Intro
In childhood the things you remember most are not the ones you talk about to outsiders. In fact you would rather not talk about them at all. This may not be true for everyone, but this is true for at least for me. It’s not the 13 years of baseball, the little league championships, the countless snowboarding events, graduation, family vacations, it is none of these. For these are happy memories, while wonderful to share in collaboration with pictures and home video, these are not the images burned into your brain that will teach you new lessons everyday of your life whether you like it or not, no, the memories that do that are the secrets, the shames of your family. For me this is a grotesque black stain on 9 years of my childhood, compiled of sickness, disease, depression, self destruction, not of me but of my father. What is done is done, I am not expecting sympathy points, many people have many traumatic experiences that are worse than mine, I am simply making you think about what it is in your life that will forever be with you and teach you lessons nothing else could.
New Orleans
The sterile smell of hospitals is entombed in my senses the constant alarms of code blue, pages of nurses and doctors, these senses will never leave me as they may lay dormant for time any whiff of that unforgettable smell of hopelessness will bleed back in and awaken the monster in my head. It was January 1st, 1999, four days short of my 9th birthday in New Orleans Louisiana, the Nokia sugar bowl between The Ohio State Buckeyes and the Texas A&M Aggies. Like I said earlier from press clippings and online box scores I can tell you the outcome, but that is not what is in my mind. The game to me is a mute point. I did not know at the time but the man that I knew as my dad would forever change in the days to come. It was shortly after this trip we returned home to Ohio, with my dad, then a strong pertinent figure, hurled over in pain vulnerable as ever, not the superhero I was idolizing. This was the beginning of the smell, the birth of why it means weakness and death, a looming cloud of depression. Hospitals are supposed to help you, to be a haven, for me it was a prison trapped in by my love for my father, the reality of wanting him to feel better, the way he used to be, but all the time wanting to escape this reality, knowing things would never be the same. He was diagnosed with Chrones disease, a genetic gastrointestinal ailment that has and will plague him for the rest of his life.
Athens I
This part of the story is just that, a story. I was not alive for these events but through what I have been told over the years. This is bits and pieces of my father’s childhood that I feel are important in explaining why my father became what he did later in life. My dad grew up in a very competitive lifestyle. With being the youngest of 3 boys and unarguably the most athletically gifted, my Grandfather was the typical coach-father, a dual persona consisting of an overly competitive side that when disrupted by loss or disappointment got deflected toward his own children whom he coached for many years. My dad’s eighth grade football team went undefeated, winning every game without being scored on. This is what my grandfather expected all through life, to win at sports and to win at life, but unlike many people winning at life did not mean being happy, no, to him it meant making money. This, from what I hear, was a rough patch between my father and his own. My dad always aspired to be a teacher and to coach, but was denied consideration of this career choice due to the lack of financial benefits associated with it. So instead he went to Ohio University majoring in business to follow in his own fathers shadow as a financial advisor. Through this disappointment my dad’s time as a teen and young adult was clouded with poor decision making mostly involving drugs and alcohol. These along with my grandfathers own personal issues will haunt my Father, me, and the rest of our family later in life.
Cleveland
Years have advanced since we last visited the prison that is hospitals. Now the pain is greater the smell of death and depression growing ever stronger as the outlook for my dad and therefore my family grows weaker. We are now 3 surgeries into his fight with Chrones, a feat which is tough to accomplish even with a severe case of the disease. We sit for hours on end mindlessly doing puzzles of the twin tower memorial still fresh in our minds having fallen only 2 years ago. Waiting for a doctor to visit, or is he asleep, getting tested? They run together as days mix into weeks, at 13 I am caretaker when home. Not because my mother is sick or incapable, but overwhelmed driving the 1000 plus miles a week to Cleveland and back to Columbus. Attempting to balance caring for her husband and caring for her kids, while all the while neglecting herself. We as her children attempt to comfort her by saying we know she has to be with him, but all the time screaming silently inside for attention, for things to return to what we know and love the balance in our lives. Little did we know this balance would probably never return!
Code Blue
One of the lowest points during my dad’s stint in the hospital came in 2004. the Chrones had been in recession for about 6 months when it came back with a vengeance. Later on we would come to realize that this was not the fault of any doctor or medicine, but of the self destructive behavior of my father. The air that night had a feeling of gloom, much like that of the hospital. I hear the moans and groans coming from the upstairs bedroom, but I do not dare to interfere with the arguing, I know nothing good will happen if I do. Hours pass I should be asleep, but I know I wont sleep tonight I feel an odd sense of responsibility. I knew it was a matter of time before I would hear the door open and see the light from the hallway as my mom crept into my room to tell me they were leaving that dad wasn’t feeling good and he had to go see the doc. This to me seemed juvenile, every time the door opened at 3 or 4 am I simply said I’m awake ill take care of Grace in the morning. I knew dad was more than “sick” I knew he was barely walking, barely breathing hurled over in pain, but there is nothing I can do feeling helpless yet needing to do something, discover a miracle cure perhaps, but I just lay there hoping they will return both healthy and happy and things will be the same but the never do.The term code blue in a hospital is read aloud over the PA system to announce a patient in urgent need of emergency treatment. This unnerving feeling occurred three times to my family over our years in and out of hospitals. All three time because of a low enough heart rate to trigger the warning. These events occurred within months of each other, in a sequence I refer to as hell. Along with Chrones my dad was diagnosed with a failing liver and kidney cancer. While the cancer diagnosis was later removed, that word should have meant death to a man like my father, a 6’3”, 230 pound man I had known, who had shrunk into a slouching 6’1” 140 pound elderly looking man now. It would not be for a few more years we learned the true cause of these problems and how intensely ignorant such a smart man could be.
