'BUT'

A teacher of mine once told me that his favorite word was 'but'. He said that there was no word more economical: no word that for so few letters could accomplish so much, and with such subtlety. With three letters it could contradict pages and pages worth of sentences; like multiplying by zero, it had the effect of turning everything that came before it into a blank, meaningless nothing. It seems, sometimes, that that single word has the power to destroy everything that has ever been. History, mathematics, science, all it can be wiped clean by the cliffhanger created by an unpunctuated sentence ending with 'but'.

If there is any single axiomatic turn of phrase that the children of the twenty-first century can parrot mindlessly, it is that with great power comes great responsibility. So why do we toss it around like it's nothing more than a conjunction? Why are we so freely able to take this negation, this ultimate cancellation of reality and physics, and place it into whatever we choose? Do we not understand the power that it wields?

"You're great, but..."
"Everyone's important, but..."
"Oh, Jeffrey! You are an absolute star of an individual, and for you I would pluck the stars from their seats. But... (name of other romantic interest implied here)"

'But' complicates. And my postmodern sense of self longs not for more disorder within the wasteland that is our modern cultural heritage, but for a method by which we may connect the dots of our insanity and madness and delusion, and by so doing make some sense of the darkness through which we crawl. But hey, who am I?

THE INTELLECTUAL

Two undergraduate philosophy majors, SOREN and THOMAS, sit at a table in some Mid-western restaurant, sipping coffee. They are discussing opposing political ideals. 

SOREN: … the varying results of which indicate that we must strongly consider-

WAITER: Hey, guys. All done with those coffees?

THOMAS (irritated): Yes.

SOREN: Could I get another Americano?

THOMAS: And an espresso for me.

WAITER: Sure thing.

SOREN: Anyway, as I was saying: we come to the inevitable conclusion that a capitalistic, representative democracy is the best form of government that exists. The future doesn’t lie in the discovery of new schools of thought, but in improving a system that, though admittedly flawed, possesses the potential to create realistic amounts of good in each individual’s life.

THOMAS: Unfortunately, Soren, your thought appears to be marred by the age-old adage of “it’s the best we’ve got, and so we’ll make do”, even though it is clear that the promises of capitalistic democracy are crumbling around us as we speak. Capitalism assumes a near-inexhaustible amount of natural resources, and a working democracy assumes an intelligently individualistic population. The future of humanity must exist within the improvement of humankind from the inside so that we may work under a superior form of government.

SOREN (sarcastically): What, are you proposing a communist revolution?

THOMAS: I don’t eliminate options that haven’t been properly tried.

SOREN: Thomas, nothing about communism makes any sense.

THOMAS: That is a statement that cannot be qualified. It’s never been properly done before.

SOREN: It’s been “done” by half the third world. And look at how that turned out.

THOMAS: Yes, under the leadership of a corrupt, foreign government.

SOREN: Communism inevitably leads to corruption.

THOMAS: Only when those in power become corrupt.

SOREN: You’ll be hard-pressed to discover a single person that is incorruptible.

THOMAS: Exactly. Thus, my earlier point. Our goal should not be to improve a flawed system but to improve ourselves so that we may adopt a superior system of governance.

SOREN: But-

WAITER: Here you go. An espresso and an Americano, right?

SOREN (irritated): Yes.

THOMAS: Thank you.

They both sip at their coffees.

SOREN: But regardless of efficiency, what you’re suggesting is undeniably autocracy. You can’t honestly imagine that an autocracy is better than a government of the people?

THOMAS: Why not?

SOREN: Because it takes away the people’s right to make decisions about their own lives. It makes a farce of free will.

THOMAS: Not if they willingly accept the change. Besides, the people as a general unit are incapable of making intelligent decisions for themselves. Why should they possess the power to change the world? Knowledge, not simple numbers, should be the key to power. In addition to that, can you honestly claim that that our American model of democracy is still a government of the people? The private sector has claimed too much ground and the last bastion of variability, the Internet, is this close to privatization.

SOREN broods, thinking for some time.

SOREN: Granted. Perhaps our modern democracy isn’t what it proclaims itself to be. But let’s look at economics. I don’t think anybody can deny that a stable economy is the basis for any kind of civilization.

THOMAS: Of course.

SOREN: And free market capitalism is the most efficient system of creating relative economic equality that exists to us. Though it may be brutal at times, it works. The market is an impartial judge. And interfering with that market creates macroeconomic disruptions. 

THOMAS: I agree.

SOREN: Then you will also agree, I imagine, that because autocratic governments have a very strong tendency towards intervention within the market to further political ends, said governments possess a tendency to be crippled by poor economies.

