Home: Place or Family?

When the smell of fresh baked chocolate chip cookies wafts through the house for hours, my parents know I’m home.

Thanksgiving morning was one of those times. Every ten minutes I took a pan of six cookies out of the toaster oven until they piled up to 49—maybe a few less because there were cookie crumbs on the mouths of every person in the house.

My cookies: carefully packed for transport

I would never dare cook them in our wood fire oven, because I want temperature control. When I tried to cook them in a gas oven at a friend’s house, they came out mini scones. My toaster oven at home is the only place I can properly bake my famous chocolate chip and dried cranberry cookies so that they are perfectly thin and buttery.

My cookies were my contribution to our Thanksgiving dinner. As I carefully handled each cookie dough scoop, I infused it with love for my family because that’s what Thanksgiving is all about to me. I was able to pour a little bit of my soul into the cookies aimed at my family members’ stomachs because I was home.

When I left Nashville the previous Saturday I couldn’t have been more excited to go home. I thought of family kayak trips up the Millers River, hikes across the valley and dinners on the deck overlooking my mother’s flourishing green garden.

Wait a second.

Wasn’t I going home to Massachusetts in November? You’d think after living through 19 Novembers in Massachusetts I would know to expect skeleton trees, grey skies and cold breezes.

November in New England is notoriously the most bleak and depressing time of year. There is no lush greenery and warmth of the temperate summers, no colorful leaves of the iconic New England autumn and no rolling hills of glittering snow yet. No, November is all about the cold, grey-brown world pushing everyone inside to hibernate for the winter.

Back in Nashville, fall was just ending and the colors and warmth still lingered for a couple more days. This was the first time I felt a true disconnect between seasons, thanks to my jump home for Thanksgiving. Throughout my previous 19 years, I had been eased slowly into November.

The wealth of food picked before
            Hurricane Irene in August 2011

The shock to my system lasted only a day. After dinner on my first night home, my parents giddily pulled out our Bananagrams set and began to set up a game for us. We were all quiet as we played, our brows furrowed as we searched for words in the collection of tiles. However, once the game was over we exclaimed with glee at the long, complicated words the others found. We didn’t need to compile points; it was simply fun to have a joint activity.

After Bananagrams we moved onto Catch Phrase, which we play as a group trying to guess as many phrases as possible before the timer runs out. We’re much noisier with this game as we shriek with laughter when we have to use outrageous clues in order to get each other to guess the phrases.

Across the table, Mom and I had a connection to communicate phrases easily. Mom had only to say, “When you’re an optimist you see…” for me to call out, “a glass half full.” We were on the same wavelength.

That’s when it hit me. It was the camaraderie of family that made my house home, not the picturesque mountainside Massachusetts setting. November could never cast its dark shadow over the joyful game time or caring conversations that makes my family my home.

Yes, living in the woods and learning from an early age how to split wood safely and effectively has shaped who I am and my understanding of home. I was able to remember that—I spent an hour splitting pine chunks into little kindling pieces. But it was family that provided the comforts of home.

Peeping Tom after a rain Summer 2012
--an ongoing family joke

By baking my favorite cookies for my nuclear and extended family, I was able to give back a little of the comfort and support they had used to build my home community. I molded every cookie into its shape before it went into the oven, letting my hands transmit the unspeakable love for my home and my family.

The Great Generational Debate

Sitting—in generational order—on the steps of the Parthenon in Centennial Park, Grammy, Dad and I opened the Great Debate. The generational debate that is. 

“Pep’s generation is considered the best generation,” Grammy asserted in a conversation about her father.

I responded, “I thought my generation was the best, with all our technology.”

                “I think Pep’s generation was hailed as the best because of World War II,” said Dad. “Everyone stepped up to the plate when the ‘free world’ needed them to fight fascism.”

                While Pep didn’t fight in the war, he and everyone else left on the home front contributed in every possible way —whether it was maintaining life in the United States or building weaponry.

Families would huddle around their radios to hear the latest news on the war, straining to hear the reports of attacks and fatalities. Newscasters would get their information from press announcements. Other reports would come with presidential speeches, military commander’s reports or other governmentally controlled voices. 

