Churchill High School Class of 1984: Duality brings us perspective

“It was the best of times, it was the worst of times.” So begins the Dickens classic A Tale of Two Cities. While this timeless tale was a story about the French Revolution and its impact on two cities, it also had a deeper and more spiritual core which we all live; duality. Duality is a life force we cannot escape. Rather than looking to escape this duality, we as a collective, embraced this struggle and made the world a better place.

What makes the Winston Churchill High School class of 1984 special? Everything and nothing. It is that duality that has defined not just each individual member of this class, but the class as a whole.

High school is a unique time in our lives. We are growing and learning about ourselves. There is so much inner angst and turmoil at these changes, yet we only see the world through the filtered lens of our own personal psyche. We know little about this duality and even less about the world. But we think we know, and that is what creates the power to change.

We all have our struggles. Mine were with adaptation. Learning to live and love in a place where I had no history. We were a class of 301 which is special. We can all look at that last one and say to ourselves “I was that one of three hundred and one.” I did. I was that last one. Making it to graduation almost did not happen for me. To make it to that day was special because it involved an incredible journey full of sacrifices and hard work.

While most of our classmates spent their senior year with a relatively light load in the classroom, I was taking ten or more classes every day. I made mistakes which resulted in the necessity of that work. Getting to graduation was a struggle, but it paved the way for my future. I wanted to get there. I had to work. I learned how to push myself to the very limits and come out on top.

I suppose some of this can be traced to running over 100 miles every week while competing in cross country and track, but I had never applied that kind of effort to the things that matter most. School. Life. Suddenly, as I embarked on life as an adult, anything seemed possible. Not only was anything possible. Everything was possible. Duality. Each of us had a similar journey, yet unique in each individual.

We lived in our own minds, our own world; our own lives. We did so because we were not yet able to see outside ourselves. That is a natural process that keeps us alive; survival of the fittest.

It would not be until the next generation entered the world; our own children; that we would begin to see this duality played out in front of our eyes. I had two boys, three years apart. They were a mini-duality of my life. Watching them grow, I suddenly saw things I could not imagine. Struggle. Pain. Love. Laughter. Tears. All those things that defined our lives as high school students were right there in my life and it all came rushing back.

On graduation night, we heard many inspiring words about what the future would hold. Some embraced those words, some chose to ignore them, some even scoffed. Platitudes they seemed to many. Nonetheless, those very words proved to have a fundamental basis in truth. All things were possible and all things were just beginning for the class of 1984. The journey wasn’t over, it had just begun.

As we gather thirty years later to celebrate these moments that began to define us, we have all grown and made our own impact. There are police officers, firemen, former military, school teachers, doctors, lawyers, dentists, coaches. These are people who have made an impact on the world through their business or personal endeavors.  And these are but just a few of the many ways we would impact the world. There are many others, too many to list. And that is the power of the collective.

Collectively, we have traveled the world. Collectively we have taught thousands of children. We have saved lives and given life. We have created culture. We have done many things as a group and that is something in which we can all take Lancer Pride.

Along this journey of life, we have lost some of our companions to accident and tragedy. Another lesson we all learned; life is fragile. We have to embrace the life we have because there is no other life to embrace. I think we have all done this in our unique ways.

There was a time when many of us struggled with our own identity. I think that time is gone. We have become an incredible group full of incredible individuals. Andy Warhol once said that everyone gets their fifteen minutes of fame. While that may be true, it is not that fifteen minutes that define us, rather it is everything before and after those fifteen minutes which defines our mind, our body and our soul.

The namesake of our school, Sir Winston Churchill, gave us many, many quotes. To me, the one that seems apropos for this gathering is as follows:

"Now this is not the end. It is not even the beginning of the end. But it is, perhaps, the end of the beginning."

We have come so far in thirty years. The journey, however, is far from over. The end of the beginning.

What made the class of 1984 special? It was the people. It was always about the people.

A new beginning

Tomorrow marks a new day; a new beginning.

It has been a difficult struggle for me over the last year. I have been balancing many things including my inability to separate the writing from the writer.