Hiding
With Chrones in recession once again, I was hopeful things would begin to get better, to return to normal. I had just started dating a new girl and things in my life were looking up I was a sophomore in school and I was playing baseball on JV and dressing for some varsity games. Little did I know how naive I had been for the past few years.After arriving home one night from dropping off my girlfriend back at her house, I walked in and gave a quick hey to my dad anxious to get downstairs to watch TV. I walked into the dining room to set my coat down when instead of a response back from my dad I heard ice from the refridgerator hit the floor, I turned around and saw my father sitting there pushing his cup into the ice machine which was overflowing with ice, I yell for him to stop, but all I see is his limp body flop downward toppling over and smashing face first into the counter with a bone chilling velocity. I rush to his side screaming unaware of what has happened grabbing his bloody forehead in my hands trying to lift his head, unresponsive to my screams off the ground now covered in a watery red mix of blood and melted ice, I’m screaming and crying as my mom rushes in to a disturbing scene. We both work to lift him up as he starts to regain consciousness, we place him in a chair sitting upright as his head rolls backward like a ragdoll. Expecting my mother to be crying in a worry she is crying but in a much angrier manner. By this time he is waking up to my mother’s furious growls she screams he’s killing himself, and how could he put us through that. It is now I get close to wipe off his head, that I smell the sickening smell of blood sweat and liquor, a smell much like that of the hospital I will not soon forget.These episodes were constant now that I found out what was going on. To this day I don’t know how I could have been so blind to the problem. I was still not fully aware of the carnage this mental disease would have on my family. Out of my lack of understanding for this disease grew a feeling of responsibility, responsibility to fix it, responsibility that I had caused it. I now know of course it was not my fault at all, it was a lifetime of depression, rejection, false hopes, and sickness that caused his demise, it was not at all the fault of me or my family. This is a feeling common among children and loved ones of alcoholics as shown by Scott Russell Sanders, in his essay Under the Influence.“Whatever my brother and sister and mother may be thinking on their own rumpled pillows, I lie there hating him, loving him, fearing him, knowing I have failed him. I tell myself he drinks to ease the ache that gnaws at his belly, an ache I must have caused by disappointing him somehow, a murderous ache I should be able to relieve by doing all my chores, earning A's in school, winning baseball games, fixing the broken washer and the burst pipes, bringing in the money to fill his empty wallet. He would not hide the green bottles in his toolbox, would not sneak off to the barn with a lump under his coat, would not fall asleep in the daylight, would not roar and fume, would not drink himself to death, if only I were perfect”. (Sanders 1-2)Now with this feeling creeping in my job began. At first it was the espionage, subtly marking where he went alone, finding the rank bottles of vodka stashed in the golf bag hanging in the garage, the center console of the Honda in the driveway, above the roof panels in the unfinished section of the basement, inside the unused grill during the winter. The locations are endless when we foiled one stash another would appear only a few hours later, never removing the foul liquid myself, but instead I retreat to the safety of my mother and report the position of the stash to her so that she could deal with the removal of the vodka. This never sat well with my father when he would come home drunk. The fights would rage into the night as I would listen, knowing not to get involved, this would only make matters worse.
Rehab
The events that had been escalating over the past year and a half hit an all time low in the spring of 2007. My sister still not aware of the full extent of my dad’s problem is playing softball when suddenly she would be made fully aware of the urgency of the situation. Dehydrated from the heat and sipping vodka from a coffee cup my dad is just a bomb waiting to explode. Then what happens next is probably the darkest time for my sister, much like the first night I saw him collapse, his body goes limp, he fall quickly to the ground and is unconscious for a few minutes, as gasps from the crowd filled with family friends and acquaintances a few rush to help knowing very well his previous health problems, but most simply watch, lost as to what has happened. Ashamed he wakes up to the roar of an ambulance the vodka on his breath, enhanced only by the puddle seeming from the ground into his shirt.This is the begging of the stories turn around. Over the next two weeks the drinking continued resulting in my mom throwing my dad out of our house unless he went to rehab, so he left. This drunken independence didn’t last too long and he decided it was time to go to rehab. This also didn’t last too long within 5 days he was out, pulling into the driveway after work with a smashed front end to his brand new accord, the drivers window and mirror smashed into a million tiny pieces, he was sitting there blood streaming down his face from the 3 inch gash along his forehead that I realized he was going to die if he continued to drink. I worked quickly to get him out of the car and into the house while attracting the least attention from the neighborhood around us. I stow his beaten car in the garage to hide the collateral damage, in this process I discover the source of this nightmare a ¾ empty bottle of vodka on the floorboard beside the passenger seat. Denial is not an option I decide to take this one into my own hands. In a curious moment of clarity and rage I walk into the house with the bottle in my hand gently push my mom to the side and slam the bottle down on the table my mother is crying beside us and I look him in the eyes and ask why he is killing himself, but more so why he is killing us. This is his last chance by my accord, so I present two options, one he cleans up his own cut and gets into the car with me and I will take him back to rehab where he will get clean or die, or he can leave right now and not come back. In my moment of clarity he must have realized the seriousness I was putting on him as he showed up roughly 20 minutes later with a bad he had packed himself and said lets go I don’t want to kill my family anymore.After a 4 month stint between hospitals and rehab a different man emerged, one that was frail, weak, and afraid of what might happen now that he is allowed to choose for himself what to do, but this man was sober. And that after all was the dream his family had been waiting for.
Athens II
This is where the known ends and the speculation begins. Being the son of an alcoholic as described by sanders“I knew the odds of my becoming an alcoholic were four times higher than for the children of nonalcoholic fathers”. (Sanders 10)This is my fear, my prolonged unknowing, as I enter college in the same place my father did 30 some odd years ago, I am aware of the risks, but tempted by the rewards when used in moderation. Alcohol is a social medicine, one that can help you open up easier, to find out something otherwise hidden behind a wall of insecurities be it about your self or another. But with the risks so great is it worth it. My career choice as a pilot is one where alcohol is a major issue, a high stress career filled with long days and longer nights. But it is a passion, something I love, a right my father was denied in youth. I feel I am a smart enough man to use alcohol in moderation, but I will always listen to my body, listen for signs that things are not right, I will deal with my problems head on not drown the in a poison designed to alleviate issues that will emerge in sobriety once again. Already being 25% more likely to suffer from alcoholism than many people and entering a career where according to Addiction,“In the United States of America, the taboo was broken when it became known that 30% of fatally injured pilots in general aviation had been under the influence of alcohol”. (Holdener 953)These realities scare me; they make me realize how venerable even someone as strong willed as me can be to the affects of a poison. If my family were to read this now I feel they would be somewhat shocked to find out the reality of my feelings toward this situation, but I think ultimately the stain that has affected our past can never be removed or covered up completely. More so I think we will all use it as a reminder of what we have all experienced and do not wish to live through again.
Sources
Sanders, Scott R. "Under the Influence." Harpers November 1989: 1-10.
Holdener, Fridolin. "Alcohol and Civil Aviation." Addiction June 1993: 953-958.