Today, we are presented with television programs of varying degrees of bias, radio and print media. Citizen journalists exploit the infinite space and audience of the internet. Governments, organizations and individuals expound on their opinions and report events themselves through the 140 characters of Twitter and the unlimited length of blogs. On Facebook, others post and repost links to all of these sources of discourse, generating an infinite stack of conversation about conversation. Offline we text each other the latest news, be it worldly or personal.

http://techpresident.com/files/qassam%20brigades.jpg

Just today, Twitter exploded as the Israeli Defense Forces and the Al Qassam Brigades faced off throughout the rocket fire and bombings occurring on the ground. Both parties tweeted as the attacks were happening. At first I was apprehensive about trusting the Twitter feeds, but because both parties were tweeting, I was able to check the tweets against each other. Generally, they agreed on the facts.

While the radio communication of our great-grandparents’ era seems limited to my generation of instant and constant contact, it was what made it possible for the Allies to unite and be involved in such a global conflict for the time. The limited and controlled flow of information kept that unified vision strong across the home front.

As the United States moved out of World War II and began to face the perceived threat of communism, the media again took a role of unifying the home front. This time, however, it was by telling people how to live and how to organize their family life. In the face of nuclear threats and the unknown world of communism, the United States government created educational films about how to act as an American.

Some films detailed the appropriate roles in the home, like one I watched in my U.S. History course last year, “A Date with Your Family”: Mother cooks dinner while Daughter helps and Brother helps Junior with his homework. When Father gets home from work dinner is ready to be put on the table. The conversation over dinner is led by Father, but only on pleasant subjects. “It’s not only good manners, but good sense,” the narrator says of pleasant conversation, added that it’s good for digestion. The video makes sure to touch on every possible moment where one of the family members could say or do the “wrong” thing. Gender roles are explicitly stated, as the women are to serve and please the men and the men are to graciously accept the service. 

If you’re interested in a similar video click this link. 

Moving into the Vietnam War, the government lost some control over the media and the images presented to the American public. The atrocities committed in the name of democracy, under the Stars and Stripes, shocked people. Journalists had found a way through the cracks of the image the government desired, and showed images that compelled many to action. Different historical accounts portray the ‘60s Vietnam protests in various lights, but it is undeniable that these images were the power to move the masses. 

Much more recently, we faced the downward spiral that was Judith Miller’s reports of Weapons of Mass Destruction in Iraq before the United States invaded in 2003. As a Pulitzer Prize winning journalist for the New York Times, Miller certainly had a trustworthy reputation and had built up strong relationships with sources. But perhaps her relationship with certain governmental figures (ahem... Scooter Libby) had gotten too chummy. She leaned on and reported her sources’ incorrect information that Weapons of Mass Destruction existed in Iraq, evoking the fear that surrounded the nuclear threat of the Cold War era.

Furthermore, international correspondents were often given protection abroad by the U.S. military. The journalists took U.S. government tailored tours complete with interviews of locals and military officials that would say what the government wanted the media to report. Because of the safety these relationships provided, it was difficult to get the real scoop on the drama in the Middle East.

With the advent of Twitter and the explosion of the blogosphere, global information exchange has been revolutionized. Nearly two years ago Egypt’s revolution was organized and publicized online. The power of 140 characters overthrew an empire.

Today, the IDF and Hamas lob explosives AND tweets at each other, a minor difference from the past 50+ years. However for the rest of the world, this paints a clearer picture of the dominant parties and how they interact on a level where they cannot kill each other.

Citizen and professional journalists alike are now able to add their voices to the cacophony without the external factors of a news media business. Online many people are determined to correct each other—if something sounds a little fishy, citizen journalists will not rest until it is sorted out. With the sheer volume of information, the internet has the resources for self-correction.

Contrast this with the simple presentation of information via radio broadcast characteristic of Pep’s generation—the “best” generation. Pep could have sat down by the radio and been told explicitly the news events. He did not have to go searching through files of articles on the web. However, he always received the same perspective.

So which generation is the best? It depends how you look at it. Grammy would celebrate the strength of her father’s generation in the face of global danger, while I appreciate the luxuries of today’s technology. To each her own.

"Right to Die" Opens an Emotional Debate for Mass. Voters

Pain.

Two of the Massachusetts ballot questions invoked this topic, both from very different perspectives. Both the Death with Dignity Act and legalization of medical marijuana were hotly debated.