While this all began as a bit of an experiment, there was always plenty of accolade for what was done; when I tried to become that which I had originally opposed; a journalist; it backfired on my psyche.

While I could say I was trying to be objective, the criticism was difficult on a personal level. I had not yet separated the writing from the writer. I took criticism too personal.

Over the course of the last seven months I have worked to simply find my own voice again. At times, I  thought the voice was lost forever. At other times, I thought that the receivers simply did not get the voice. I thought it was they who were lost.

Today, I recognize that neither was lost; only my recognition of where reality lay.

Tomorrow, I begin a new chapter in my writing life as I have found a voice for whatever creative side to writing I have while balancing the more factual side. In my day-to-day writing, the reality is that I write for a site which covers recruiting. That means that my daily writing is focused, for the most part, on recruiting topics.

There is a different side to me, though, that wants to attempt to create some form or word art. I may or may not be successful in each attempt, but that side of me needs a chance to be expressed and it needs the opportunity to be seen outside of the "pay" world or writing.

I love writing for Duck Sports Authority and sharing my thoughts with our readers. That is not going to change anytime soon. Tomorrow, though, I have the opportunity to share some of my more personal thoughts on the Ducks with a different audience.

I hope that Duck fans appreciate this new direction. I hope they enjoy my opinions. Well, at the very least, I hope this gives them a perspective not expressed prior.

All will be more clear tomorrow.

Thank you everyone for your continued support.

Go Ducks!

21st Century Journalists Feed the Scourge of America

While it is very tragic that the crime of rape exists, we have to ask ourselves where our philosophical ideals lay in times like these. The problem with most of these journalists is that they do not have philosophical ideals. They blindly write what generates revenue.

I was speaking with my brother today and we talked about the deeper thoughts about crime and punishment. I have LONG held the belief that I would rather see 100 guilty men go free than to see a single innocent person in jail.

Due to the vile nature of some crimes, though, we as a society have gone the opposite direction. To avoid vile criminals going free, we allow innocent men to spend years behind bars. This is what led to Brian Banks going to prison for a rape he did not commit; and this is what has led to "journalists" focusing on the irrelevant.

You want a bigger story? Dig into why this society choose to allow false accusations to go unpunished. And then look at which race is affected most by this problem. You want to win awards? Do REAL stories, not ridiculous attempts to discredit young men who, though they acted immorally, violated no laws.

Sadly, the principles that led many of these journalists into their profession were lost a long time ago. And they just do not see it. Just a blank page in front of them and a bank account with which they are dissatisfied.

The scourge of society is that no one wants to look deep; they are afraid of what they might find. A profession which was once revolutionary in how it exposed the inequities and injustice has become nothing more than figure heads.

Unrighteous indignation?

Today a seemingly historic and courageous decision was made by NBA Commissioner Adam Silver. While I think the decision is the correct decision given Donald Sterling's history, there are many questions that need to be answered before this chapter can close in my mind.

Many people want the whole saga to go away and expect that this decision will allow that to happen. There is little pity for Sterling and the legal battle which will surely follow this decision will gain no empathy from most people. Sure there will be some other pure racists that will hail his speech, but their voice will not be heard.

This is not my concern. My first concern is exactly what verification process did the NBA use to come to the conclusion that Sterling was, in fact, the speaker on the released audio clips. There is a reason for this concern. By making such a swift and sweeping decision and being lauded for his actions, Adam Silver has gained leverage which is ripe for abuse.

Absolute power corrupts absolutely.

The universal acclaim for his actions have given Silver the potential for absolute power which  is just one troubling outlier from this difficult day in American sports history.

Continuing on in this train of thought, let us be honest; Ms. Stiviano is hardly honorable in  her own right. She knowingly had an affair with a married man more than twice her age. She is accused of embezzling nearly $2 million from the Clippers. Suddenly, in the face of such public criticism, she comes up with a tape and delivers it to TMZ? The authenticity of the tape should create at least a modicum of doubt to its truth.

