When I was a teenager, I harbored an inexplicable loathing common between many boys in their adolescence: every time someone said, "Oh, you are just like your father," my insides would curdle.
Admittedly, I did not want to remind people of my father. Granted, Dad was skilled at a lot of things, but he was also cheesy, goofy, and every other word that's synonymous with weird. At least that's what I called it when he would burst out dancing at movie theaters if a catchy song was playing for the end credits. Not to mention my embarrassment when he invariably told the same old, corny jokes at every social function. Ever hear about the kid in Australia who was born with four legs? Well, I've heard about that poor kid thousands of times, and his condition isn't much different than when Dad first announced it. And let's not forget the Chinese fire-drills!
"Oh, Owen, you are just like your father," they said.
What's that supposed to mean?
But as much as I've resisted it, I am my father's son. Here are a few evidences that recently manifested themselves:
Case #1
Tonight, I went on a date with my dearest little sister, Kimberly. But not just any date; tonight we had the pleasure of attending BYU's annual dance concert, where all the university's top dance ensembles perform. And when the cloggers made a bold entrance, I immediately turned to Kimberly and we said in unison, "Dad would probably get up and start dancing right about now." You see, Dad did clogging in college, and the mere mentioning of the word "clogging" sends him off doing heels clicks. Once upon a time, that was embarrassing, but in that moment I had a feeling well up inside me that seemed to say, "Get up and do a jig!" I quelled that urge by telling myself, "You can let that out in your next dance class.'' Wait a minute, Dad took dance classes! And Dad constantly wants to get up and dance! What's happening to me?
Case #2
The first thing I did when I walked into the DI the first week of school was go straight to the shoe section. I spent the majority of my time there trying on scores of shoes, and I eventually found two pairs of decent dress shoes for $6 and $8. Now I wear those shoes just about every day. The funny thing is that Dad does the same thing the moment he walks into thrift stores--head straight for the shoe wracks.
Case #3
I can't believe I'm admitting this, but I tell the same corny jokes at parties that Dad tells. And I get the same reaction every time I reveal that the kid's mother is a goat. I also plagiarize Dad by telling everyone, "If everyone in this world were a little bit fatter, we'd be closer together."
Case #4
We share an intense love of gardening. And weeds drive us crazy. While walking to DaLynn and Carolyn's apartment I had to stop and root out a few dandelions in a patch of grass.
Case #5
When we start reading a good book, we burn the midnight oil to read a few extra chapters before going to bed. I just started reading Outliers, and it has me hooked.
These are just a few examples, but at this rate, soon I'll be knitting, running marathons, snoring, and vigorously scratching my head when I'm overly excited. I'll soon find out what other eccentricities I've inherited from him. But unlike before, now I'm OK with that. In fact, I look forward to discovering them and developing a few of my own. So thank you, Dad, for being every word synonymous with weird. Because now when people say I'm weird, I have genetic license to say, "Oh, my Dad always does that. And he's awesome!"
Saturday, September 20, 2014
Wednesday, September 10, 2014
Feeding My Terpsichorean Beast
What do linear algebra and folk dance have to do with each other? Usually nothing whatsoever, but tonight the answer is, "A LOT!" Today's adventure begins in math class, but ends on the dance floor.
I prefer to sit in the second row in my classes. This gives me just the right elevation and vantage point in the classroom, yet affords a protective wall between me and the professor. The boons of second-row seating extended even further today when I noticed the boy sitting in front of me. He was dripping with sweat, panting, and vigorously fanning himself with his homework. Curiosity got the better of me and I asked, "What happened?"
After gulping and catching his breath he answered, "Clogging."
Hmmm, clogging. Didn't know that was a thing with math lovers. My puzzled look must have prompted him to expound on his one-word answer.
"Usually, I schedule my folk dance class with at least an hour or two before my next class so I can shower and get cleaned up, but that doesn't work this semester. So, I have to run straight from folk dance to math class."
Right now I'm taking two dance classes. Both of them are beginner 100-level courses for people like me who have never danced in their entire lives, but secretly harbor a terpsichorean beast in their souls that begs for release. To feed my beast, I signed up for social and international ballroom. We practice footwork for about an hour, set it to music, then call it quits for the day. As a beginner, it's hard work for me to tell my feet what to do without looking at them, but never have I broken a sweat after a practice. Which is why I was surprised by this boy in front of me, drenched in sweat, and all from an hour of clogging.
I revealed to him my secret desire to improve myself on the dance floor, and he quickly invited me to a folk dance REC night at 7pm later that evening. Not sure what a REC night was, I lamely said, "Um, yeah, sure . . . maybe I can come." Class ended, and I had no intention of attending, but that terpsichorean beast was still hungry. So a few minutes before 7pm I marched out the door on a quest to do something way outside my comfort zone--I was going to folk dance.
The music was already playing when I got to the dance hall and a huge group was dancing an intricate circle dance. I was immediately intimidated by how everyone there seemed to know what they were doing. The only folk dance I knew was the Macarena (is that even a folk dance?), so I was getting ready to leave when a friend from my mission pulled me into one of the circles. It was like being pulled into a top-loading washing machine, and there was no escape. At first, I felt like I was getting churned and twisted, but after a few minutes I picked up the steps and started to enjoy myself.