Ultimately, legislation of medical marijuana was passed in a landslide of 63% yes and 37% no, while the “right to die”—assisted suicide—question has been conceded by the narrow margin of 51% no and 49% yes.

From http://www.boston.com/news/special/politics/2012/general/mass-ballot-question-2-election-results-2012.html.

Appropriately green...
From http://www.boston.com/news/special/politics/2012/general/mass-ballot-question-3-election-results-2012.html.

With the issue of assisted suicide for terminally ill patients, a debate was ignited to divide a relatively unified, blue and liberal state as well as smaller communities within it.

In particular, my very liberal, small, close-knit hometown began to show some tears.

The discussion seems to have begun from a message sent to the town listserv regarding Question 2. Sharon linked her message to a blog post she had written about why she was voting no. 

 As a disabled person, Sharon had encountered many additional challenges in the medical world from doctors and nurses that she felt did not truly want to help her. The most striking was when she tried to ask for a form to update her emergency contact information before a surgery and was instead brought a “do not resuscitate” form. She felt that her humanity, her own desire for life, was undermined by the nurse’s assumption that her quality of life was not worth fighting for.

Disabilities activists have been a huge force opposing Question 2. They argued that in states that have adopted similar laws, many abuses have emerged, either by doctors and the healthcare system, or weary family members and caregivers.

This worry emerged through the Wendell listserv discussion. If a suicide pill costs insurance $100, there is a clear monetary advantage of that option over the thousands of dollars to help ill or disabled people live out their lives in the most comfortable way.

Supporters of Question 2 asserted that the proposal accounted for these potential abuses. Only patients with 6 months left to live (as diagnosed by a doctor) would be given this option. Patients who are unable to make the decision in sound mind would not be eligible. Those seeking this action must request it twice, orally, at least 15 days apart and then submit a written request—signed by two witnesses—to be considered. Doctors must offer alternatives to the patient, such as hospice, and give two days for the patient to consider these choices. A second doctor must confirm the patient’s eligibility and sound practice of the process. 

In response to Sharon’s appeal against assisted suicide, Wendellites expounded stories of family members who had slowly disintegrated from a terminal illness and had been refused the quick route out and increased pain medication as their discomfort increased. “If my mother had been my dog, we could have ended her suffering legally.  Instead she was a woman whose last wishes for a dignified end were ignored,” one woman wrote in conclusion.

Nurses, therapists and other active members of the medical field weighed in, commenting on how they would want the option for themselves given the suffering they’ve seen.

The elementary school nurse, however, commented that her mother had passed away from cancer and she had enough morphine for pain in order to end her life early, had she wished it. The nurse implied that she would vote no because the quality of day-to-day life was not so dramatically desperate that her mother wanted out.

Ultimately, Wendell voted 80% to 20% for doctor-assisted suicide—one of the highest pro-votes in the state. The internal strife clearly did not pull Wendell too far from its strong liberal tendencies.

Although I voted for the “right to die,” following this debate made me wonder if my reasons were sound. Is it right to push legislation through that may include loopholes for abuse? What about all the misdiagnoses?

My personal view of death was forever changed when I first truly encountered it. I had been to funerals before, but the person had already been long gone by the time I saw their body from a distance. This time was different. I was presented with the stark contrast of vivacious childhood and a man that was only a shell.

The father of a family friend had fallen ill with cancer. It was a shock to everyone that knew the hearty, healthy, athletic grandfather that he was. He underwent chemotherapy and other treatments and generally held onto his lifestyle, despite being told he was terminally ill. (UPDATE: correction: "Tim" chose not to receive treatment.)

Suddenly, his life-force began to drain more quickly. He lost weight, struggled to move around his home, and ultimately moved in with our family friends to be comforted through the rest of his journey. There he further lost body functioning, had a very limited ability to communicate, and lay waiting.

Soon after his hospital bed was placed in the living room of their house, I went over to spend some time with the family’s little girl—who was 3—to give her and her parents a break from the added stress of Tim (name changed).

When I arrived, Sarah (name changed) energetically hustled me up to her bedroom to play in her cozy space, thrilled to have a buddy. As we passed through the living room, I caught a glimpse of a ghost. What once was warm and vivacious Tim, was instead just a shell of the person he had been before. A chill ran down my spine. There seemed to be no justice for this to become of the man that had once encouraged me with ease as I struggled to ski miles in Vermont.

