The Last Days of Tom

Tom, my i-pod shuffle, is doomed. His days of playing soothing tunes for my ears has long since past. He has been punched, handled, and stretched to his last battery recharge. The USB plug that links into my computer has withered away. Ready to rip into two, the ribbon connecting the USB plug to the bulk of Tom is halfway gone, as if cut with a pair of scissors. I haven't had the heart to recharge Tom in the fear of short-circuiting or some other unforseen problem. Instead, I've chosen few runs to plug in and jam out to tunes that keep the pat-pat of my shoes springing against the concrete. I'm trying to keep Tom alive for as long as possible. It's working. He sits in my drawer unused but ready for the next special occasion. In due time, Tom will reach his end, as surely will I. However, Tom can be replaced with new tunes, new soundtracks, and even better technology to outlast and outperform the former. I say farewell to Tom for providing me the tunes to keep pushing onward. Until the day your last battery energy runs out, I listen to every beat you provide to keep me one step ahead. To you Tom, my inanimate (yes I know) i-pod, cheers.

Hot Pink is the new Lime Green

For those unacquainted with Emory Orientation traditions, the T-shirt color revelation is perhaps one of the most contested and excitable events. What begins as a guessing game, the color selection evolves into a philosophical debate, where opponents of all hues wager their hot breath and silly pride on nothing but a whim. The standards are red, blue, and green, but occasionally someone will defend macaroni and cheese or salmon, even burnt orange. The 2006 Orientation shirts surprised all the OL's (Orientation Leaders, that is) when Lime Green reared it's electric flare onto our Monopoly themed shirts.

This year's revelation, however, surpassed all expectations, debates, and philosophical stances, while even fulfilling a bit of old OL lore. "The shirts are going to be pink." It's the common thread (and to some, the cruel joke) that passes down from OL year to OL year. With any T-shirt color conversation, pink is surely to be introduced and then snickered at as if surely that won't happen. Well sure enough, Hot Pink entered with a blaze this year. A Nintendo themed presentation was hilariously going according to plan (and align with my instincts of a red T-shirt). The final shirt popped up, was red, but blank. A quick disappearing act, and Tanya reemerged from her hula hoop, Mario-pipe-like curtain to display none other than eye-catching, laughable, and dare I say sexy hot pink. The colored font really doesn't do the shirt justice so just magnify the pink intensity by ten and darken the shade a bit, and you'll be spot on like the color matcher at Home Depot (how the heck do they do that?). The only thing I left to do is to shower in the morning, throw on the usual khakis, white tennis shoes, and roll into that bright pink shirt to welcome the incoming freshmen.

Turn on the Bright Lights

The MCAT is done. To be honest though, the test actually concluded four months ago, and with the closing of the exam and some additional brooding, the drama of "am I good enough?" has flushed away. So now it's essay time. The white light in my head is going off, and I have idea, idea, idea to jot down onto a piece of paper so I can crank this personal statement out. With one less job and the awkward down time until the first day of class, I am pressing my fingers to the keyboard until 5:00 am this morning for some draft (maybe not even decent) of a personal statement. I am simply excited.

Personal statements tend to be this long drawn out process. You have so much to say (a life story even) but not enough words to say it; not only that but in addition, every word uttered seems construed and constructed to glorify yourself in an ego-centric manner. Where's the humility in that? You can down play your attributes and activities but that just leaves you looking like another high rise apartment in satellite shots of Chicago. How to be unique? You just write. Write what you think, feel, believe (in the present moment) without rethinking. It's taken me four months to remember and practice the forgotten art. Now, I can write idea, idea, idea until the pages fill.

(This post dedicated to Jenn Eick and Jane Hershman.)

Get the Feeling

Man, it feels weird. It's like a small drum is beating on my temple. My insides are twisted and tangled like Christmas lights in the attic, and my skin crawls because this 72 degree room somehow feels cold. Disaster has reared it's ugly head and brought its lousy companions misery and doubt for a visit.

The MCAT is less than a week away, and the only thing on my mind is doubt. I doubt my ability to lead, my abilility to think, my ability to perform. One hell of an affliction to have just six days before what I perceive as my one and only shot at medical school. It's like a free throw but from half court, and my parents and friends watch eagerly in the stands holding their breaths as the ball soars through the air. The ball just hangs midair, and I'll wait (with them) for the day when I'll look apprehensively at a white packet, finally open the damn thing, and glance my MCAT score. It plagues me, destroys the workings of mind and at times the three years I've spent building up to this point.

Funny thing, I haven't had the nerve to post this prior to the MCAT. You have to appear confident, solid at all times. Everyone is watching. So I've had this internal debate of whether or not to make this post, and I resolved that if anything, we can all recognize and realize we are just simply human. We are broken pieces of imperfection striving for our own best work, and we can only support one another along the way.

The Brotherhood

Rush culminated with eighty guys, including myself, running madly down Fraternity Row. "C-h-i P-h-i" and "Can I get a fuckin' Sigma?" chants bellowed from the top of the row prior to the run, and Kappa Sigma's new pledges followed Foster, Brandon, and myself down the black pavement while cold beads of rain spattered our faces. Once we arrived to thirty brothers wailing "hell yeahs" and slaping high fives, we were immediately shuffled off to curbside cars destined for 770 Park Lane. The pledges were then ushered to the back porch and sprayed down with celebratory Andre. A quick clean up and hour later, the same cars were crammed with brothers and rolled off to Ru Sans for saki bombs.

