Wed
Jun
9
By this point I was dying to talk. I had already had a few inadvertent slip ups, and I was tempted to just give up and say that I was “close enough” to my goal. But that wouldn’t be right, so I decided to stick with it throughout the last day. After my brief bout of insanity yesterday, I was much more calm. I never did really figure out how to communicate through hand signs, but at this point I didn’t really care anymore. I just couldn’t wait for the school day to be over, because that meant that I was one step closer to going home, which would bring me a step closer to the next day where I could finally talk.
My older brother just figured out that I haven’t been talking since Sunday. This actually isn’t so surprising, since I’m at school before he gets up, and he is at work by the time I’m home from school.
My last day of silence was spent doing nothing noteworthy. I came home from school, pretended to study for exams, played video games, and watched basketball. I got to sleep a little early, excited to finally being able to talk the next day. A very normal end to an abnormal time.
Epilogue
The next morning, I decided to save my first words for something important. I wasn’t sure what it was going to be, but I knew that I would feel when the time was right.
My first words in a little over three days were: “Shut the f**k up, Taylor.”
….I’m glad I saved my first words for something with real value.
Tue
Jun
8
I go through the same morning routine as the day before. Get up, get dressed, get on the bus. As I get to school and head towards my locker, I find that it’s a little easier to get around my inability to talk. When people who don’t know about my project come up to me and try to start a quick little passing-by conversation, I manage to get through with a series of shrugs and nods, or very simple gestures that would be almost impossible to misunderstand. As long as the “conversation” doesn’t last longer than about a minute, I can get by. However, at around 10:00 AM I was confronted with a new problem that I hadn’t expected.
Being silent is really boring.
Talking came so naturally to me before this; I could almost always start a conversation with just about anybody talking about almost anything. I hadn’t thought about how much empty space there would be with my being silent. In study hall, My friends and I are usually a pretty talkative group. However, my being silent seemed to make the people around me talk less too. With us all just sitting there, in our own little worlds, I felt a little attention-starved. I had to do something to fill the void left by silence.
So I started going a little crazy.
By 10:00 AM on the second day, about 27 hours into my project, I became much more wild. When trying to communicate, if my purpose was not quickly understood I became frustrated and began to gesticulate wildly. I would soon be flailing my arms around like giant brown noodles for no apparent reason. Also, i would randomly start to mimic people. I would sneak up behind someone, and start to copy their hand and mouth movements, but with a contorted facial expression. In hindsight, I must have seemed insane.
Language is the foundation of humanity. Besides our apposable thumbs, the complexity and variation of our language is what separates us from the rest of the animals. Communication is such an important part of society, that when I suddenly couldn’t talk I felt cut off from the rest of society. This division was not easy to handle. I had to communicate in some form, no matter how primitive. And so if the only way I could communicate was to act crazy, then so be it. Anything to distract my mind from the stifling boredom of silence.
Mon
Jun
7
For my Into the Wild Project, I decided that I was going to be mute for three days. I didn’t really know what to expect going in, but before I started I thought that trying to communicate without talking would actually be sort of fun.
Nope, I was wrong. Completely, ten thousand percent wrong.
I didn’t really notice anything at first. My morning was basically the same: wake up, get dressed, eat breakfast, go the bus, etc. I didn’t really need to talk much on the bus either; most people are absorbed in their ipods so conversation is at a minimum.
But as soon as I got to school, things got a lot tougher. Some people knew that I was doing a project, and understand that I couldn’t talk. However, most people had no idea what was going on. They would say hi to me, ask a simple question like “how’s it going,” and all I could do in return was stare at them. I thought that I’d be able to get by through hand gestures and pointing, but that quickly proved to be a fantasy. It turns out that I’m actually pretty terrible at charades, because almost nobody could understand what I was trying to say.
By 7:08 AM, I was already feeling shut off from the rest of the world. Where before talking had been an almost automatic response to just about anything, now I was unable to respond to even the simplest of questions. I would be standing there looking like an idiot trying to mime something, and think to myself how much faster I could get the same information across, if only I could speak.