After I left I called my mom and began the conversation simply: “He’s going to die soon.” The next day we got the call.

This experience gives me conflicting information regarding the “right to die” question. He lived longer, and healthier than doctors had predicted. Ultimately, however, he was reduced to a shell of a human being until his body was ready to fully let go.

I believe people should not face situations like Sharon’s where they are encouraged to leave their lives behind. However, I also believe that should one so desire to hasten the already begun painful process of death, they should be allowed that option. Hopefully more discussion will emerge from this highly contested issue, and an appropriate compromise will evolve.

A FIELD DAY IN A HURRICANE: How social media is changing how we relate to community

“What if gangnam style is actually just a giant rain dance and we brought this hurricane on ourselves?”

This comment went viral as Hurricane Sandy began to hit the northeast coast Sunday. The true beginnings of the post have yet to be proven. (Although there is much discussion via tweets, Facebook and blogs such as here.

Many tweets and Facebook statuses about Hurricane Sandy over the past few days have exploded. Many of the posts have been satirical, while others have had a serious tone as people in and out of the destruction reach out to each other.

While most of the somber communications have occurred on Facebook, Twitter and Instagram seem to have dominated.

This is something that would never have been possible before the era of smartphones and 3G (and 4G) connection. Millions of people are still without power throughout the northeast from flooding, down trees and other wind-related problems, but that has not stopped them from tweeting.

As a kid I loved the nights when the power went out. Mom and Dad would pile wood in the stoves so it was cozy and warm. We’d crowd around the kitchen table and play cards by flickering candlelight until we yawned too often.

My ghoulish candlelit face in the mirror above the bathroom sink would always cause me to turn it to face the wall so I could brush my teeth in peace. Mom would blow out the candles after I’d climbed the ladder to my bunk bed, and I’d fall asleep to the lullaby of the wind singing around the corners of the house.

Yes, these nights are what made us a resilient family. We bonded in appreciation of nature’s power.

Now with our smartphones and tablets as constant portals to the rest of the world, can we achieve that same intimate human bonding?

When I joined Facebook as a naïve 14 year old, I was bit by the oversharing bug. Twitter was even worse. I found this insatiable need to share my every breathing moment, every mundane or slightly amusing thought and an image of every meal with the world.

I have since scaled back—and deleted—much of my mundane social media presence.

Hurricane Sandy (or the Frankenstorm) has opened my eyes to a positive of the oversharing. We, as a worldwide community, have been able to share the experience communally.

The bursts of inspiration that create trend-worthy tweets and reposted Instagram images are almost more real than the socially-aware face-to-face conversations that I prize. They open the intimacy of a disaster to the entire community affected.

A picture says a thousand words, so Instagram has certainly trumped the 140 characters of Twitter. Images of trees crushing cars and houses, cars floating in submerged parking garages, the dark New York City skyline and the subway system flooded to capacity have been posted, reposted, moved to Facebook and tweeted from Instagram. In their wake, those of us who are not there have been touched by the dramatic scenes.

According to this article, Instagram posts regarding Sandy exceeded 10 images per second early Tuesday and likely only increased as people continued to explore their newly barren landscapes.

However, Instagram and other image posts on social media provided a problem of legitimacy. Wait; there isn’t a cat in the storm over the Statue of Liberty? That storm isn’t real? It was taken in a different STATE?

(Find more images here)

Because these images moved through social media faster than the winds of Sandy, people didn’t have the time to sort out what was real and what wasn’t (except for the obvious ones). As social media so often does, it fought to correct itself. Slowly but surely the doubt crept in, and the award-winning investigative journalists of Facebook and Twitter proved many of the images false.

So was there harm done with these images? Probably not, but clearly many people put a lot of energy into their creation and fabrication. Here is a compilation of many Instagram images.

Now the Twitter developments were my favorite.

From its inception on Friday to today (Wednesday), @AHurricaneSandy gained 238,150 followers and posted 320 tweets. As many other Twitter handles did, @AHurricaneSandy took on the darkly comedic persona of Sandy. A taste:

OH S*%$ JUST DESTROYED A STARBUCKS. NOW I'M A PUMPKIN SPICE                          HURRICANE.