Sadly an overbooked dining area would delay our 8:00 pm reservation for half an hour. We waited with little patience, while Shohei volunteered to quabble in Japanese to the host, who could not utter "domo" let alone any other words of the language. After the hold up and some more set up, some nine rounds plus of rice alcohol and beer poured among the brothers and pledges. Pledges led bomb rounds, and Gamma Phi Beta chipped in with their own pledge leaders for rounds. I even had the pleasure to reminesce with an Emory student and sorority girl of Gamma Phi Beta who recognized me from my Tapp Middle School days in Georgia. Sure enough, we had gone to the same middle school some seven years ago and wound up at the same college.

The night continued to escalate with rounds ten, eleven, and twelve, and somewhere along the way, the round number was forgotten. After sushi and saki saturated our stomachs, we grabbed our coats from the back of our chairs and set off to the cars. On the way out, multiple brothers managed to sneak the white saki bottles, some still full to the brim with saki. I tried cajouling Lewis into giving me one to return. Instead, his cigarette burned a circular red pop mark onto my wrist, which I look to from time to time for a good laugh. Q had an analogous experience to mine with his "burn" in the form of two saki vases spilled entirely across the back seat of his SUV. His car continues to smell of saki, so much for perks for volunteered, designated driving. Being a great sport and brother, Q's kept his silence about the matter, but I'm sure, at this point, he's itching for a steam clean service or an air freshener for his car.

So here's to the thirty six brothers who made the night possible, both those who attended and not, and here's to the legacy we leave behind as Kappa Sigmas. To thebrotherhood...

The Motivation

Holiday stuffings of turkey and dressing, pot roast and potatoes has sedated me for a solid week. I've managed to do nothing but roll around in this queen sized bed and flip through the fifteen or so television channels that are still available. It's Christmas break, and I'm doing just what I'm supposed to be doing: taking a break. But, when I fail to realize or to respond to my friend's blogging about my "obsession with dead bodies," I can think of only two things. How did they get on my account? And secondly, how come it's taken me a week to respond?

I know the answer to the later question: simply laziness. But, the first was a bit tricky to answer. I couldn't think of the who or the how, but Jamie spelled it out nicely and simply said I left my computer on and for the taking. All in all, I got what was coming.

But from her spoonful of sarcasm, I've mustered up the energy to get off my lazy bum and be productive. I'll start today with unrolling the covers and getting out of bed. From there, I'll see how far I can go and what I can do. Because laying on these cushions for hours on end is not nearly as rewarding as it was on the first day I returned home. It's just simply time to actually do something.

Jamie thinks She's Funny

As I sit here at Christmas break, surrounded by family and friends, I have come to a realization about my life. For so long, I have been hiding who I am from those I love the most. More importantly, I have been hiding it from myself. But now, more than ever, it is important for me to be true to myself and honest with the world around me. I not only see dead people, but I also have sex with them. I prefer the males, but pretty much any dead, rotting corpse will do. So, if you plan on dying anytime soon, hit me up, because I will be glad to give you an afterlife like you would not believe. Whew....I'm glad I got that off my chest.

Jet Fuel

An intense week of studying did little do assuage my mind as I sat through four trying exams. Exams usually don't bother me. They are generally tolerable and dismissed just as quickly as they come. But man, these four recent exams won't get out of my head. The exams cooked my brain like burnt microwave popcorn, and all that remains is that blackened smell. All the exams took the full legnth, with two spilling an hour over. I can remember my pencil scratching, my headaches, and my blank stares but not much else. I can remember the questions and topics that looked like foreign heiroglyphics, and I just remember the confusion at large. Luckily, the dumbfoundment has ended, and I have the luxury of laying in a bed, sleeping bear-like until I feel like saying "Hi" to the sun. It could be a while.

Yet, the big breakthrough for the week and even the month took place on my plane ride home. After boarding, I had hopes that I would have aisle 12 and the window seat to myself. But a few minutes before take off, a young women approached the two seats I was stretched across. I quickly collected and contained myself to the half I had purchased and invited her to take the adjacent seat. What I failed to notice was the three year old baby girl in her arms. I think my eyes rolled into my head in the typical "oh god, I'm next to the baby that makes all the noise on a plane." I think she noticed, and I quickly smiled to avoid any discussion on the matter.

Behind me, two men, a soldier dressed in fatigues and an old man with a raspy, worn voice, carried on casual conversation. The old man kindly questioned the army recruit about training and gear. The young soldier detailed his kevlar helmet and integrated body armor and proceeded to describe the training.

"We get sawdust in our lungs," the soldier said.
"Sawdust?" replied the man.
"Yeah, we go the pit. The pit is just what it is: a pit of sawdust. We have to crawl through it under low lying wires with blank bullets flying over head. It's the worst."
"Really, the worst?" the old man's voice sounding amused and intrigued at the same time. I imagined the old man smirking at this point. "It's really there to just simulate the real war time thing. The pit can't be worse than that, don't ya think?"
The young man laughed a little and said, "Yeah, I guess the pit's better than that."

At this point the baby girl on my left was playing with my i-pod headphones and staring at me with shiny, googly eyes. Whether the soldier knew it or not, he would be protecting the baby. He would be protecting me and the other hundred passengers on the plane. Whether he knew it or not, I apprecaited his service and his work. Whether the soldier knew it or not, he charged my life with energy. My head was finally out of books, detatched from friends, and the soldier's few words had energized my life. I realized at the moment that no matter what I do in my life, my work should not be for myself, but for others.

You can call it cheezy, corny, the "right thing", moral, ethical, dumb, lame, honorable, great, trivial, or revolutionary. But, there is greatness in doing things for others. There is no guilt, no selfishness, no hatred, no pride, just humility, willingness, and love. I see no greater act in this world and cannot think of what I would do otherwise. It's the very reason why I'm going to be a physician. The very reason why life has such value.