William Penn

It's a mid-Saturday afternoon with just about perfect weather (right around 80 degrees). Where am I? The library. I have assignments due and tasks to keep up. I'm doing my best to stay on top of these things¹, and because I will be gone all day Sunday, today is Library Day.

Not that I'm happy about it. These chairs are really uncomfortable. My back aches. Chinese students nearby don't understand the concept of “library voice.²” While I am here because I focus is much better than at home, I can't help but lift my eyes from the screen and look around. A blue book two stacks away catches my eye: The Political Writings of William Penn³. Most people wouldn't think anything of this, but I have a connection of sorts to Penn. You see, the Fitzwaters came over to America in 1682 with Penn on the ship Welcome. Check it out. These are my direct ancestors. That makes us one of America's oldest European families, which is pretty cool. I think about how remarkable it is that my family knew a man⁴ who is important enough even today that books about him or collections of his writings sit on library shelves. The dude has a state named after him. There's no John Idaho, y'know? And the people that bear my name knew him, traveled to the New World with him. The Fitzwaters had a servant they brought with them. That's some serious money talking there. The Fitzwaters were people of some distinction.

Go back further in my genealogy and you'll find Sir Robert Fitzwalter (not a misspelling), a man important enough to sign the freaking Magna Carta and was a leader of a baronial opposition against King John⁵. We don't mess around. In England, the Fitzwaters were nobility, a family with a coat of arms back when it meant something to have them.

328 years later, I'm sitting in Alden Library. What happened?

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1 I got sick twice in the first three weeks of the quarter, and that really set me back when combined with an unexpected lethargy. I worked hard to get back on pace. I didn't enjoy it.

2 Mandarin is perhaps the most irritating language to listen to that humans speak. I hate it. What's a guy gotta do for a little Cantonese?

3 Nearby: Firm Heart and Capacious Mind: The Life and Friends of Etienne Dumont. If nothing else, a catchy title.

4 Even if they didn't know Penn before the trip, which seems unlikely, they certainly made acquaintances at some point during the two-month trip.

5 I was voted “Most Likely to Start a Revolution” in high school. It's in my blood!

The Elevator

He's using the elevator?

This is what I think.  I rarely use the elevator myself; I shake my head at the people too lazy to use the stairs.  But today, I'm taking the elevator.  I just don't want to climb the stairs. I enter the building at the bottom floor; in my mind, this further justifies use of the lift.

And he's there, waiting.  I've seen him before- the most striking memory was seeing him lift more than 1,000 pounds.  The bar held as many 45-pound weights as it could, and they hung extra weights from chains.

I've never seen him smile.

And there he is, waiting for the elevator.  I line up behind him.  The door opens, and we step in.  The silence feels tense.  We're going to the same floor.  The door opens.  We exit.

Almost Car Crash

Eeeiiiirh.

The unmistakable sound of a brake applied in panic was accompanied by whistles and murmurs.  I was about to enter Bentley Hall when I heard it.  Turning around, I saw an SUV at a 45-degree angle to the curb. Another care was right behind it.  Somehow, the SUV failed to turn when coming off Congress Street.

Looking around, people were confused, trying to make sense of what had occurred.  I look back at the SUV.  It's a Mercedes.  The driver is Chinese.

"Of course," I think, then immediately scold myself for the thought.  The driver of the car behind the Mercedes is white.  I wonder if anyone else notices this.

The car backs up, then the SUV.  How did this happen?  Was she on the phone?  Did she blank out?  Is she freaked?  Is the other driver freaked?

Straightening itself out, the SUV proceeds up Richland.  The car pulls into the first parking space.  She probably needs a moment to gather herself.  I look back at my fellow bystanders.  They've resumed talking or smoking or walking.  I look back to the car.  It's empty.  I don't see the driver.

The Rain

I stand at the bottom of the stairs, pausing momentarily. I often do that, as if I am asking myself one last time if I want to leave the sanctuary of a covering overhead. But I do. It's the reason I'm here.

When I went to bed, a steady procession of raindrops provided a pleasant backdrop to my attempts at sleep. When I awoke that afternoon, it was still raining. It had been so long since I just went outside and let myself be washed in the rain. I had to go out there, immediately, and do it.

A friend of mine had a refrigerator magnet: “Some walk in the rain. Others just get wet.” I loved it. I remember in 8^th grade, our trip to Washington D.C. It rained for a fair amount of the trip. One night, we went to the then-new FDR monument, and it was pouring. Being out there sucked... for about a minute. Then we just accepted the rain, and we had a blast. That memory still stands out in my mind¹. One time when I was waiting in the overnight shift, coworkers who had just gotten off-shift went outside and played in the rain for an hour. For that hour, they were kids again.

I take that step out. It's raining moderately hard, so it takes a minute for me to get truly wet. There's always that step between dry and wet that's just annoying. When you get past it, though, you're free. I feel water drip from my hair, snake down my back. I close my eyes. I feel in concert with the Earth. For a few precious minutes, I am able to shut my mind off. I can just feel- that rare, precious state. I breathe deeply through my nose, that fresh, musty scent I wish I could bottle.

Anybody driving by would see me standing there, my arms stretched out. What is that guy doing? Or they get it. There's really no in-between.
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1 As well as what stuck me as irony: Standing next to a waterfall in a downpour, yet being prohibited from getting in. As if there was some kind of difference.