who wouldn’t yell. She might get angry, yeah, but she wouldn’t raise her voice. She’d say something low and frustrated, then feel bad and agree to clean up the mess and rub her forehead like she was tired. I think I was staring at her, because she gave me a funny look for a second, then my face got kind of hot because I was embarrassed and I looked down and started writing this on a receipt. I make up a lot of stories about people in my head, and I always think want to know if their real lives were more interesting or more boring then the ones I come up with for them.

*****
*****

My wife saw me writing last night and asked me what I was doing. When I first found the papers I went to go tell her, but then something held me back, and I held my tongue. Our fridge just died this morning—I’ll have to go out later and find an insolent salesman at the appliance store to argue with, then after that it’s finishing my taxes, and I’ll need to go to the bank soon and take out some money to get my winter tires put on. I always used to do it myself, but it’s just as easy these days to just drop the car off and have it taken care of. The weather’s nice, too, so I should take the dog for a walk. My mother’s birthday is today; I called her this morning and told her I had mailed her gift. My journal slipped into the corner of my eye so I told her about how I’ve been writing in it lately. She was surprised; she didn’t even remember having gotten it for me until she recollected finding it at home and, figuring it looked nice enough, thought I might as well have it for the mantle I use as a bookshelf.

*****
*****

Ever think that all these streets are like veins? And blood goes through them, right, like all the people rushing around, but then the city grew up and it’s like it got into nasty drugs, turned into a junkie. And the veins got all expanded and turned black and hard, and it just doesn’t seem all that good for you. You wonder, at least I do sometimes, what the healthy good stuff in and what is the bad stuff is.
*****
I bet I could try and be a writer or something. Better than being a stinking mechanic, or a salesman somewhere, or a suit. Whatever, I don’t know. This just feels easy to me, not like math or science or that shit. Everyone’s always saying you can be anything you want, right? All you have to do is work real hard. Well, I can do that. I work hard now, and I know that I won’t slack off on it. And when I’m older I can think about how it all worked out for me in the end. I can write about seagulls or something.

*****
*****

I lost my journal but found it today buried under a pile of scattered papers, books, leftovers from the routines of my life—the book seems like just another one of those projects where your motivation slacks off after a few days. This feeling of guilt crawled into my stomach, like I was neglecting something real. This is a busy few days for me, though, and it’s not like I’m doing something important here. Maybe I’ll find some time to write later this week.

*****
*****

It’s really something that you’re reading this right now. Of all the crazy things that could have happened to this little piece of paper, it ended up with you. I’ve been writing stuff on the back of these scraps all summer long, and I’m keeping all the dumb things in a drawer, but school is starting back up again and this’ll be my last one, so I’m letting it go. Where’d you find it? I’ll tell you how I got this one—some stupid seagull gave it to me. It only sounds like bullshit because it’s true. I remember when it happened, how I wanted it to actually mean something. There’s not much a dirty old shopping list can do if you want it to be important, unless you just happen to pick it up and look on the back and find a message from some random kid you’ll never meet in your life. Not knowing where this is going to end up isn’t all that bad though. I try to picture you, whoever the hell you are, finding it, and wondering what it went through to get here. Or maybe it’ll just get caught up in the wind and blown someplace into the blue sky, or the blue water. Or just get run over by a bus. But then you wouldn’t be reading it right now and I’d be all wrong about it anyways.

Salutatorian Speech (final draft)

[Thought I should put this up here in case I lose it.]

Good evening families, teachers, faculty, and friends. Thank you for coming tonight. To the Bishop Brady High School class of 2010—welcome to June 11^th.

We did it. This is our graduation. Before I turn my attention back to my fellow seniors, I would like to thank everyone—present and absent—who has led us to this moment. Parents, you especially know that this ceremony isn’t just for us. This graduation represents everything it took for us to get here, and it’s impossible to deny the simple fact that we did not do it alone. To teachers, family, friends, and others, as well as parents: even if don’t entirely realize it now, all of us will understand one day how much we have been given. Thank you. Now, seniors, it’s our turn. I don’t know if you realized this… but high school graduation is kind of a big deal. Please, enjoy it, because by the end of the night it’s going to be over.