Tuesday, March 17, 2009
Wednesday, March 4, 2009
Memoir
Intro
In childhood the things you remember most are not the ones you talk about to outsiders. In fact you would rather not talk about them at all. This may not be true for everyone, but this is true for at least for me. It’s not the 13 years of baseball, the little league championships, the countless snowboarding events, graduation, family vacations, it is none of these. For these are happy memories, while wonderful to share in collaboration with pictures and home video, these are not the images burned into your brain that will teach you new lessons everyday of your life whether you like it or not, no, the memories that do that are the secrets, the shames of your family. For me this is a grotesque black stain on 9 years of my childhood, compiled of sickness, disease, depression, self destruction, not of me but of my father. What is done is done, I am not expecting sympathy points, many people have many traumatic experiences that are worse than mine, I am simply making you think about what it is in your life that will forever be with you and teach you lessons nothing else could.
New Orleans
The sterile smell of hospitals is entombed in my senses the constant alarms of code blue, pages of nurses and doctors, these senses will never leave me as they may lay dormant for time any whiff of that unforgettable smell of hopelessness will bleed back in and awaken the monster in my head. It was January 1st, 1999, four days short of my 9th birthday in New Orleans Louisiana, the Nokia sugar bowl between The Ohio State Buckeyes and the Texas A&M Aggies. Like I said earlier from press clippings and online box scores I can tell you the outcome, but that is not what is in my mind. The game to me is a mute point. I did not know at the time but the man that I knew as my dad would forever change in the days to come. It was shortly after this trip we returned home to Ohio, with my dad, then a strong pertinent figure, hurled over in pain vulnerable as ever, not the superhero I was idolizing. This was the beginning of the smell, the birth of why it means weakness and death, a looming cloud of depression. Hospitals are supposed to help you, to be a haven, for me it was a prison trapped in by my love for my father, the reality of wanting him to feel better, the way he used to be, but all the time wanting to escape this reality, knowing things would never be the same. He was diagnosed with Chrones disease, a genetic gastrointestinal ailment that has and will plague him for the rest of his life.
Athens I
This part of the story is just that, a story. I was not alive for these events but through what I have been told over the years. This is bits and pieces of my father’s childhood that I feel are important in explaining why my father became what he did later in life. My dad grew up in a very competitive lifestyle. With being the youngest of 3 boys and unarguably the most athletically gifted, my Grandfather was the typical coach-father, a dual persona consisting of an overly competitive side that when disrupted by loss or disappointment got deflected toward his own children whom he coached for many years. My dad’s eighth grade football team went undefeated, winning every game without being scored on. This is what my grandfather expected all through life, to win at sports and to win at life, but unlike many people winning at life did not mean being happy, no, to him it meant making money. This, from what I hear, was a rough patch between my father and his own. My dad always aspired to be a teacher and to coach, but was denied consideration of this career choice due to the lack of financial benefits associated with it. So instead he went to Ohio University majoring in business to follow in his own fathers shadow as a financial advisor. Through this disappointment my dad’s time as a teen and young adult was clouded with poor decision making mostly involving drugs and alcohol. These along with my grandfathers own personal issues will haunt my Father, me, and the rest of our family later in life.
Cleveland
Years have advanced since we last visited the prison that is hospitals. Now the pain is greater the smell of death and depression growing ever stronger as the outlook for my dad and therefore my family grows weaker. We are now 3 surgeries into his fight with Chrones, a feat which is tough to accomplish even with a severe case of the disease. We sit for hours on end mindlessly doing puzzles of the twin tower memorial still fresh in our minds having fallen only 2 years ago. Waiting for a doctor to visit, or is he asleep, getting tested? They run together as days mix into weeks, at 13 I am caretaker when home. Not because my mother is sick or incapable, but overwhelmed driving the 1000 plus miles a week to Cleveland and back to Columbus. Attempting to balance caring for her husband and caring for her kids, while all the while neglecting herself. We as her children attempt to comfort her by saying we know she has to be with him, but all the time screaming silently inside for attention, for things to return to what we know and love the balance in our lives. Little did we know this balance would probably never return!
Code Blue
One of the lowest points during my dad’s stint in the hospital came in 2004. the Chrones had been in recession for about 6 months when it came back with a vengeance. Later on we would come to realize that this was not the fault of any doctor or medicine, but of the self destructive behavior of my father. The air that night had a feeling of gloom, much like that of the hospital. I hear the moans and groans coming from the upstairs bedroom, but I do not dare to interfere with the arguing, I know nothing good will happen if I do. Hours pass I should be asleep, but I know I wont sleep tonight I feel an odd sense of responsibility. I knew it was a matter of time before I would hear the door open and see the light from the hallway as my mom crept into my room to tell me they were leaving that dad wasn’t feeling good and he had to go see the doc. This to me seemed juvenile, every time the door opened at 3 or 4 am I simply said I’m awake ill take care of Grace in the morning. I knew dad was more than “sick” I knew he was barely walking, barely breathing hurled over in pain, but there is nothing I can do feeling helpless yet needing to do something, discover a miracle cure perhaps, but I just lay there hoping they will return both healthy and happy and things will be the same but the never do.
The term code blue in a hospital is read aloud over the PA system to announce a patient in urgent need of emergency treatment. This unnerving feeling occurred three times to my family over our years in and out of hospitals. All three time because of a low enough heart rate to trigger the warning. These events occurred within months of each other, in a sequence I refer to as hell. Along with Chrones my dad was diagnosed with a failing liver and kidney cancer. While the cancer diagnosis was later removed, that word should have meant death to a man like my father, a 6’3”, 230 pound man I had known, who had shrunk into a slouching 6’1” 140 pound elderly looking man now. It would not be for a few more years we learned the true cause of these problems and how intensely ignorant such a smart man could be.
Hiding
With Chrones in recession once again, I was hopeful things would begin to get better, to return to normal. I had just started dating a new girl and things in my life were looking up I was a sophomore in school and I was playing baseball on JV and dressing for some varsity games. Little did I know how naive I had been for the past few years.