Does this mean I think it is completely fake? No. Sterling has a history of discriminatory actions and there is no doubt in my mind he has serious problems. But why no condemnation for a woman that slept with a married man, ostensibly for monetary reasons, then misused that trust to create a tape which she knew to be for less than honest reasons? She is just as despicable a human being as Sterling, in my opinion.

Then there is the self-righteous "indignation" of the press.

White and black writers alike are patting each other on the back for their "groundbreaking" condemnation of Sterling while commending Silver for his decisive actions today.

But ask yourself how many of the self-righteous, high-horse riding writers have racist tendencies themselves? There are too many people who you know when they see a black kid with baggy pants walking close to their car lock the doors. It happens. These sanctimonious writers talking about eliminating racism? They lock their doors.

Fears that are based on stereotypes are not going to go away because Adam Silver made an 80 year old man sell his team for over $1 BILLION... this will not eliminate racism. The vast majority of sports franchise owners are still old, white men.

Ask yourselves why the NBA created dress code policies. Ask why they created rules to cover up things that fit into the racial stereotypes. The NBA has long been in the business of making their players look like the average man. I call it bleaching. They have, in their own very clever manner, created a sort of league wide cultural bleaching. The NBA owners wanted their players to more closely resemble them; so they legislated it to be. Adam Silver was around for these policy changes.

The NBA owners will undoubtedly vote to force Sterling to sell the Clippers... and they will continue to bleach their league to closer resembling what they want to portray.

They are fooling us into thinking this was about racism. It was about public relations. Had this audio gone straight to Silver, and not made it to TMZ, do you really think the result would have been the same? Really? I don't. History backs up my doubt.

Do you think Ms. Stiviano did this for race relations? Then you are completely naive. She did this as a punishment for the pending legal issues she still faces. There was likely a form of blackmail involved here. And yet we all blindly follow along with the praise towards Silver because it takes us back to a status quo where we can pretend only bad people like Donald Sterling hold these views. We will sweep it back under the rug and forget it exists.

Do you want to see racism in action? The next time you see someone of color and feel a little twinge in your stomach; then feel a compulsion to lock your car doors. Look in the mirror and you will see the real face of the problem. Donald Sterling is not the problem; he is a symptom.

The problem? We need a villain to make ourselves feel better. Rather than solve the problem we look for somewhere to lay blame. That is the new American way, blame someone else for my troubles.

And the problem continues on.

Silver's decision was neither historic nor courageous. It was self preservation public relations.

And in his actions, not only did he not eliminate any form of hate, he exacerbated the problem by giving us a villain that allows us to fall back into our own ignorance.

Beyond the hazy mind to the other side of YOLO

I actually hate the phrase "YOLO" because most of those who aspire to live by this so-called "life altering motto" do so not because they truly recognize the fragility of life, but because they want an excuse to act without thought or concern for how those actions affect not just themselves but everyone around them. It has essentially become their excuse to live a life of debauchery without guilt.

While I do not pretend to have all the answers about life and what follows, the reality is that, God or not, we are all judged at death.

And that is the other side of the "you only live once" motto; you also only die once. That's right; YODO.

Everything that leads to that moment is judged. Don't believe in God? You'll still be judged.

Personally, I believe in God; and I am awful at living my life as a testament to His existence; but that does not mean I do not believe; only that my faith is not strong enough.

For a moment, though, let's look at how YODO affects the person who does not believe in God. As an American citizen who fully supports the right to freedom of religion, I believe this right extends to lack of religion. Even the most agnostic of people, though, believes that their actions have an impact.

That impact has a cosmic sense. If the universe is indeed just one big cosmic accident of ever expanding time and space, then we are all composed of the same matter and material. At our must fundamental core, we are all the remnants of an ancient piece of cosmic dust. That means that we are all tied together. If we are all tied together, my actions have a direct impact on yours.

More importantly, that cosmic dust is left behind when our bodies decompose into the dust and become the blowing dust of our planet.