We went through a lot of uncertainty coming into school as seniors. We narrowed down a college list, ran around to get forms signed, stayed up late working on essays, and finally, finally, applied to college—only to sit and work and wait and take midterms and just generally deal with not knowing where we’re headed. That has been solved though, and if you look right outside this gym you can see a wall full of the choices we finally made. Very soon, we are going somewhere.

Even sooner though, you’re going to get up and go for a little walk down this aisle. You will shake a hand and be handed a diploma and then walk back to your seat—and somehow this will signify the fact that you haven’t wasted the past four years of your life. We have done something important here. We have gotten through four years of college preparatory high school. Fewer people than you would think are able to say that. I can’t even begin to talk about what we have experienced since 2006. We went through roughly the same sets of classes and the same set of rules, but we are still such different people because of it. To anyone who sees us, it is obvious that we are not a homogenous group, and when this night is over we will leave to head in very different directions. High school has changed our lives. Right now, though, right here, we are in the same room, once again experiencing the same thing. For just a little longer, we are a class. And guess what? We have earned this. We stuck it out. We went to class and did what we needed to pass, and after that we went above the requirements and earned success. We were pushed by our parents, our teachers, to do better because they realize that this was not an easy thing to do.

Soon, you will get up as individuals and, one at a time, take that little walk down the aisle. There are two ways we can do this. We can walk up and shake a hand and accept a diploma that is being given to us; or, we can walk up there and accept a diploma that has been earned. Each one of us has worked for that right. Once we get out there in the world—wow. We could really go places. We could really do something.

When we take that walk up the aisle, let’s understand ourselves, understand why we are accepting responsibility for al the lessons we were supposed to learn these past four years. Understand why we applied to colleges, why we didn’t just quit after sophomore year, why, at some point, we stopped living for our parents and started living for ourselves. No one can tell us why we are going to accept our diplomas. Each of our reasons will be our own. When we officially graduate from Bishop Brady High School, we need to do just one more thing: know why we’re doing it.

Welcome to June 11, 2010. We did it. This is our graduation.

I who am about to graduate Salute you.

Good evening families, teachers, faculty, and friends. Thank you for coming tonight.To the Bishop Brady High School class of 2010—welcome to June 11th. We did it. This is our graduation. Before I turn my attention back to my fellow seniors, I would like to thank everyone—present and absent—who has led us to this moment. Parents, you especially know that this ceremony isn’t just for us. This graduation represents everything it took for us to get here, and it’s impossible to deny the simple fact that we did not do it alone. To teachers, family, friends, and others, as well as parents: even if don’t entirely realize it now, all of us will understand one day how much we have been given. Thank you. Now, seniors, it’s our turn. I don’t know if you realized this… but high school graduation is kind of a big deal. Please, enjoy it, because by the end of the night it’s going to be over.
We went through a lot of uncertainty coming into school as seniors. We narrowed down a college list, ran around to get forms signed, stayed up late working on essays, and finally, finally, applied to college—only to sit and work and wait and take midterms and just generally deal with not knowing where we’re headed. That has been solved though, and if you look right outside this gym you can see a wall full of the choices we finally made. Beyond these next few years, some of us are more certain than others of what they are going to do and how they are going to do it. The near future, though, is now defined for all of us. Very soon, we are going somewhere.
Even sooner though, you’re going to get up and go for a little walk down this aisle. You will shake a hand and be handed a diploma and then walk back to your seat—and somehow this is supposed to signify the fact that you haven’t wasted the past four years of your life. Whether you understand it or not, all of us have done something important here. We have gotten through four years of college preparatory high school. Fewer people than you would think are able to say that. I can’t even begin to talk about what has gone on here since 2006, because high school is simultaneously an extremely unifying and an extremely diversifying experience. How 112(?) can people go through roughly the same set of classes and rules and emerge with such different goals is a testament to your individuality. To anyone who sees us, it is obvious that we are not a homogenous group, and when this night is over we will leave to head in very different directions. Right now, though, right here, we are in the same room, once again experiencing the same thing. For just a little longer, we are a class.
Soon, you will get up as individuals and, one at a time, take that little walk down the aisle. Now, this is the last time most of you will hear from me; I’m done talking about Literary Magazine at Monday Morning Meetings, I’m done running back and forth between homerooms yelling about yearbook, and never again will you hear me answer a question in English class. It’s okay, you can cheer if you want to. So, for this last time I speak to you, I’m giving you a challenge. If you don’t challenge yourself already, I would consider starting now, because—trust me on this one—daring yourself to do better and then following through is a great feeling. I’m starting you off now: a challenge from Lauren Covalucci, to the class of 2010. When you walk up there and take your diploma, know why you’re doing it. Understand yourself. Understand why you just accepted responsibility for all the lessons you were supposed to learn these past four years. Understand why you applied to colleges, why you didn’t just quit sophomore year, why, at some point, you stopped living for your parents and started living for yourself. I can’t tell you why you’re going to accept your diploma. Your reason is going to be your own. When you officially graduate from Bishop Brady High School, I ask only one thing: know why you’re doing it.
Welcome to June 11, 2010. You did it. This is your graduation.