DIS B*%&$ ON DA WEATHER CHANNEL CALLED ME A BIG STORM. HOW YOU JUS GON MAKE FUN OF MY WEIGHT LIKE DAT?

Unfortunately, as I read on the cursing became grating to read:

DIS B*@$% STANDIN OUTSIDE YELLIN "SANDY YOU AIN'T S*%&" SO I THREW A F^**ING MINIVAN AT HER. NOW WHAT B*@$%?!?

Sandy has repeatedly been referred to as a b!%^$, as you can see in the graph of twitter mentions above from Topsy.

The posts of @AHurricaneSandy began to repeat themselves, and some were floating around the social media stratosphere attached to other names. With many followers, @AHurricaneSandy took the opportunity to promote his other, personal Twitter handles, which he did so quite regularly. If you dug through the tweets, you could find an occasional gem—like the pumpkin spiced hurricane tweet or many rewritten song lyrics.

My favorite Twitter handle, however, was @RomneyStormTips. This effectively combined recent political gaffs with the storm of the year, without using expletives and generally avoiding the offensive.

Examples:

#RomneysFEMA We're out of food, water, blankets, and medicine but here is a tax cut

Todd Akin asks New York City women like @amaeryllis to shut this whole thing down #Sandy

Some 47%er is outside fixing the power lines. Hope it's not a union member. I want power but not Soviet Power #Sandy

For every head-palm-worthy Romney quote, there is a tweet.

@RomneyStormTips was since changed to @RepublicanTips, which likely signifies that the handle is around to stay and parody the Republicans further.

I don’t think this Twitter handle will have an effect on the election, as many other parody Twitter handles and blogs have emerged critiquing both campaigns. The only difference with this one is timing. The reality is that the followers of @RepublicanTips are likely already against Romney.

So with the many images and tweets scattered about the internet, have we truly broadened the intimacy of surviving natural disasters?

In some ways we have, and in others we have only moved further away. The immediacy and amount of contact between people all over the world brings us together, unified against the weather. We know what dangers await outside our doors without looking out the window.

The comedy invoked by Sandy was a game of sorts, like the card games my parents and I played by candlelight, except played by the glow of our smartphones and tablets. Correcting the doctored or false posts became a distraction from the howling wind outside.

These falsehoods, along with the obscenities of some posts, broke down the trust. This is the one flaw. It is easy to lie on the internet, especially when we all know the truth is dramatic.

So, we have a tighter community with less trust than face-to-face contact. Not bad considering how young social media is.

I’ll leave you with a few more tweets.

From‏ @AFrankenStorm:

YOU KNOW HOW HARD IT IS TO DESTROY CITIES AND TWEET AT DA SAME TIME? YOU AIN'T BOUT DIS LYFE.

From‏ @WhiteFolkProbs

Hurricane Sandy is forcing me to spend time with my family.

True Country

Okay, I’ll admit it. I knew nothing about the Grand Ole Opry before going to their 87^th birthday concert. What I expected, however, was a mecca of country music. I pictured a crowd of cowboy boot-wearing, heel tapping, young southerners connecting with their cultural roots.

Driving up to the Opry, I began to get concerned. What was this sea of bright lights? A mall that goes on for miles? I must be lost, I thought.

With the traffic clogging every possible path towards the Opry, I had plenty of time for this new reality to sink in. I had trapped myself in a world of consumption and showiness. This wasn’t me. What was I doing here?

Finally arriving at the proper parking lot, we waded through a sea of cars towards the brightly glowing music hall. I noticed that the majority of our companions in this trek were generations older than us wee young’uns. Could it be that I had misunderstood the meaning of this event that was supposed to be the heart of country? Was the heart of country old?

The lobby of the Opry house had new age, color-changing lights hanging from the ceiling. Trippy. The lighting didn’t quite fit the crowd.

We made our way to the front row balcony seats—on the very side of the stage—just as the curtain was lifting. Although I had grown apprehensive, I kept an open mind as the crowd demonstrated clear excitement through their applause.

“I’m proud to be a daughter of the South,” sang out Mallary Hope to open the concert, “We ain’t scared to get down in the dirt and hang out with the boys.” 

Hope contrasted most of the musicians that graced the stage that night. She was a young woman, while the other lead singers were all male and mostly older than her. My interest was piqued as she walked onto the stage with confidence and excitement, waving to someone in the crowd above us.