After arriving home one night from dropping off my girlfriend back at her house, I walked in and gave a quick hey to my dad anxious to get downstairs to watch TV. I walked into the dining room to set my coat down when instead of a response back from my dad I heard ice from the refridgerator hit the floor, I turned around and saw my father sitting there pushing his cup into the ice machine which was overflowing with ice, I yell for him to stop, but all I see is his limp body flop downward toppling over and smashing face first into the counter with a bone chilling velocity. I rush to his side screaming unaware of what has happened grabbing his bloody forehead in my hands trying to lift his head, unresponsive to my screams off the ground now covered in a watery red mix of blood and melted ice, I’m screaming and crying as my mom rushes in to a disturbing scene. We both work to lift him up as he starts to regain consciousness, we place him in a chair sitting upright as his head rolls backward like a ragdoll. Expecting my mother to be crying in a worry she is crying but in a much angrier manner. By this time he is waking up to my mother’s furious growls she screams he’s killing himself, and how could he put us through that. It is now I get close to wipe off his head, that I smell the sickening smell of blood sweat and liquor, a smell much like that of the hospital I will not soon forget.
These episodes were constant now that I found out what was going on. To this day I don’t know how I could have been so blind to the problem. I was still not fully aware of the carnage this mental disease would have on my family. Out of my lack of understanding for this disease grew a feeling of responsibility, responsibility to fix it, responsibility that I had caused it. I now know of course it was not my fault at all, it was a lifetime of depression, rejection, false hopes, and sickness that caused his demise, it was not at all the fault of me or my family. This is a feeling common among children and loved ones of alcoholics as shown by Scott Russell Sanders, in his essay Under the Influence.
“Whatever my brother and sister and mother may be thinking on their own rumpled pillows, I lie there hating him, loving him, fearing him, knowing I have failed him. I tell myself he drinks to ease the ache that gnaws at his belly, an ache I must have caused by disappointing him somehow, a murderous ache I should be able to relieve by doing all my chores, earning A's in school, winning baseball games, fixing the broken washer and the burst pipes, bringing in the money to fill his empty wallet. He would not hide the green bottles in his toolbox, would not sneak off to the barn with a lump under his coat, would not fall asleep in the daylight, would not roar and fume, would not drink himself to death, if only I were perfect”. (Sanders 1-2)
Now with this feeling creeping in my job began. At first it was the espionage, subtly marking where he went alone, finding the rank bottles of vodka stashed in the golf bag hanging in the garage, the center console of the Honda in the driveway, above the roof panels in the unfinished section of the basement, inside the unused grill during the winter. The locations are endless when we foiled one stash another would appear only a few hours later, never removing the foul liquid myself, but instead I retreat to the safety of my mother and report the position of the stash to her so that she could deal with the removal of the vodka. This never sat well with my father when he would come home drunk. The fights would rage into the night as I would listen, knowing not to get involved, this would only make matters worse.
Rehab
The events that had been escalating over the past year and a half hit an all time low in the spring of 2007. My sister still not aware of the full extent of my dad’s problem is playing softball when suddenly she would be made fully aware of the urgency of the situation. Dehydrated from the heat and sipping vodka from a coffee cup my dad is just a bomb waiting to explode. Then what happens next is probably the darkest time for my sister, much like the first night I saw him collapse, his body goes limp, he fall quickly to the ground and is unconscious for a few minutes, as gasps from the crowd filled with family friends and acquaintances a few rush to help knowing very well his previous health problems, but most simply watch, lost as to what has happened. Ashamed he wakes up to the roar of an ambulance the vodka on his breath, enhanced only by the puddle seeming from the ground into his shirt.
This is the begging of the stories turn around. Over the next two weeks the drinking continued resulting in my mom throwing my dad out of our house unless he went to rehab, so he left. This drunken independence didn’t last too long and he decided it was time to go to rehab. This also didn’t last too long within 5 days he was out, pulling into the driveway after work with a smashed front end to his brand new accord, the drivers window and mirror smashed into a million tiny pieces, he was sitting there blood streaming down his face from the 3 inch gash along his forehead that I realized he was going to die if he continued to drink. I worked quickly to get him out of the car and into the house while attracting the least attention from the neighborhood around us. I stow his beaten car in the garage to hide the collateral damage, in this process I discover the source of this nightmare a ¾ empty bottle of vodka on the floorboard beside the passenger seat. Denial is not an option I decide to take this one into my own hands. In a curious moment of clarity and rage I walk into the house with the bottle in my hand gently push my mom to the side and slam the bottle down on the table my mother is crying beside us and I look him in the eyes and ask why he is killing himself, but more so why he is killing us. This is his last chance by my accord, so I present two options, one he cleans up his own cut and gets into the car with me and I will take him back to rehab where he will get clean or die, or he can leave right now and not come back. In my moment of clarity he must have realized the seriousness I was putting on him as he showed up roughly 20 minutes later with a bad he had packed himself and said lets go I don’t want to kill my family anymore.
After a 4 month stint between hospitals and rehab a different man emerged, one that was frail, weak, and afraid of what might happen now that he is allowed to choose for himself what to do, but this man was sober. And that after all was the dream his family had been waiting for.
Athens II
This is where the known ends and the speculation begins. Being the son of an alcoholic as described by sanders
“I knew the odds of my becoming an alcoholic were four times higher than for the children of nonalcoholic fathers”. (Sanders 10)
This is my fear, my prolonged unknowing, as I enter college in the same place my father did 30 some odd years ago, I am aware of the risks, but tempted by the rewards when used in moderation. Alcohol is a social medicine, one that can help you open up easier, to find out something otherwise hidden behind a wall of insecurities be it about your self or another. But with the risks so great is it worth it. My career choice as a pilot is one where alcohol is a major issue, a high stress career filled with long days and longer nights. But it is a passion, something I love, a right my father was denied in youth. I feel I am a smart enough man to use alcohol in moderation, but I will always listen to my body, listen for signs that things are not right, I will deal with my problems head on not drown the in a poison designed to alleviate issues that will emerge in sobriety once again. Already being 25% more likely to suffer from alcoholism than many people and entering a career where according to Addiction,
“In the United States of America, the taboo was broken when it became known that 30% of fatally injured pilots in general aviation had been under the influence of alcohol”. (Holdener 953)
These realities scare me; they make me realize how venerable even someone as strong willed as me can be to the affects of a poison. If my family were to read this now I feel they would be somewhat shocked to find out the reality of my feelings toward this situation, but I think ultimately the stain that has affected our past can never be removed or covered up completely. More so I think we will all use it as a reminder of what we have all experienced and do not wish to live through again.
Sources
Sanders, Scott R. "Under the Influence." Harpers November 1989: 1-10.
Holdener, Fridolin. "Alcohol and Civil Aviation." Addiction June 1993: 953-958.