That's basically how the rest of the evening went. A new song would start, and a new dance would begin. These songs and dances were clearly from all around the world. There was an Israeli dance, a Scottish mixer (my personal favorite), and a slew of Romanian and Russian dances that were all incredibly fun. We ended with a spiral dance that wound us all up tight and close. By the end of the evening, it was clear that the object of folk dance was to have fun, and the purpose was to grow closer as a community. And yes, after an hour I was glistening with sweat!
I think I have an idea which dance class I'll take next semester . . . folk dance!
I prefer to sit in the second row in my classes. This gives me just the right elevation and vantage point in the classroom, yet affords a protective wall between me and the professor. The boons of second-row seating extended even further today when I noticed the boy sitting in front of me. He was dripping with sweat, panting, and vigorously fanning himself with his homework. Curiosity got the better of me and I asked, "What happened?"
After gulping and catching his breath he answered, "Clogging."
Hmmm, clogging. Didn't know that was a thing with math lovers. My puzzled look must have prompted him to expound on his one-word answer.
"Usually, I schedule my folk dance class with at least an hour or two before my next class so I can shower and get cleaned up, but that doesn't work this semester. So, I have to run straight from folk dance to math class."
Right now I'm taking two dance classes. Both of them are beginner 100-level courses for people like me who have never danced in their entire lives, but secretly harbor a terpsichorean beast in their souls that begs for release. To feed my beast, I signed up for social and international ballroom. We practice footwork for about an hour, set it to music, then call it quits for the day. As a beginner, it's hard work for me to tell my feet what to do without looking at them, but never have I broken a sweat after a practice. Which is why I was surprised by this boy in front of me, drenched in sweat, and all from an hour of clogging.
I revealed to him my secret desire to improve myself on the dance floor, and he quickly invited me to a folk dance REC night at 7pm later that evening. Not sure what a REC night was, I lamely said, "Um, yeah, sure . . . maybe I can come." Class ended, and I had no intention of attending, but that terpsichorean beast was still hungry. So a few minutes before 7pm I marched out the door on a quest to do something way outside my comfort zone--I was going to folk dance.
The music was already playing when I got to the dance hall and a huge group was dancing an intricate circle dance. I was immediately intimidated by how everyone there seemed to know what they were doing. The only folk dance I knew was the Macarena (is that even a folk dance?), so I was getting ready to leave when a friend from my mission pulled me into one of the circles. It was like being pulled into a top-loading washing machine, and there was no escape. At first, I felt like I was getting churned and twisted, but after a few minutes I picked up the steps and started to enjoy myself.
That's basically how the rest of the evening went. A new song would start, and a new dance would begin. These songs and dances were clearly from all around the world. There was an Israeli dance, a Scottish mixer (my personal favorite), and a slew of Romanian and Russian dances that were all incredibly fun. We ended with a spiral dance that wound us all up tight and close. By the end of the evening, it was clear that the object of folk dance was to have fun, and the purpose was to grow closer as a community. And yes, after an hour I was glistening with sweat!
I think I have an idea which dance class I'll take next semester . . . folk dance!
Sunday, September 7, 2014
Getting Help From The Help
When my thoughts are kept to myself, I'm rarely amused. But give me an audience, and suddenly I'm able to articulate my thoughts in a way that pleases me and--in some small way--constructively contributes to society. A few weeks ago I thumbed through a journal I kept religiously during my Freshman year at BYU. Quite frankly, I was appalled at how boring my entries were. I thought, "If I were my great grandson, I wouldn't want to read this!" This deficiency in adequately capturing memories in writing I attribute to my lack of audience. I was under the impression that no one would ever see my journal, so I never bothered to put thought into the way I preserved my history.
It's still very possible I will never publish these words, but I feel that at least the illusion of an audience will stimulate creativity in expressing myself. That way, a decade down the road I won't detest the dullness I would have used to describe moments that were actually quite colorful.
Ever since I read Kathryn Stockett's The Help, I've been fascinated by Aibileen Clark, who wrote down all her prayers. Her habit haunted me as a senior in high school, a freshman in college, and for two more years serving as a missionary in Ukraine. Although I don't plan on writing down every prayer or introspective thought that wells up inside me, I do wish to follow Aiblileen's example of thoughtfulness. And hopefully, through that level of thoughtfulness I can better organized my thoughts and feelings, and better align my will with Father's will. Is that not the purpose of prayer?
It's still very possible I will never publish these words, but I feel that at least the illusion of an audience will stimulate creativity in expressing myself. That way, a decade down the road I won't detest the dullness I would have used to describe moments that were actually quite colorful.
Ever since I read Kathryn Stockett's The Help, I've been fascinated by Aibileen Clark, who wrote down all her prayers. Her habit haunted me as a senior in high school, a freshman in college, and for two more years serving as a missionary in Ukraine. Although I don't plan on writing down every prayer or introspective thought that wells up inside me, I do wish to follow Aiblileen's example of thoughtfulness. And hopefully, through that level of thoughtfulness I can better organized my thoughts and feelings, and better align my will with Father's will. Is that not the purpose of prayer?
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