 Her lyrics began to resonate with me. Yeah! Right on! I thought in surprise. As a kid, I had gravitated towards the more interesting activities on the playground: soccer and football…with all the boys. Hearing Hope’s confidence in this who-the-hell cares attitude made me sit up and take notice of this new world of country.  It couldn’t all be bad if this strong young woman was singing about her rough-and-tumble identity.

“We got closets full of cowboy boots, little black dresses and high heeled shoes. We can change it up—change the mood—if we want to,” She sang on, her southern twang reminding me that I was not in Massachusetts anymore.

And yet her intriguing self-identification continued to draw me in, echoing my childhood. I never hesitated to kneel down in the dirt and do what needed to be done, regardless of my attire. In fact, I had an overflowing dress-up box and was often dressed in fancy, satin dresses or a white, lacy dress I used to pretend was a wedding dress. I never needed a groom, just a white dress, my imagination and some dirt on my knees.

As I said earlier, Hope was an exception to the trend of older male performers, plucking away at their guitars. The oldest was Little Jimmy Dickens, at 91 years old.

Dickens was at ease up on that stage (as he should be! He’s been a member of the opry since 1948). Even at 4’ 11”, he had the presence of a gentle giant crossed with an endearing grandfather. Clad in a black suit with white, rhinestone, sparkly designs, and white cowboy boots and a cowboy hat to top it off, Dickens took the stage by storm.

Between songs he captured the audience with stories of his day-to-day life and cracked jokes with the audience, like one about being older: I’m not well. I had a little accident the other day. I was patting a little toilet water on the back of my neck, and the lid fell down and hit me. But that may not have been what caused my stiff neck. I went to the doctor the other day, and he gave me some of those pills for men my age. Now if you don’t swallow them quick, you’ll get a stiff neck.

With a huge smile spread across his face, Dickens was clearly there for his own enjoyment. He is 91 years old. He could have been at home, sitting on the couch, listening to the show on the radio, and yet he chose to be a part of that community experience.

Something felt familiar about this… Could the Grand Ole Opry really feel like the little ole coffeehouses in my hometown, a tiny hill town in western Massachusetts? And yet it did. That same distinct, small community feel of the Wendell Full Moon Coffeehouse washed over me. I closed my eyes and for a moment—just a moment—I was back home, sitting among my friends and neighbors in the metal folding chairs set up in the old, wooden town hall. The music echoed the folk songs that were often shared, with soft guitar accompaniments.

But when I opened my eyes, there were the sequins, cowboy boots and hats, and the atmosphere shifted. Dickens had stopped singing, and everyone in the room had paused for a “short message from our sponsors,” broadcast out to the radio listeners. This advertising shattered the intimate, coffeehouse feel Dickens had built up.

In Wendell we do everything for ourselves. Our town motto is, “we’re all here because we’re not all there.” Most of us interpret that as just being comfortable in who we are, and expressing ourselves the way we want to.

Our coffeehouses begin with an open mike portion. Typical performers include older men or women in long flowing clothes with hair to match, playing an acoustic guitar to accompany a song they wrote about nature. When I was younger—and still played violin—I would take the stage to perform whichever Suzuki piece or fiddle tune I was working on.

While these open mike performances would run the range of poetry, music, dance and other performance, they all were bound by a common thread. Every person that stood on that stage was positively thrilled to be there. These performers were rarely professionals—and never paid. They were not receiving much publicity and the audience would likely be of 50 to 100 people, at best.

No, these performers were there for the pure enjoyment of sharing creative expression.

This passion is what I found compelling about Mallary Hope’s strong southern identity, and Little Jimmy Dickens’ stage presence.

Hope encourages a who-the-hell cares-I’ll-do-as-I-please strength. Well, my heritage embraces that attitude. My culture says, be a Little Jimmy Dickens and own your identity. Wendell says gather with people who love you for who you are and for being here together. Be creative together and share your voices.

“It don’t matter where you’re from, it don’t matter where you’re raised, from New York City down to LA, everybody’s got a little southern running through their veins,” sang Mallary Hope.

I am a true country girl.

I am from the northern country, but that doesn’t mean I have to shun the “southern” in my blood. It is one and the same. I’m not afraid to work hard and get dirty, but like to dress up too; just like Hope said. No matter where I am, I am country and proud.