In childhood the things you remember most are not the ones you talk about to outsiders. In fact you would rather not talk about them at all. This may not be true for everyone, but this is true for at least for me. It’s not the 13 years of baseball, the little league championships, the countless snowboarding events, graduation, family vacations, it is none of these. For these are happy memories, while wonderful to share in collaboration with pictures and home video, these are not the images burned into your brain that will teach you new lessons everyday of your life whether you like it or not, no, the memories that do that are the secrets, the shames of your family. For me this is a grotesque black stain on 9 years of my childhood, compiled of sickness, disease, depression, self destruction, not of me but of my father. What is done is done, I am not expecting sympathy points, many people have many traumatic experiences that are worse than mine, I am simply making you think about what it is in your life that will forever be with you and teach you lessons nothing else could.
New Orleans
The sterile smell of hospitals is entombed in my senses the constant alarms of code blue, pages of nurses and doctors, these senses will never leave me as they may lay dormant for time any whiff of that unforgettable smell of hopelessness will bleed back in and awaken the monster in my head. It was January 1st, 1999, four days short of my 9th birthday in New Orleans Louisiana, the Nokia sugar bowl between The Ohio State Buckeyes and the Texas A&M Aggies. Like I said earlier from press clippings and online box scores I can tell you the outcome, but that is not what is in my mind. The game to me is a mute point. I did not know at the time but the man that I knew as my dad would forever change in the days to come. It was shortly after this trip we returned home to Ohio, with my dad, then a strong pertinent figure, hurled over in pain vulnerable as ever, not the superhero I was idolizing. This was the beginning of the smell, the birth of why it means weakness and death, a looming cloud of depression. Hospitals are supposed to help you, to be a haven, for me it was a prison trapped in by my love for my father, the reality of wanting him to feel better, the way he used to be, but all the time wanting to escape this reality, knowing things would never be the same. He was diagnosed with Chrones disease, a genetic gastrointestinal ailment that has and will plague him for the rest of his life.
Athens I
This part of the story is just that, a story. I was not alive for these events but through what I have been told over the years. This is bits and pieces of my father’s childhood that I feel are important in explaining why my father became what he did later in life. My dad grew up in a very competitive lifestyle. With being the youngest of 3 boys and unarguably the most athletically gifted, my Grandfather was the typical coach-father, a dual persona consisting of an overly competitive side that when disrupted by loss or disappointment got deflected toward his own children whom he coached for many years. My dad’s eighth grade football team went undefeated, winning every game without being scored on. This is what my grandfather expected all through life, to win at sports and to win at life, but unlike many people winning at life did not mean being happy, no, to him it meant making money. This, from what I hear, was a rough patch between my father and his own. My dad always aspired to be a teacher and to coach, but was denied consideration of this career choice due to the lack of financial benefits associated with it. So instead he went to Ohio University majoring in business to follow in his own fathers shadow as a financial advisor. Through this disappointment my dad’s time as a teen and young adult was clouded with poor decision making mostly involving drugs and alcohol. These along with my grandfathers own personal issues will haunt my Father, me, and the rest of our family later in life.
Cleveland
Years have advanced since we last visited the prison that is hospitals. Now the pain is greater the smell of death and depression growing ever stronger as the outlook for my dad and therefore my family grows weaker. We are now 3 surgeries into his fight with Chrones, a feat which is tough to accomplish even with a severe case of the disease. We sit for hours on end mindlessly doing puzzles of the twin tower memorial still fresh in our minds having fallen only 2 years ago. Waiting for a doctor to visit, or is he asleep, getting tested? They run together as days mix into weeks, at 13 I am caretaker when home. Not because my mother is sick or incapable, but overwhelmed driving the 1000 plus miles a week to Cleveland and back to Columbus. Attempting to balance caring for her husband and caring for her kids, while all the while neglecting herself. We as her children attempt to comfort her by saying we know she has to be with him, but all the time screaming silently inside for attention, for things to return to what we know and love the balance in our lives. Little did we know this balance would probably never return!
Code Blue
One of the lowest points during my dad’s stint in the hospital came in 2004. the Chrones had been in recession for about 6 months when it came back with a vengeance. Later on we would come to realize that this was not the fault of any doctor or medicine, but of the self destructive behavior of my father. The air that night had a feeling of gloom, much like that of the hospital. I hear the moans and groans coming from the upstairs bedroom, but I do not dare to interfere with the arguing, I know nothing good will happen if I do. Hours pass I should be asleep, but I know I wont sleep tonight I feel an odd sense of responsibility. I knew it was a matter of time before I would hear the door open and see the light from the hallway as my mom crept into my room to tell me they were leaving that dad wasn’t feeling good and he had to go see the doc. This to me seemed juvenile, every time the door opened at 3 or 4 am I simply said I’m awake ill take care of Grace in the morning. I knew dad was more than “sick” I knew he was barely walking, barely breathing hurled over in pain, but there is nothing I can do feeling helpless yet needing to do something, discover a miracle cure perhaps, but I just lay there hoping they will return both healthy and happy and things will be the same but the never do.
The term code blue in a hospital is read aloud over the PA system to announce a patient in urgent need of emergency treatment. This unnerving feeling occurred three times to my family over our years in and out of hospitals. All three time because of a low enough heart rate to trigger the warning. These events occurred within months of each other, in a sequence I refer to as hell. Along with Chrones my dad was diagnosed with a failing liver and kidney cancer. While the cancer diagnosis was later removed, that word should have meant death to a man like my father, a 6’3”, 230 pound man I had known, who had shrunk into a slouching 6’1” 140 pound elderly looking man now. It would not be for a few more years we learned the true cause of these problems and how intensely ignorant such a smart man could be.
Hiding
With Chrones in recession once again, I was hopeful things would begin to get better, to return to normal. I had just started dating a new girl and things in my life were looking up I was a sophomore in school and I was playing baseball on JV and dressing for some varsity games. Little did I know how naive I had been for the past few years.
After arriving home one night from dropping off my girlfriend back at her house, I walked in and gave a quick hey to my dad anxious to get downstairs to watch TV. I walked into the dining room to set my coat down when instead of a response back from my dad I heard ice from the refridgerator hit the floor, I turned around and saw my father sitting there pushing his cup into the ice machine which was overflowing with ice, I yell for him to stop, but all I see is his limp body flop downward toppling over and smashing face first into the counter with a bone chilling velocity. I rush to his side screaming unaware of what has happened grabbing his bloody forehead in my hands trying to lift his head, unresponsive to my screams off the ground now covered in a watery red mix of blood and melted ice, I’m screaming and crying as my mom rushes in to a disturbing scene. We both work to lift him up as he starts to regain consciousness, we place him in a chair sitting upright as his head rolls backward like a ragdoll. Expecting my mother to be crying in a worry she is crying but in a much angrier manner. By this time he is waking up to my mother’s furious growls she screams he’s killing himself, and how could he put us through that. It is now I get close to wipe off his head, that I smell the sickening smell of blood sweat and liquor, a smell much like that of the hospital I will not soon forget.