I felt like a prisoner inside my own mind.
Wed
Apr
7
I’m not sure why, but I seem to have a bit of a problem with backpacks. Something always seems to go wrong with them. This trend started back in seventh grade. It was the last day of school, and I had to jam all the extra crap from my locker into my backpack to take home. I thought everything was going to be okay, since my backpack zipped shut and everything.
I was wrong.
As I got off the bus, on my way home to start enjoying freedom, my backpack basically exploded. The entire front compartment both separated and desintegrated, leaving my stuff to fall all over the pavement. From that point on, my backpacks could only last one school year at the most. I have no clue why this keep happening to me. I don’t think that I put an abnormal amount of stress on my backpacks, it’s not like I’m running around with a giant “freshman backpack.” Regardless, no matter what backpack strategy I use, my bags always end in tatters. My most recently departed backpack decided to add an extra problem of not only being ripped in several spots, but also having the actual zippers fall off. When that happened, I got so fed up with it that I just tore the entire thing along the bottom, flipped it over, and started using it that way.
I know exactly what my mom would say about my inability to keep a backpack. She would say that I am way too careless with my stuff and need to take better care of it. She would also add that I have too much stuff in it that I don’t actually need for school. I know that she would say this because she says those words every time I come home from school with a busted backpack, asking her if there is any chance that she could sew it back together. I don’t think that it is carelessness that is breaking my bags though. I learned after my first backpack fiasco to not over-stuff them. So, unless I suffer from some sort of backpack curse, it must be that I just need to get better backpacks. Scrounging around in the attic for bags to use is probably not a great idea, since those ones are already deteriorating. My mom would probably disagree with this decision, since she would prefer that I use up all of the old backpacks before she goes out and buys a new one. She, being stubborn, would stick to her original position of it being all my fault. And in the end I would probably listen to her and continue using the crappy attic ones, since I am just too lazy to try and argue.
Tue
Apr
6
Anybody who has had a class with me from 6th grade onwards has most likely seen me sleeping on more than one occasion. If it was a math or science class, it was probably much much more than once occasion. I never really got over the switch between school start times after elementary school. Park Avenue had the perfect system; if I remember correctly school didn’t start until around nine. Back in those days I averaged somewhere in the range of nine or ten hours of sleep per night. This seems like heaven to me now that I have entered what feels like a semi-constant state of mild sleep deprivation, due to ever increasing amounts of work and my annoying habit of pushing it off until the last minute (for further details, see the “BS” post). Middle school forced me to wake up before seven if I wanted to take a shower, which seemed obscenely early and possibly criminal. However, now I would be ecstatic to sleep in until 6:50ish since in order to both catch the bus and eat breakfast I need to wake up at around 6:10.
Six.
Ten.
AM.
This just feels plain ridiculous to me. I can’t understand why we are forced to get up continuously earlier and earlier, when all it does is makes me less able to function during the school day. When up against such impossible odds, it’s no wonder that I occasionally (okay, often) find myself drifting off to catch up on missed sleep during the school day.
Many scientific studies agree with me. There have been various studies conducted which have concluded that teens need about 8.5 to 9 hours of sleep a night. Scientists have also found that teens have a different biorhythm than adults and kids, which causes them to want to naturally fall asleep and sleep in later. This ideal sleep cycle is impossible to achieve during the school year, what with homework, sports, and random things that always seem to pop up and delay sleep time. I believe that if I were to ask a professional about this subject, he or she would definitely say that it would be much healthier for teens if they could somehow get to bed earlier, or if school could simply start later.
They say the first step is acceptance, so here it goes. I suffer from a case of chronic laziness, or CL for short. I have the classic symptoms: I am not motivated to do things that don’t sound like fun, I avoid strenuous activity at all costs (besides sports, which is an anomaly when talking about this disease), and I spend large amounts of time sitting on various couch-like objects in a slightly dazed stupor. This unfortunate illness is suffered by many across the globe, and is a serious problem. So far, I have yet to discover a cure, but I think that I may be able to counteract the CL with an even greater amount of laziness. After all, two negatives make a positive. So, in order to further my studies on the all-important task of discovering this elusive cure, I will completely dedicate myself to the cause! I will not sleep, will not eat, until I have cured chronic laziness!