Rowing: North Meets South

Sitting at the starting blocks, a fiery ball of nerves roils inside me. The stake holder moves the boat slightly away from the blocks as the official directs—I respond by calmly asking two seat to take a light stroke to reset my point so we start straight. All eight of my rowers sit in hyper focus waiting for the starting call from the official.

“Sit ready. Attention. ROW!”

I let out the beast of nerves inside me as I call out the starting sequence, “Three quarters. Half. Three quarters. FULL. One, two, three…” My voice is gruff, powerful and direct—I’ve unleashed my coxswain growl.

Immediately Exeter pulls ahead in the lane on our starboard side. Shake it off, I tell myself, focus on the boats we can beat.

Slowly but surely we work our way past the four other boats. “I’m on stern, let’s get me to coxswain…I’ve got bow, let’s get bow ball!” The thrill of passing boats rushes through me. I let it fuel my coxswain growl to head into the last 500 meters.

 It is a fight in the final sprint, but we pull ahead and cross the finish line second—placing into the Grand Finales heat for NEIRAs 2011.

Beginning my rowing career at a New England prep school, the United States rowing hub seemed to me to be centered there. While everyone in the rowing community knows there are fast crews elsewhere, the hottest competition always seemed to be in prepville: New England—or the northeast in general.

Case in point was that Grand Finals competition—Exeter, Kent and Andover duked it out for medals, with the remaining three prep boats soaring in behind. All six boats were from Massachusetts, New Hampshire or Connecticut.

Now, I don’t want to pretend that I know a lot about the rowing community, because I don’t. I have coxed on three school teams for a total of about 25 races. I never went to rowing camps or other programs where the rowing community becomes interconnected. I know nothing except my own limited experience. (Although I do get pretty much all the jokes on whatshouldrowerscallme.)

However, I have competed twice in the Head of the Charles regatta in Boston. It is one of the most thrilling experiences to be part of the huge convergence of the international rowing world. The excitement can be overwhelming, but it fuels the air of competition through the pure, collective joy of speeding over the water, passing boats, and rowing with a tight-knit crew.

Coming to Nashville, I never expected to find such a flourishing rowing community in the south. Sure, some Florida and other coastal programs are thriving, but in Tennessee? Alabama? Georgia?

Let me explain what I mean by thriving. This past weekend I traveled to my first official regatta with the Vanderbilt Rowing Team: the Chattanooga Head Race. Considered somewhat of a warm-up for Head of the Hooch, I expected the regatta to be a small race with nearby crews, local, somewhat disorganized officials and a laidback atmosphere.

I was right and I was wrong, but as it turns out both in a good way.

At the coxswain and coaches meeting at the wonderful hour of 7:30 a.m., the regatta organizers presented pertinent information and rules regarding the course and the competition—as any race organizers would.

I was somewhat perplexed by the questions some coxswains asked. Immediately following a very thorough description of the buoys on the course and what they mean: “Which side of the yellow buoys do we need to be on?” After the officials said you would either hear a horn beep or someone yell “Mark” (if the horn is broken) as you crossed the starting line: “Which one will it be?”

At first I was annoyed by these seemingly silly questions, but I realized that they did not come from a place of misunderstanding, but rather from a place of excitement. Likely these coxswains were new to the sport, and did not want to have anything extra to think about on the fly. They were eager, so they did not entirely hear everything the officials said—I was certainly guilty of that as a novice coxswain.

Once I realized that this air of utter excitement was hanging over the crowd, I couldn’t stop noticing it in every spectator and athlete. Next to our team tent alongside the river was a large club team from Alabama. The team consisted of juniors and masters rowers, but the group also included a massive extension of enthusiastic families. Every person wore a broad smile—and their cookout spread was extensive.

These rowers of a range of abilities and ages were truly thrilled to be a part of this community event. When one of their boats approached the finish line, they stampeded to the shore to cheer loudly for their teammates. Their enthusiasm was infectious.

When we launched for the men’s college 8+ race, a group of juniors and novice rowers were returning to the docks. They were drenched and most of their shells were full of water, demonstrating that tricky wind patterns awaited us upstream. And yet they were laughing about it, smiling, and still completely happy to be a part of the scene.