A note to the makers of paperclips, post-it notes, and other such organizational supplies:

This is a speech I am working on for a contest on March 17th. Wish me luck.

Common perception says that, in order to function, one must be organized. People must have their lives categorically separated into events and times, planned out in advance, and inspected for safety and relevancy. Professionalism and organization go hand in hand; scholastic achievement is proportional to the amount of writing in the student’s agenda; families should keep a common calendar to live as a cohesive unit. It is easier to artificially separate things, keeping them within defined boundaries arbitrated by clocks and lines on a sheet of paper. That’s not new. Then again, some things just don’t fit in, and their refusal to adhere to an established order frustrates the list makers and secretaries of the world. My deepest apologies go out to those who would have a color-coded and labeled society, because I am one of those miscreants who keeps your dream from coming true.

I am an anomaly and somewhat of a paradox: while I carry the workload of at least one and a half students, I have the organizational skills of a five year old. College application season, then, was an interesting time for my family, which consists of my list-making mother, my early-bird father, and me, the deviant daughter. Our schedules don’t line up at all, and my take-it-as-you-go attitude towards applying to college confused, amused, and infuriated my parents, all at once. They would have understood my process better if I had scheduled some time every week and set it aside for college work, separating thw whole application process from the rest of my life to keep things synchronized and in chronological order. I honestly do wish, sometimes, that I could work that way…but sadly this isn’t the case. Differences in opinion on this matter didn’t create much goodwill between me and my parents, but I think that, because of this friction, they understand me a little more, and we are better friends for it.

Disorganization, slight confusion, the blurring of lines and stepping over of boundaries, isn’t necessarily a bad thing. Obviously, promptness and organization have their place in the world, and I know very well that society would fall apart without time keepers to prop it up. Over-categorizing things, though, can be a mistake. We begin to create boundaries in life that are unnecessary and shouldn’t really be there, blocking ourselves off from new ideas. In truth, many more good things have come from combining different areas than from separating them.

Now, in my application process, I’ve begun thinking about choosing a major path of study for the next four years. The question “What do you want to do?” inevitably comes up in conversation, with the inquirer usually expecting a clean answer like, “I want to be an astronaut,” or, “I’m going to be a doctor.” Here again I defy expectations. I’ve gotten more than one condescending look from adults who think that my response is inadequate and misguided: I really don’t know what I want to do with my life. The problem isn’t that I’m not interested in any field or vocation; I’m interested in far too many, and I don’t yet see how I can combine my skills and interests into one life path that keeps me out of a homeless shelter and relatively sane. Therefore, I have applied to twelve schools, a number that is almost far too large, and many of them can hardly be distinguished from one another. Their common factor is an emphasis on a liberal arts education, one which I intend to pursue because its very nature breaks down the boundaries between different areas of life skills. These schools, like me, think that an education in every field, emphasizing their interconnectedness, will produce a better person and a better citizen of the world. Leaders with the ability to make connections between previously separated schools of thought will create movement towards things that will benefit everyone concerned with the welfare of our culture and society.

The best ideas are created when people are mixed together, with no distinction as to creed, upbringing, or specialization. While it might be easier to separate people into groups depending on what they know and what they do, it is certainly more beneficial to create a heterogeneous combination of ideas. A roomful of philosophy professors could come up with a solution to the United States deficit, but how would that solution look to a group of car mechanics used to dealing with small business? Breaking down boundaries will, of course, cause some problems, because there is no way that a very diverse group could completely agree on one issue. This argument, though, is what will create the best possible solution. Even the US government was deliberately set up as a system that thrives on confrontation. There is a reason it takes such a long time to pass a law: politicians with very different beliefs are fighting over it. At surface level this seems to impede good change, but better ideas come from this debate than any coming from a single party, or even a single person.