…On second thought, I think I’ll make a sandwich and take a nap instead.
In all seriousness, I have noticed that when I am faced with a non-fun task that requires some sort of effort, it is much more difficult to accomplish. It may not be the wisest management of my time, but it definitely makes things a lot more fun!
Adults just don’t seem to understand the sublime joy that is laziness. For some reason, when my parents see me sitting on the couch instead of doing the dishes, they get angry instead of simply appreciating my extreme levels of comfort. Although I think that this lack of understanding is merely a facade that my parents put up, because I’ve seen my dad act in an extremely lazy fashion on a regular basis. Like me, he enjoys sitting on the couch for long periods of time, or even taking a snooze on the hammock. Faced with this physical evidence, there can only be one logical conclusion: that parents have a double standard. They tell us kids that we shouldn’t be lazy and should do things like chores and homework, while they themselves find opportunities to be lazy as much as possible. Perhaps this is because there is a finite amount of laziness in the world, and the adults want it all to themselves?! This is probably true, but I believe more research is necessary to complete my hypothesis
Fun fact about me: I am half white and half black. My dad is white and married my mom, who is black. Thus, David Fox was born!
Over the years people have asked me about the challenges, struggles, confusion, etc. that come with being both black and white. And whenever I’m asked this question I laugh a little bit. I laugh because honestly, I have never really noticed any sort of problem of that or any kind stemming from my race. There’s always a chance that, being a slightly oblivious person at times, I just didn’t notice when a possibly tense, racially-fueled situation popped up. I know that my older brother Isaac has had some bad experiences with things of this nature. When I first found out about this it shocked me a bit, since as far as I know my life has been completely devoid of anybody ever making a big deal about my skin color. I guess growing up with seeing both white and black extended families made me think that it would be crazy for anybody to think differently of someone based on something as insignificant as the color of his or her skin.
Through a historical lens, my situation takes on a very different light. If, say, a southern white man from the civil rights era took a look at my family, I’m sure that he would have very many extremely rude things to say. The farther back in history you go, the stronger the negative racial feelings would get. However, history is as much about looking forward as it is about looking back. If, instead of looking at the back end of the timeline, I were to look more towards the closer end, I would find things that would support my personal belief that race should not be a factor that changes the way people think of you. The best and most recent example of this would be the election of Barack Obama, a black president. If a historian one hundred years from now were to look at the world history he would see that, starting from when slaves were brought over from Africa all the way to the year 2010, the world has been steadily been becoming a more tolerant place. This tolerance is how I am able to live my life without even once having to face any sort of racial indignities.
I am usually the tallest person in the room, unless I’m at a basketball game. I’ve been tall for as long as I can remember, and I’m sure my coach is hoping that I have a few more inches left in me. Personally I think that I’m at my maximum height, which is about 6 ft. 4 (and a half) on a good day. Although I’m not exactly sure about that, since if I don’t see a person for a little while one of the first things they say to me is “Dave, did you get taller?!” There’s also a pretty good chance that they simply forgot how tall I seem up close, and were surprised by my somewhat mountainous presence.
Being tall is pretty cool most of the time. From an athlete’s perspective, tallness is a treasured attribute in almost every sport. It’s a unique attribute because it’s one of the few things in sports that you can’t work to get better at. You can’t go out and practice being tall; either you’re tall or you’re not. This fact makes many other athletes I’m associated with on either the basketball or the track team get jealous of my height from time to time. On the track team my teammates say that they wish that they had legs as long as mine, and that my stride lengths (distance covered in one step) are ridiculous.
This height obsession is more commonly seen, and usually more annoying, on the basketball team. That could be because, to be honest, some of the people (the guards and small forwards) are a bit on the small side in the basketball spectrum. A common thread of conversation during basketball season would go something like this:
Teammate: Damn Dave you’re so tall
Me: I know
Teammate: Man, if I were as tall as you I’d be so much better! I’d be a D1 player, easy. I’d be dunking on people all day.