This is all pretty weird to talk about. But when we are returned to dust and become the dust of a universe again, our dust is left blowing around and it then becomes part of the world at large.

Don't believe we are judged at death without a God? Read a newspaper. Everyone is judged. Sometimes that judgement is that we are nothing more than a blot of ant guts in the history of the world. So all that bluster about living once becomes  a moot point. If your impact is nothingness; or worse. And, when you are nothingness, did you really live? When you are remembered as the worst sort of human to exist, did you really live?

in some ways, we can get caught up in the other side of that equation. So caught up in being "remembered" that we neglect what is truly important. I think that happens to many of us at different times in our lives.

The last four months have been somewhat of a blur. Over the past few years, I have made a lot of friends through football. Or so I thought.

You see, I have always been one to say some things that not everyone can appreciate. nonetheless, to my friends, I have been someone always loyal; always helping where I am able. As time passed, however, I discovered that I had not really made as many friends as I believed.

It was a harsh lesson; a lesson I was not ready for. In some ways, this is my own fault; I have let myself be scattered around to so many interests, that there was not as much time for truly developing deep relationships with friends. They were all cordial, but they were also fairly superficial.

I know that this little website started to get a different point across about a recruit who is now off to the NFL; that is how long it has been. I know that most of the people who have read my blog could care less about my personal philosophical ramblings.

And, you know what, I understand that. I wouldn't either. You came to read about football. And, because my introduction to the world was as a writer of a positive side, it was predictable that anything negative I wrote would end very badly. Objective was okay, so long as it was objectively positive.

And, you see, that is where I went wrong. I began to have delusions about what it is I really do. I was working so hard for affirmation that I forgot who I was. Journalist? Please. I just wrote fancentric articles. When I tried to cross over, it simply flopped like a deflated balloon in the wind.


Was the stuff I said untrue? No. Every word was true.

Were sources invented? No. The people that were my sources were real. I chose not to name them to protect not just the source, but the source of the source. That's right, there were others who could have verified the stories I wrote, but that would have compromised their position with the sources as well.

It is this that really caused a sore spot in my own mind. I felt betrayed, even though I knew that these people could do nothing to help.

Sometimes we don't even noticed that we have become enraptured with acclaim and praise. As we work through our daily life, we simply do the things that we have done; without self-reflection about what is happening, we simply continue like drones; robots trudging our way through the day.

That's what I was doing with writing.

While I am self reflective in many aspects of life, writing had become some sort of drug; a method of self-validation that was generated through the validation of others.

And the validation would continue; but only as long as I could write enough positive and avoid the negative. I was not a writer; I was an entertainer. But I had fooled myself into thinking some pretty grandiose stuff about what I was doing. Compared myself to an abstract artist.

How ridiculous is that? Abstract art? I am not Faulkner. I am not Tolstoy. I write about college football and recruiting for a fan website. There is nothing wrong with that task. There is demand for this kind of writing. But it became time to stop fooling myself and buying into self-created delusions of grandeur.

Yes. I have learned some lessons the hard way. Demand? Outside of a small audience, there is no demand for my trifling ramblings. And, you know what, that is okay.

Hard is his calling in life, and bitterly he feels his solitude.

Remnants of a disoriented muse

I was reading through Gogol's Dead Souls and, upon reading the beginning of chapter 7, I came across a paragraph that really made my mind work furiously at recognizing the remnants of a muse lost. This reads like the last two years of my writing life. 

In the beginning:

Happy is the writer who without dwelling too long on tedious and repulsive characters, which impress us by their distressful reality, feels drawn to characters which reveal the high dignity of man, the writer who from the great whirlpool of human figures that pass daily before his mind’s eyes selects only the few exceptions, who has never once been untrue to the major key of his lyre, who has never descended from his pinnacle to his poor, insignificant fellow creatures and, without touching the earth, has immersed himself completely in his own exalted images that are so far removed from it. His rare lot is doubly to be envied: he is among them as among his own family and yet his fame spreads far and wide. He clouds men’s eyes with enchanting incense; he flatters them marvelously, concealing the sad facts of life and showing them the noble man, Applauding, all run after him, all rush after his triumphal chariot. They call him great, universal poet, soaring high above all other geniuses of the world as an eagle soars over the other high-flying birds. Young, ardent hearts are thrilled at his very name; responsive tears gleam in every eye. He has no equal in power—he is a god.