These episodes were constant now that I found out what was going on. To this day I don’t know how I could have been so blind to the problem. I was still not fully aware of the carnage this mental disease would have on my family. Out of my lack of understanding for this disease grew a feeling of responsibility, responsibility to fix it, responsibility that I had caused it. I now know of course it was not my fault at all, it was a lifetime of depression, rejection, false hopes, and sickness that caused his demise, it was not at all the fault of me or my family. This is a feeling common among children and loved ones of alcoholics as shown by Scott Russell Sanders, in his essay Under the Influence.
“Whatever my brother and sister and mother may be thinking on their own rumpled pillows, I lie there hating him, loving him, fearing him, knowing I have failed him. I tell myself he drinks to ease the ache that gnaws at his belly, an ache I must have caused by disappointing him somehow, a murderous ache I should be able to relieve by doing all my chores, earning A's in school, winning baseball games, fixing the broken washer and the burst pipes, bringing in the money to fill his empty wallet. He would not hide the green bottles in his toolbox, would not sneak off to the barn with a lump under his coat, would not fall asleep in the daylight, would not roar and fume, would not drink himself to death, if only I were perfect”. (Sanders 1-2)
Now with this feeling creeping in my job began. At first it was the espionage, subtly marking where he went alone, finding the rank bottles of vodka stashed in the golf bag hanging in the garage, the center console of the Honda in the driveway, above the roof panels in the unfinished section of the basement, inside the unused grill during the winter. The locations are endless when we foiled one stash another would appear only a few hours later, never removing the foul liquid myself, but instead I retreat to the safety of my mother and report the position of the stash to her so that she could deal with the removal of the vodka. This never sat well with my father when he would come home drunk. The fights would rage into the night as I would listen, knowing not to get involved, this would only make matters worse.
Rehab
The events that had been escalating over the past year and a half hit an all time low in the spring of 2007. My sister still not aware of the full extent of my dad’s problem is playing softball when suddenly she would be made fully aware of the urgency of the situation. Dehydrated from the heat and sipping vodka from a coffee cup my dad is just a bomb waiting to explode. Then what happens next is probably the darkest time for my sister, much like the first night I saw him collapse, his body goes limp, he fall quickly to the ground and is unconscious for a few minutes, as gasps from the crowd filled with family friends and acquaintances a few rush to help knowing very well his previous health problems, but most simply watch, lost as to what has happened. Ashamed he wakes up to the roar of an ambulance the vodka on his breath, enhanced only by the puddle seeming from the ground into his shirt.
This is the begging of the stories turn around. Over the next two weeks the drinking continued resulting in my mom throwing my dad out of our house unless he went to rehab, so he left. This drunken independence didn’t last too long and he decided it was time to go to rehab. This also didn’t last too long within 5 days he was out, pulling into the driveway after work with a smashed front end to his brand new accord, the drivers window and mirror smashed into a million tiny pieces, he was sitting there blood streaming down his face from the 3 inch gash along his forehead that I realized he was going to die if he continued to drink. I worked quickly to get him out of the car and into the house while attracting the least attention from the neighborhood around us. I stow his beaten car in the garage to hide the collateral damage, in this process I discover the source of this nightmare a ¾ empty bottle of vodka on the floorboard beside the passenger seat. Denial is not an option I decide to take this one into my own hands. In a curious moment of clarity and rage I walk into the house with the bottle in my hand gently push my mom to the side and slam the bottle down on the table my mother is crying beside us and I look him in the eyes and ask why he is killing himself, but more so why he is killing us. This is his last chance by my accord, so I present two options, one he cleans up his own cut and gets into the car with me and I will take him back to rehab where he will get clean or die, or he can leave right now and not come back. In my moment of clarity he must have realized the seriousness I was putting on him as he showed up roughly 20 minutes later with a bad he had packed himself and said lets go I don’t want to kill my family anymore.
After a 4 month stint between hospitals and rehab a different man emerged, one that was frail, weak, and afraid of what might happen now that he is allowed to choose for himself what to do, but this man was sober. And that after all was the dream his family had been waiting for.
Athens II
This is where the known ends and the speculation begins. Being the son of an alcoholic as described by sanders
“I knew the odds of my becoming an alcoholic were four times higher than for the children of nonalcoholic fathers”. (Sanders 10)
This is my fear, my prolonged unknowing, as I enter college in the same place my father did 30 some odd years ago, I am aware of the risks, but tempted by the rewards when used in moderation. Alcohol is a social medicine, one that can help you open up easier, to find out something otherwise hidden behind a wall of insecurities be it about your self or another. But with the risks so great is it worth it. My career choice as a pilot is one where alcohol is a major issue, a high stress career filled with long days and longer nights. But it is a passion, something I love, a right my father was denied in youth. I feel I am a smart enough man to use alcohol in moderation, but I will always listen to my body, listen for signs that things are not right, I will deal with my problems head on not drown the in a poison designed to alleviate issues that will emerge in sobriety once again. Already being 25% more likely to suffer from alcoholism than many people and entering a career where according to Addiction,
“In the United States of America, the taboo was broken when it became known that 30% of fatally injured pilots in general aviation had been under the influence of alcohol”. (Holdener 953)
These realities scare me; they make me realize how venerable even someone as strong willed as me can be to the affects of a poison. If my family were to read this now I feel they would be somewhat shocked to find out the reality of my feelings toward this situation, but I think ultimately the stain that has affected our past can never be removed or covered up completely. More so I think we will all use it as a reminder of what we have all experienced and do not wish to live through again.
Sources
Sanders, Scott R. "Under the Influence." Harpers November 1989: 1-10.
Holdener, Fridolin. "Alcohol and Civil Aviation." Addiction June 1993: 953-958.