THOMAS thinks for a while.

THOMAS: Granted. But what about labor? You cannot deny that-

The waiter returns.

WAITER: Anything else you need?

SOREN: Check, please.

WAITER: You got it.

The waiter leaves.

THOMAS: I believe the working class should have more power. They’re more important than we give them credit for.

SOREN: I actually agree. Raising minimum wage is a fantastic way to attack current financial imbalances.

The waiter returns with the check.

WAITER: Here you go.

THOMAS and SOREN check their wallets and look up, panicked.  

THOMAS: Its thirty bucks. I only have ten. Can you spot me?

SOREN: I only have… five.

                                                          

THOMAS: Shit! How the hell are four coffees thirty bucks?

SOREN: Economy’s messed up, man. Minimum wage is off the charts.

SOREN: You have your phone on you?

THOMAS: I left it back in the dorm. It’s charging.

SOREN: I lost mine at that Alpha Pi party last week.

THOMAS: Fuck!

A frantic silence as SOREN and THOMAS dig through their pockets for change.

WAITER: You know, you guys might want to consider law school.

END SCENE

THE WAYS THAT MATTER

You know, my dad wasn't around much. He wasn't a deadbeat or anything, In fact, just the opposite. He almost worked himself to death. He spent everything, every hour, every drop of sweat and blood, to send me to school and to make sure that I never wanted for anything. But he wasn't around much. Always making sure that he was making enough to put me through boarding school and my sister through college. But he was never there. Not when it really mattered.

He wasn't there to teach me how to shave, or how to talk to girls. He was always off, “So that I could have more.” He wasn't there the first time I sang in front of an audience. He never taught me how to fight. For all of his hard work and effort, he never taught me how to be a man.

So I really have to thank you, infinitesimal bundle of flesh and bone and blood. That you for being trusting enough to place your faith, your trust, your life, into the hands of someone that doesn’t know what the hell he’s doing. And to tell you the truth, I'm scared. I’m scared of messing up, And of letting you down. I’m scared of hating you, or you hating me.

You, like the trillions of lives that have been on this earth, have a rough journey ahead of you. Things will punch you, and kick you. Even more so when you barely have the sliver of breath you need to breathe. On top of that, even your old man is probably going to let you down sometimes. But if there is one promise I will make, it is this: trust me to be there, in all the ways that matter.

I love you.

THE LIAR

I hate summer vacation. I hate summer vacation because I have to leave my campus home. And leaving my campus home means leaving behind everything that ties me to reality. My early New England mornings, my solitary early morning weekend trips to Subway, my late weekend board game nights with friends, and my conversations about the ethics of robotic sexuality all disappear into memory, and I am left wondering, for three months, if I had imagined the past year. It means leaving behind the only place in my life in which I have been able to sign, with lasting ink, my name. I’ve never been in any one place for more than two years. The conclusion of my junior year at Loomis marks the end of my third. I love that place; no place could be better.

(That isn’t entirely true. It’s actually extraordinarily untrue. How could I ever deny the excitement the city brings? The moment Manhattan’s neon giants, outlined in phosphorescent light against the furtively dark night, peak over the horizon, my heart leaps. That place is magical. There’s an energy there that I don’t think I’ve ever seen before. It’s old yet new, sophisticated yet somehow idyllically charming. It’s unparalleled. Shanghai comes close, but it isn’t the same. What I’d give to be in Times Square now…)

I think one of my favorite parts of being at school is performing. I discovered that I truly loved performing here. People tell me I have a knack for singing. I don’t know if that’s true. All I know is that I’ve grown tremendously as a performer, and, as a result, a human being. Before I came to Loomis I was completely terrified of all social interaction. I was terrified of judgment, terrified of becoming a social outcast. So naturally, I became a social outcast. But then, in a terrific moment of reckless abandon, I started doing musical theatre. And it was there that I realized that I was a decent human being. And I had talents worthy of recognition. It made me comfortable in my own skin. It made me proud.

(Vain is a more accurate term. I put on a mask of modesty but I am the vainest peacock that there ever was. I subtly hum complex figures around the underclassmen; I speak thoughtfully of the principles of vocal technique around upperclassmen. And when any singer receives more credit than me, jealousy rises in my throat like floodwater. Whenever I hear other people sing I feel the compulsive need to break them down and hear every single aspect of their voice in order to find something to criticize. Their natural tone, their technique, their lyricism; in every aspect, I need to feel superior. The criticism doesn’t even need to be valid. If someone can hit notes that I can’t, or connect phrases more smoothly than I, I’ll even attack their personal character. I need the world around me to know that I have talent. I know, though, that what I have is nothing special.)