My class schedule is also organized very rigidly. I go to the English wing for English, the science wing for my physics class, and another section of the building for Calculus. The very nature o f my school day categorizes study into an organized procedure, keeping the fields largely separate. Many teachers bridge some of the gaps between disciplines, but it’s impossible to overcome boundaries between classes for a truly unified education. Strict organization keeps the school running, I know. Without these boundaries, classrooms would be absolute chaos and very little would get done. This means that is it up to us to untie fields that don’t seem interrelated, and my best ideas have always come from combining things that don’t usually go together. Once, in geometry class, we talked very briefly about multiple, higher dimensions, a concept that I saw again in science classes. What if, though, we temporarily removed the boundary between theoretical physics and, say, theology? The mystery of a higher power seems to fit in well with the mysteries of higher dimensions, both of which we can’t understand because we don’t yet have the capacity to. The divisions and areas of life are more connected than we realize, and finding these connections could lead, and have led, to some of the greatest discoveries in history. (Einstein comes to mind—the man who created an equation, as simple as a function for the volume of a shoebox, that connects mass and energy.) I do believe that interconnectedness is the nature of life. It also serves as a handy excuse for why I seem unable to stick to a schedule that separates my day into unrelated components. Or I could just be disorganized. Our world is disorganized, though; does this interconnectedness cause good or prevent it? I don’t know; but it’s something to think about.

By the people, for the people

This was done for a scholarship I'm applying for through the Military Order of the Purple Heart. I didn't spend that much time on it, but I like it.


[In 200-300 words, describe what you feel it means to be an American.]

     In looking at American government, one may find a story of dissent, argument, shifting power, and angry debate. It sometimes seems that our democratic system is an inefficient one, as any decision made is always loudly protested by at least one group. However, this conflict is America’s greatest strength. Only through the pushing and pulling of opposite opinions can a middle road be achieved, a road with the greater good in mind which leads to the best outcome for the majority of the people.
     Our founding fathers knew this; our country began with a split from a fixed government where the opinions of a few mattered more than the needs of many. America’s threefold system of checks and balances makes conflict inevitable. Americans who feel strongly about a variety of issues have the responsibility to declare their thoughts as fuel for such debate—every opinion given helps create the most balanced solution to a problem possible.
     I believe that, to be an American, one must refrain from getting too involved with the petty political feuds sometimes mistaken for a true representation of our way of life. A red or blue badge can never summarize what it means to be a citizen, nor can one election. The foundation of our system relies on the will and opinion of the individual, which rarely coincides perfectly with any single party’s agenda. Our most valuable right may not be that of the vote—we can think and speak freely outside election season, on subjects we may not have a vote on, and we can change our minds if we feel that a change is necessary. Therefore, we must continue to honor our personal independence of opinion, which is the same independence that, centuries ago, made us Americans.

Voice of 2014

Looking at my posting history, it seems like I get at least one essay on here every month. In the spirit of keeping things consistent, here's a short piece I did for my Tufts supplement.

Self-identity and personal expression take many forms. For example, music, clothing, politics, extracurricular interests, and ethnicity can each be a defining attribute. Do you surf or tinker? Are you a vegetarian poet who loves Ayn Rand? Do you prefer YouTube or test tubes? Are you preppie or Goth? Use the richness of your life to give us insight: what voice will you add to the Class of 2014? 

I don't know how the overachieving high school student got into punk rock, but stranger things have happened. I like its message—punk, despite its vagrant, snotty image, secretly carries on a noble tradition that fueled the Renaissance, the Enlightenment, and the American Revolution: free thought. In that sense, the American's and the anarchist's dream can coincide perfectly. I refuse to believe anything unless it makes logical sense to me. Two concepts I do hold dear are my faith in a higher power and the status of dance as one of the world’s finest sports. I also adhere to an indefatigable support of the truth from whatever sources it may come. Such various statements of clarity sometimes end up scribbled on my sneakers, which is where Horace, Emerson, and the band Alkaline Trio are quoted next to each other in black ink. In search of this “veritas,” I read too much for my own good, but not enough that I don't wish I had an extra hour in the day to spend with John Steinbeck or Charlotte Bronte. Above all, I love to find humor in the small, true moments of life, and to lead others to do the same.