Me: Yeah, I’m sure you would *goes back to ignoring teammate*
I find this obsession with height to be a both a bit funny and annoying. I just don’t completely understand why these athletes are so concerned over height, and why I just happened to hit the genetic lottery and ended up being taller than them. I guess that’s just the natural competitiveness that so many athletes have ingrained into their personality.
Lunch is the most important meal of the school day. A tasty meal makes the day seem so much easier to deal with compared to an empty stomach. Having said this, I probably don’t remember to either bring or make a lunch at least 3 days a week. It’s not that I don’t care about eating (in fact, eating is one of my favorite activities), I’m just extremely forgetful. But when I do remember to bring my lunches my friends at the lunch table are often, for lack of a better word, envious. They talk about how they can smell the sandwich through the plastic wrap with covetous looks in their eyes. The funny thing about this situation is that in my opinion, my sandwiches really aren’t anything special. My “secrets” to a good sandwich is extremely simple: I take a very large amount of meat, add a piece of either lettuce or pepper, and a sizable hunk of cheese. I guess maybe they aren’t accustomed to seeing so much stuff in one sandwich?
I feel like I may be taking my sandwiches for granted. There are people in various parts of the world who would be ecstatic to have even a simple sandwich of just a piece of bread and some meat, yet I don’t even consider my monstrous sandwiches as being noteworthy. Someone living in poverty could possibly view my large sandwiches as a symbol of America. As a first-world country with a population of over 300 million, America possesses a a gargantuan amount of food that would seem almost infinitely large to someone from a poor country where many people struggle just to get enough sustenance to make it through the day. They would see my sandwich, with its probably overstuffed quantities of food, as an example of how good (and delicious) it can be to live in America.
Mon
Mar
29
No, I’m not talking about a Bachelor’s Science degree. I’m talking about bullshit. I spend a large portion of my day engaging in it. I have the unfortunate combo of being smart and lazy. This results with me wanting to do as little work as possible in school, and also believing that the work given is either unnecessary or unworthy of my attention. But obviously, I can’t do absolutely nothing in school and still make it through honors and AP classes. The perfect solution to this is a thick coating of bullshit surrounding most things I do in school.
The process of shitification starts first thing in the morning, with math. I can honestly say that I am paying attention (as in, actually listening to the teacher and maybe even writing things down) about five or ten minutes per day. The rest of the time is spent on various stimulating activities like sleeping, reading, or rushing to finish homework due in another class later that day. Yet despite my inattentiveness, I still manage to do well. This is possible through the magic of BS. Instead of taking my own notes, I just ask some more responsible person in my general vicinity to let me copy down the formulas that I slept through. Instead of trying to solve the problems we’re given in class, I glance at them, write down a number that could be somewhat close to the answer, and then go back to whatever I was doing before. I’ve found that the easiest way to deal with having work to do is to simply not do it. This behavior continues, in varying degrees, throughout the entire school day. I would say that, in any given day, I probably spend at least three-fourths of that time BSing. This makes the day seem so much more bearable, which is why I think that the ability to BS is one of-if not the most- important things I carry. Without this life-saving skill, I would be hard-pressed to make it through a day without dying of either boredom or of being overworked.
Obviously, teachers are not very fond of bullshit. I imagine that they find it very frustrating that students like me think that they are too good to do the work. Some teachers simply do not accept BS though. I remember last year I had Mrs. Schmidt for english last year. Last year I was especially bad (or good, depending on your viewpoint) with BSing things. I would always try and half-ass her essays and assume that I would still get a good grade because I am a good writer. However there was a flaw in this plan: Mrs. Schmidt also knew that I was a good writer. Because of that, she refused to let me slide by and not use my writing abilities to their fuller potential. Schmidt’s anti-BS policy was the best thing she could have done for me, because it made me actually work and get better at writing. I’m extremely grateful to her for being the first teacher to basically tell me to “cut the shit” and start working harder.