I am who I want to be. Of all that I have learned, of the many multitudes that reside within myself, I am my best self.

(I am a liar.)

IT WON'T LAST

Wake up. The sun streams in through the open window but you have seen it too many times now. It has spoiled you. Groan, wish for another minute in bed. Struggle to keep your eyes open, though you want nothing more than to let the darkness take you away again. Was there a dream? Maybe there was, maybe there wasn’t. You can never tell anymore. Vague images of an arranged marriage arise. She is not beautiful. But she is determined. Almost metallic. Was she speaking in Korean? You don’t remember. Indulge your heavy eyes.

Wake up, for real this time, seven minutes later. Nothing’s changed. Sigh. Leave the bed. As your feet touch the floor, reach for your glasses. They’re on the table, slightly to the left of where you remember putting them. You’ve done it again. Consider talking to the school counselor. Decide against it. Look at your desk. Look at this room. It’s a mess. Resolve to clean it up. Hear footsteps outside. Some idiot is going for the middle shower. Don’t let him. Grab a towel and two-in-one shampoo/body wash. Drowsily stumble out into the hallway. You see the door to the third floor bathroom close shut. Follow it. Another resident of Taylor Hall stands there. He’s pissing. You hear no dibs. Walk into the middle shower. Your competition is too tired to notice. You have victory. Shower.

Go back to your room. Glance with some anxiety at your mounting pile of laundry and realize that needs to be done at some point. Just not now. You have four pairs of boxers left; you’ll last until Saturday, thank God. Throw on a pair; pull on a clean white shirt. Grab your toothbrush and comb. Walk back into the bathroom. Someone has turned on music, something vaguely EDM-y. Ask the room what the song is. Get a reply. Make a mental note. Brush your teeth, making sure to place special attention to the molars. Gargle. Spit. Steal a swig of someone’s mouthwash. Gargle. Spit. Look in the mirror. Wet your hair again, and start to comb it. A little to the side, but with some lift. Wonder how you managed to get so good at fixing your hair. Allow yourself to question your sexuality. Conclude that you are still straight. Are you sure? It would make getting into college a lot easier. Look into the mirror. Black hair, yellow-beige skin, small dark eyes, and a lack of any interesting sexuality are apparent. The worst combination. Sigh.

Open your closet. Find a shirt you haven’t worn for at least three days. Oxford button-down? Yellow polo? Yellow polo. And…navy shorts. Boat shoes. Casually glance at the schedule you have taped untidily on your wall. French, English, Physics, Calculus, and Studio Art. Pack accordingly. You have a free period after lunch; remember to do your Calculus homework then. Your stomach grumbles. It’s too late to grab breakfast. Promise yourself you will wake up earlier tomorrow and eat. Ignore the twinge of skeptical incredulity.

Let the day pass you by. Go from class to class, alternating between frantically jotting notes and carefully articulating thoughts regarding the human. Pay attention, but not too much attention: Remember that there is social value to be had in appearing to be effortlessly brilliant. Remember to be especially bright in English; Ms. Kay is writing one of your teacher recommendations. Walk with friends. Walk alone. Eat a hasty lunch with people you don’t really know. Finish the day.

Remember that the spring barbecue is today. Entertain the memory of an almost sarcastically cheerful email that reverberates within your head now: Remember that our annual Spring Festival is today! Get your grillin’ on! Go to drop off your bag in your room. Trade your polo for the t-shirt underneath; exchange your Sperry’s for flip-flops. Use your deodorant. Put on a cap. Your favorite, the white one. Before you know it, you’ve found and joined your friends. Laugh when one friend jokingly tells you she hates you; sarcastically mock the hockey players with another. As the main event begins to wind down, look up and discover that the girl you have a crush on is walking around by herself. Put on your winning smile and go to strike up a conversation with her. Ask her how she is. Make an excuse to put your arm around her shoulder. The excuse doesn't have to be clever. In fact, the dumber the better; you'll come off as a lovable goofball. Whisper something, anything, into her ear. If she laughs, laugh with her. If she smiles, take your hand off her shoulder and ask her a serious question. She’s close to you now. Look into her eyes and tell her that she is beautiful. Watch the smile bloom across her face. Your heart is beating like an African drum, but your face is relaxed. You are charming, kind, confident. She smiles and says she'll talk to you later; her ride is here. Tell her you can’t wait, and watch her walk away. Catch her taking a quick glance back at you. Wave again. Grin as she blushes. Finally, shake your head and rejoin your friends. They catcall, and you realize that they have been watching you the entire time. Allow yourself to feel embarrassed. Be happy. Laugh. Smile.

The sun streams through the window. Struggle to wake.