That last line is telling. Now, I am not going to say I had personally risen to that level. that would be an absurd statement. I write some small time stuff. It is trivial sports "stuff" for the most part which helps us all to pass the day, but at the end of those days, what I have written brings little substantive value. Nonetheless, acclaim of any sort can become enrapturing; and it can cloud the minds eye that was once so critical to what was written.

But then Gogol continued:

But quite different is the lot, quite different is the destiny of the writer who has dared to bring into the open everything that is every moment before men’s eyes and that remains unseen by their unobservant eyes – all the terrible, shocking morass of trivial things which our life is entangled, the whole depth of frigid, split-up, everyday characters with whom our often dreary and bitter earthly path swarms, and who dares with the strong power of his relentless chisel to display them boldly and in the round before the eyes of all! Not for him the applause of the people, not for him to behold the grateful tears and the unanimous rapture of the souls he has moved so deeply; no girl of sixteen flies to meet him with her head turned and full of heroic enthusiasm; he will not find oblivion in the sweet enchantment of the sounds he has himself evoked; and, lastly, he will not escape the judgment of his contemporaries, hypocritical and callous public opinion, which will brand his cherished creations as low and insignificant will allot him an ignoble place  in the ranks of writers who have affronted humanity, will attribute to him the qualities of the heroes he himself has created, will rob him of heart and soul and the divine fire of genius.

For contemporary public opinion does not acknowledge that the glasses through which suns are beheld and though which the movements of microscopic insects are studied are equally marvelous; for public opinion does not admit that great spiritual depth is required to illumine a picture drawn from ignoble life and transform it into a pearl of creation; for public opinion does not admit that lofty rapturous laughter is worthy to stand beside lofty lyrical emotion and that there is all the difference in the world between it and the antics of a clown at a fair. Public opinion does not admit that and it will turn everything into a reproach and a sneer against the unrecognized writer; without fellow feeling, without response, without sympathy, he is left standing alone in the middle of the road like a homeless wayfarer.

Hard is his calling in life, and bitterly he feels his solitude.

Sometimes we don't even noticed that we have become enraptured with acclaim and praise. As we work through our daily life, we simply do the things that we have done; without self-reflection about what is happening, we simply continue like drones; robots trudging our way through the day.

That's what I was doing with writing.

While I am self reflective in many aspects of life, writing had become some sort of drug; a method of self-validation that was generated through the validation of others.

And the validation would continue; but only as long as I could write enough positive and avoid the negative. I was not a writer; I was an entertainer. But I had fooled myself into thinking some pretty grandiose stuff about what I was doing. Compared myself to an abstract artist.

How ridiculous is that? Abstract art? I am not Faulkner. I am not Tolstoy. I write about college football and recruiting for a fan website. There is nothing wrong with that task. There is demand for this kind of writing. But it became time to stop fooling myself and buying into self-created delusions of grandeur.

A hard lesson was learned when I said some things that people did NOT want to hear.

I was praised in 2011 not because I uncovered some great mystery of life, but because I found a side of the story a target audience wanted to hear. Plain and simple. No brilliant prose. No incredible discovery. No earth shattering news. I said what you wanted to hear.

When I said some things that no one wanted to hear, I became the second half of the quotes.

This is no attack against what I have done  at any point; simply a realization that my delusions have had no basis in reality. I saw someone refer to me once as a "one-hit wonder." And, you know what? That's not even true. What I wrote that was a "hit" was nothing more than some nice fluffy pillows. It was inanity disguised as discernment.

Yes. I have learned some lessons the hard way. Demand? Outside of a small audience, there is no demand for my trifling ramblings. And, you know what, that is okay.

Hard is his calling in life, and bitterly he feels his solitude.