Rowing up to the starting line, we rowed by Nashville Rowing Club. They gave us a friendly good luck shout. This kindness put a smile on my face that affected subsequent interactions with officials and other boats. I recalled that the Georgia Tech coxswain in the morning men’s 4+ race had been friendly at the start as well, even without the connections we have with NRC.

When the officials called us to our race, we started close behind the women’s junior 8+s. Being a men’s collegiate 8+, we bore down on them quickly. I had to yell to the coxswain to yield and let me pass, and when she did, I yelled out a friendly thank you in the spirit of the day.

The warm community feel of the day had an influence on me, as I would never have wasted my breath in any of my previous races. In my previous experiences, coxswains had always been brusque with me at best, and sometimes outright mean. Taking my cue from the dominant culture, I simply responded likewise—in short, efficient words.

Last year I coxed for a D1 program in Boston. At the Princeton Chase, Princeton’s frosh 8+ was passing us. When the coxswain called for me to yield—and I did to the best of my ability—she felt it necessary to include an f-bomb in her instructions.

My rowers laughed it off—coxswains are normally b!#@$y!

I think it is time that we change that standard.

The southern rowing community has showed me that I can hold onto the competitive rowing spirit, without succumbing to the sophomoric harshness associated with fierce competition. Now I see that it is not necessary to omit kindness. It takes only a small breath to say thank you.

My coxswain growl does not have to be mean to be effective—in fact it seems to be more effective to be kind. 

Finding Nature in Nashville

Sitting on the ground, I remember a forgotten part of myself. I kick off my shoes. Feeling the cool dirt underfoot reminds me to notice my environment. The familiar tactile connection with the Earth spreads through my body.

The grass tickles my legs and I absent-mindedly brush at imaginary bugs crawling there.

The crisp smell of Fall comes in bursts as the first colorful fallen leaves break in my hand. I peel them from their stems to leave a skeleton—looking like the trees themselves will in just a month or so.

Birds soar above me. Turkey vultures and hawks fly alone, searching for their next meal. Crows fly in and out of the church tower in flocks, swooping around in unison.

If it weren’t for the noise of cars in the distance, students hurrying to class and a helicopter overhead, I could be in my own backyard.

This week I forgot that stopping to smell the flowers keeps me alive. I let academic stresses drag me down into the depths of homesickness, ignoring the natural beauty on campus. Sitting here on one of the many green quad spaces, I remember that the natural world is a key part of what grounds me when I am home. In the idyllic woods surrounding my house, I can always find a spot to stop and think: to ground myself.

There is one particular rock on the edge of the rolling field behind my house where I have often sat to do just that. Bear Mountain slopes away from this spot, with the Northfield /Erving ridge facing it. The power of sitting above a valley, above an entire community, puts my small existence—with its minute problems—into a broad perspective. I am in awe of the expanse of the hills of Massachusetts, and of the human species.

Now in Nashville, I must find my rock.

Perhaps I can find it on Percy Priest Lake, where the Vanderbilt Rowing team practices. The water  itself expresses a plethora of natural emotions,  rough  out in the middle, but calm and still in the cove, disturbed only by the  the bow of the boat slicing through its glassy surface. The expanse of water could certainly serve as a reminder of my place in the world.

If not on the lake, I could walk across West End Avenue and find my rock in Centennial Park, maybe by the pond or the Parthenon. The immense steps and pillars of the Parthenon remind me that we are but a small fraction of the scheme of human history—a tiny step in the process held up by massive pillars of our forefathers and mothers.

In the moments when I simply do not have time to cross the street or am too busy during rowing practice to ground myself, I must remember the natural beauty that is right here on this campus. It is an arboretum for goodness sakes! On my hurried walk to my 8:10 AM class every Tuesday and Thursday, I cannot help but smile as I pass the familiar Sugar Maple that makes the iconic New England maple syrup possible. It is a little piece of home right here at Vanderbilt.

Sitting on the grass watching the birds fly about with purpose, stopping momentarily to rest on church steeples, roof peaks or in trees, I know I must take a lesson from them. As I face the increasing stresses of the world of academia, I must live with purpose and incorporate the necessary grounding breathers. When I consider my options, I definitely have plenty opportunities!

This is the beauty of a sprawl city—natural beauty can be found everywhere around the urban infrastructure. Cheers to natural beauty everywhere!