Wednesday, February 18, 2009
Running in the family 62-101
Confusing is the only word i can use to describe this book so far. It may just be the state of mind im in, but i get very easily confused while reading this book. Ondaatje writes this book like a hyper active 5 year old who can not stay on topic. Every chapter starts off with a semingly
irrelevant memory with a loose tie to his family history toward the end.
At first he talkes about a map in his brothers house i think and how it is somehow related to his family leniage. I am still trying to figure out what the writing technique behind this book is. i suppose he is trying to tell his family's story and expose his own love for his native country through these stories. unlike the two previous memoirs weve read this book is focusing more on the past of people in his family rather than completely on his own past. to add to the confusing nature of the book randomly half way through the chapter he breaks into peoms, then back to the story, then back to peoms. Im really not sure what im supposed to take away from this book. although im lost and not a big fan of the book. I did find the last story rather interesting when he describes killing the rattle snakes with the shotgun. Then about the confrontation between his family and the insurgents. So all in all this book is a confusing colection of irrelevant stories that i hope eventually come up with a common theme, but some of the stories do capture my interest for the brief 2 or 3 pages they cover.
irrelevant memory with a loose tie to his family history toward the end.
At first he talkes about a map in his brothers house i think and how it is somehow related to his family leniage. I am still trying to figure out what the writing technique behind this book is. i suppose he is trying to tell his family's story and expose his own love for his native country through these stories. unlike the two previous memoirs weve read this book is focusing more on the past of people in his family rather than completely on his own past. to add to the confusing nature of the book randomly half way through the chapter he breaks into peoms, then back to the story, then back to peoms. Im really not sure what im supposed to take away from this book. although im lost and not a big fan of the book. I did find the last story rather interesting when he describes killing the rattle snakes with the shotgun. Then about the confrontation between his family and the insurgents. So all in all this book is a confusing colection of irrelevant stories that i hope eventually come up with a common theme, but some of the stories do capture my interest for the brief 2 or 3 pages they cover.
Monday, February 16, 2009
Running in the family 17-60
Another confusing start. This book like both the previous, started out very difficult to understand, although not for the same reasons as The liars Club or Fathers Sons & Brothers.
unlike these books Running in the Family does not switch time frames rapidly. actually it seems like its starting to follow a pattern. He starts out talking about his grandparents at first and then transitioned into a little about his father toward the end of the reading. While unlike the other books in that aspect. It is similar in that the author is quite descriptive. He uses this description to tell about his grandparents and parents background. Overall i am not yet sure about this book. I guess i will have to read more to make a complete assesment of the book.
unlike these books Running in the Family does not switch time frames rapidly. actually it seems like its starting to follow a pattern. He starts out talking about his grandparents at first and then transitioned into a little about his father toward the end of the reading. While unlike the other books in that aspect. It is similar in that the author is quite descriptive. He uses this description to tell about his grandparents and parents background. Overall i am not yet sure about this book. I guess i will have to read more to make a complete assesment of the book.
Thursday, February 12, 2009
900 word FSB
In the book Fathers Sons & Brothers, Brett Lott writes about events and memories that have shaped his life. Unlike typical books Lott not only writes about what happened but he also describes what he was thinking. This strategy of basically analyzing his own writing helps us as the readers comprehend why Lott chooses the stories that are included in his book. Throughout the book Lott’s analytical writing is just as important to the lesson behind the book as are the events he shares.
I think this is strategy important because it helps the reader understand what Lott wants one to take away from his book. Unlike many of the books we have read in the past which are filled with happy, sad, or horrifying stories that are filled with blatantly obvious lessons or themes. In Fathers Sons & Brothers the book is compiled of a collection of essays that seem to have a very loose connection to one and other. As you read on you discover though, that there are many hidden similarities throughout these essays. These similarities include the theme of Lott connecting events from his childhood to those of his children as they grow up and mature. While it is obvious that these events are not actually connected, seeing as they took place years decades apart, but he connects these events through his thoughts about them. This is where the analytical aspect of Lott’s writing comes into play. Lott had the challenge of creating meaning out of his collections of essays he had compiled from past memories. The title of this book, Fathers Sons & Brothers hints as to what the main theme of the book is going to be but still the first few essay are very confusing due to the order of events. Throughout the essays Lott tells the stories in a manner in which it seems like he is trying to create a lesson out of it but cannot get across his point in words. This is shown very clearly in a strong sentence at the end of the "Brothers" essay.
Lott writes, “What I believe is this: That pinch was entry into our childhood; my arm around him, our smiling, is proof of us two surfacing, alive but not unscathed. And here are my own two boys, already embarked.” (32)
While this sentence seems to come from a lost and confused author, when put next to the context with the stories that were included in this essay it brings up a really strong feeling of Lott’s feelings regarding his childhood in connection with his children’s. The preceding stories were of the trials and tribulations Brett and his brother Brad had while growing up. Followed by how they grew out of this stage to become better friends and have more respect for one and other later on in life. Lott then cuts to a story of Zeb and Jake, Lott’s children, fighting and carrying on. The quote above is how Lott analyzed the situations he remembered. The quote basically says that by realizing his action toward his brother, and how there relationship flourished later in life Lott is beginning to notice many of the same qualities in his own children’s interactions.
While the central theme of Fathers Sons & Brothers is the relationships of Lott as a father, son, and brother. Not all the analyzing in this book has to do with this. Later on in the book many of these analytical portions turn into a blank canvas for Lott’s self reflection. While by definition self reflection and analyzing are not the same thing in Fathers Sons & Brothers the are used in much the same way. Like the analytical writing, the self reflection is used by Lott to give meaning to an event that may otherwise seem insignificant to anyone but Lott himself. A good essay to show this deep reflection is "Wadmalow". Indisputably one of the least connected essays of the book "Wadmalow" provides that canvas I described earlier. It is a chance for Lott to get away from his roles and focus more his personal feelings on some of his memories. Early on in "Wadmalow" it talks about how Brett is watching football on a Sunday and observing the behavior of his children. Throughout the progression of the essay Lott realizes how he is throwing his day away. This ideal is solidified by a quote at the end of the essay.
One of Lotts many reflections states, “A Sunday, a day of rest, in October on Wadmalow Island, a day dangerously close to having been lost to television and a rainy sky. Though she does not know it yet, the view from here is the most beautiful gift I can remember Melanie giving me,” (149).
In this reflection Lott describes the feelings he had after he resurrected that Sunday by driving to Wadmalow Island. He tells how although it seems as simple not wasting the day on the couch, it really opened his eyes to the realization that it was more than this Sunday, but more many parts throughout his life that he may have missed out on by partaking in frivolous activities.
Throughout the book Lott’s analytical writing is just as important to the lesson behind the book as are the events he shares. I think that this is a very beneficial tool for Lott to use. Not only for us as readers, but also for Lott himself to realize what significant point he wanted to get across to his audience. Overall Fathers, Sons & Brothers, was a difficult read due to the rapid and frequent change in tense and essays, but I think many readers will take many different lessons away from the book. This is greatly attributed to author Brett Lott’s innovative technique of analyzing his own writing to better explain his purpose.
I think this is strategy important because it helps the reader understand what Lott wants one to take away from his book. Unlike many of the books we have read in the past which are filled with happy, sad, or horrifying stories that are filled with blatantly obvious lessons or themes. In Fathers Sons & Brothers the book is compiled of a collection of essays that seem to have a very loose connection to one and other. As you read on you discover though, that there are many hidden similarities throughout these essays. These similarities include the theme of Lott connecting events from his childhood to those of his children as they grow up and mature. While it is obvious that these events are not actually connected, seeing as they took place years decades apart, but he connects these events through his thoughts about them. This is where the analytical aspect of Lott’s writing comes into play. Lott had the challenge of creating meaning out of his collections of essays he had compiled from past memories. The title of this book, Fathers Sons & Brothers hints as to what the main theme of the book is going to be but still the first few essay are very confusing due to the order of events. Throughout the essays Lott tells the stories in a manner in which it seems like he is trying to create a lesson out of it but cannot get across his point in words. This is shown very clearly in a strong sentence at the end of the "Brothers" essay.
Lott writes, “What I believe is this: That pinch was entry into our childhood; my arm around him, our smiling, is proof of us two surfacing, alive but not unscathed. And here are my own two boys, already embarked.” (32)
While this sentence seems to come from a lost and confused author, when put next to the context with the stories that were included in this essay it brings up a really strong feeling of Lott’s feelings regarding his childhood in connection with his children’s. The preceding stories were of the trials and tribulations Brett and his brother Brad had while growing up. Followed by how they grew out of this stage to become better friends and have more respect for one and other later on in life. Lott then cuts to a story of Zeb and Jake, Lott’s children, fighting and carrying on. The quote above is how Lott analyzed the situations he remembered. The quote basically says that by realizing his action toward his brother, and how there relationship flourished later in life Lott is beginning to notice many of the same qualities in his own children’s interactions.
While the central theme of Fathers Sons & Brothers is the relationships of Lott as a father, son, and brother. Not all the analyzing in this book has to do with this. Later on in the book many of these analytical portions turn into a blank canvas for Lott’s self reflection. While by definition self reflection and analyzing are not the same thing in Fathers Sons & Brothers the are used in much the same way. Like the analytical writing, the self reflection is used by Lott to give meaning to an event that may otherwise seem insignificant to anyone but Lott himself. A good essay to show this deep reflection is "Wadmalow". Indisputably one of the least connected essays of the book "Wadmalow" provides that canvas I described earlier. It is a chance for Lott to get away from his roles and focus more his personal feelings on some of his memories. Early on in "Wadmalow" it talks about how Brett is watching football on a Sunday and observing the behavior of his children. Throughout the progression of the essay Lott realizes how he is throwing his day away. This ideal is solidified by a quote at the end of the essay.
One of Lotts many reflections states, “A Sunday, a day of rest, in October on Wadmalow Island, a day dangerously close to having been lost to television and a rainy sky. Though she does not know it yet, the view from here is the most beautiful gift I can remember Melanie giving me,” (149).
In this reflection Lott describes the feelings he had after he resurrected that Sunday by driving to Wadmalow Island. He tells how although it seems as simple not wasting the day on the couch, it really opened his eyes to the realization that it was more than this Sunday, but more many parts throughout his life that he may have missed out on by partaking in frivolous activities.
Throughout the book Lott’s analytical writing is just as important to the lesson behind the book as are the events he shares. I think that this is a very beneficial tool for Lott to use. Not only for us as readers, but also for Lott himself to realize what significant point he wanted to get across to his audience. Overall Fathers, Sons & Brothers, was a difficult read due to the rapid and frequent change in tense and essays, but I think many readers will take many different lessons away from the book. This is greatly attributed to author Brett Lott’s innovative technique of analyzing his own writing to better explain his purpose.
Monday, February 9, 2009
300 word FSB
In the book Fathers Sons & Brothers, Brett Lott uses many very interesting writing techniques throughout the book. The one strategy I chose to expand on was Lott’s analytical writing technique. Unlike typical books Lott not only writes about what happened but he also describes what he was thinking. This strategy of basically analyzing his own writing helps us as the readers comprehend why Lott chooses the stories that are included in his book. I think this is important because unlike The Liars Club that we read earlier, Fathers sons & Brothers includes stories that are less substantial in the context that is included. I think Lott uses this analytical technique along side his stories to get across what he wants you to get from the story. I think this is an interesting strategy for a book mostly because he doesn’t always use the core events in his story to teach a lesson more-so he uses his own thoughts and opinions on these events.
This is shown very clearly in a strong sentence at the end of the Brothers essay, “What I believe is this: That pinch was entry into our childhood; my arm around him, our smiling, is proof of us two surfacing, alive but not unscathed. And here are my own two boys, already embarked”. Lott uses these thoughts to describe his feelings on the similarities between his relationship with his brother, and the relationship between his two children. This is one of many instances throughout the book where this technique is utilized to enhance the lessons behind these essays in the book. Analytically writing about his own experiences, while an unusual techniques it enhances the story and helps not only the readers, but I feel it also helps Lott himself realize what needs to be taken away from his essays.
This is shown very clearly in a strong sentence at the end of the Brothers essay, “What I believe is this: That pinch was entry into our childhood; my arm around him, our smiling, is proof of us two surfacing, alive but not unscathed. And here are my own two boys, already embarked”. Lott uses these thoughts to describe his feelings on the similarities between his relationship with his brother, and the relationship between his two children. This is one of many instances throughout the book where this technique is utilized to enhance the lessons behind these essays in the book. Analytically writing about his own experiences, while an unusual techniques it enhances the story and helps not only the readers, but I feel it also helps Lott himself realize what needs to be taken away from his essays.
Sunday, February 8, 2009
Thesis
Brett Lott uses an analytical tone in his writing in order in increase the readers insight into his thoughts.
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