Showing posts with label Childlike Joy. Show all posts

The "Icecream Man" and Other Childhood Stories

I am crazy. I mean that something is not right in my head, or maybe it is. That's sort of the problem. Anyway, I was about five years old when this became abundantly obvious to my parents. That's all the time it took, really. At the time we lived in a neighborhood in downtown Baltimore, just across the street from a community pool—which much to my chagrin required parental supervision to enter—and right across a fence from a low income housing apartment complex. One of the most wonderful discoveries of my youth took place in a small patch of wooded area by that fence. Anthony and I used to play make believe there all the time, running around hitting bushes with stick swords and shooting bad guys with cap guns. It was wonderful. One time we discovered some shiny metal bullet casings lodged in the tree trunk closer to the road. We immediately began to argue weather the gunmen had been GI Joes or someone fighting evil dinosaurs that got free from the zoo.
like this guy! 


 I don't remember if we ever completely resolved that conflict, but I do believe we came to a consensus that cowboys and Indians (I hadn't learned the term native american yet) may have played some role. What was absolutely certain to both of us, was that if the bad guys had been shooting at the good guys, the good guys hadn't been hit. If the good guys were shooting at the bad guys, then if they missed this time, somewhere down the road there must be dead bodies. After searching the massive forest that was the quarter acre of our back yard, we never found any dead bad guys. We did, however, dig out the shell casings. We brought them home and set them on the kitchen table like a trophy. As you might imagine, my mother was less than enthused. What strikes me about this incident though, is that already at the age of five, I the lens through which I viewed the world was clear, and it was simple. There was good, and there was bad. Good was anything that was heroic, strong, pretty, beautiful, and honest. Bad probably smelled greasy and eeewy, had facial hair, tried to kidnap pretty girls and hold them in tall castles or tie them up on train tracks.

^Bad Guy
My parents and I were clearly on the good guys side, and we were fighting against the bad guys. I have no idea where these ideas came from. But I believed in them very very strongly. To illustrate exactly how strongly they held sway over my five year old existence, I need to tell you about the ice cream man.  There were a lot of kids around my neighborhood at that time. I knew this not because I had any immediate contact with them, but because every summer, this curious phenomenon would occur. First you would hear a distant baring, a few notes would prick your ears, and your heart would beat a little bit faster. You didn't know exactly where it was coming from, but you knew the icecream man was closebye. It was absolutely necessary that you find him. You would be left out if you didn't. He would drive somewhere else and all the other children that found him and chased him would get to taste the explosion of sweetness and goodness that was icecream-the idol of every child's heart.

Tell me that girl isn't experiencing that exact thing right now
So every time the loud blaring carnival music started and the big white truck drove down the street, flocks of exuberant children poured out of apartments and down the streets after this man who held in his mobile freezer the promise of luscious creamy-sweet joy. I don't remember if my parents ever gave me the money I needed to take part in this liturgy of wild chase. I do know, however, that at some point, one of parents, probably my dad, told me that the ice-cream man was bad. Since my father was, it seemed to me,the bastion of all goodness and heroism in the world, if he said the icecream man was bad, than he knew what he was talking about. In hind sight, what he probably said was something along the lines of “you can't eat icecream all the time, it's bad for you.” What I heard was “the icecream man is a peddler of an evil product that corrupts all the good children and kills them.” So quite logically, the next time the ice cream man drove by I threw a rock at him.
 It was the first thing I ever confessed.
Seriously. It is the clearest memory of my childhood. It must have been fall because I was raking leaves in the back yard and no kids were chasing him anymore. Come to think of it, he probably wasn't having a very good day already. I saw his car come lethargically down Nottingham road (I remember that because “Nottingham” was where Robin Hood lived), and I began to get angry. My little five year old heart filled up with rage at the injustice of.... well.... some injustice must have been somewhere BECAUSE THE ICECREAM MAN IS BAD!! I knew something must be done, but it was so scary! This must be what Robin Hood must have felt like when he was going to fight the evil Sheriff of Nottingham! I labored over what I should do, and when the moment had all but passed, just before the ice cream truck turned the corner, I picked up a small rock and hurled it with all my might at this bad, bad man.
  I had never actually seen a bad guy before, mind you, so when the truck screeched to a halt, and a real guy stepped out of the door, I just about pooped my pants. I was so scared I couldn't move. BUT I HAD TO STAND MY GROUND BECAUSE GOOD GUYS DON'T RUN AWAY! The now, very real, middle age black man that was yelling at me was not what I had imagined a bad guy looking like at all. He just looked like a really really angry grown up. There is nothing more scary than an angry angry grown up to a child of five.

                              
One of these things is not like the other

Apparently I wasn't the only kid who threw  rocks at his truck. Kids had been throwing “Ga'ddam” rocks at his “Ga'ddam” truck and his “Ga'ddam” tail light had been broke just last “Ga'ddam” week. He told me to go get my mom. I really didn't want to because I now knew that I had done something really bad and I'd be in trouble. Adults only yelled at you when you did bad things. I stood there. I didn't say anything, I didn't move, I just stood there. And so with a “Ga'ddamit” he walked down my sidewalk and knocked furiously on my door. When my mom came out, I ran as fast I could to the trees in the back and hid. I didn't know what else to do! I cried a little bit. I was just trying to fight the bad guy, but for some reason that was wrong and I just really didn't know how Robin Hood would act if this happened to him! I thought maybe since he lived in Sherwood Forest, he might run back there too. But really, I just felt really guilty and really scared because I knew I was in huge big trouble. I was going to get spanked. I knew for sure I would be spanked.
  I don't remember getting spanked, but it was the first time I ever felt shame. It was my "first unfairness," as Peter Pan says. It was the first time the world didn't go the way I thought it should. That is a subject I'll get into more later. What strikes me about this story the most is how early I learned that good was good and bad was bad. I mean, I was only five years old and I already viewed the entire world like it was some game field. Good and evil were the two teams battling for the win, and I knew exactly which side I was cheering for. I was so convinced of this that when my Dad said: “Icecream is bad,” I didn't hear: “icecream has poor nutritional value,” I heard: “Icecream is evil.”

Skulls have lots of calcium, but they are really hard to chew.

 At that point, Christianity had very little to do with this core belief. I didn't know much about God, he was an old guy with a beard that owned the “Good Team.” All I really knew was that there was absolutely nothing more important to me than playing for the good team. Some people might say that this was because of the way I was raised, and yes, I believe that contributed to this oddity. But I can say this. I found the story of King Arthur and his Round Table far more compelling at five years old than the book “Are You My Mother.” I knew this because after My Uncle Cary told me about this mythical hero, the only thing I wanted to do all day long the next day was draw pictures of King Arthur, make believe I was King Arthur, eat majestically huge turkey bones I imagined King Arthur must have eaten.

not even kidding.
I never once walked around the yard asking inanimate objects if I was their progeny.  Back then, this was the norm for every young boy in the neighborhood. If other kids hadn't heard of King Arthur, Anthony and I would gladly tell our wide eyed audience the story; of course letting them know that we he was our great great great grandfather. We would then commence to make swords from card-bord boxes and battle each other for hours on end. The point my friends, is that regardless of whatever faith you may profess, good is good and evil is evil. The heart of man begins knowing the appropriate response to evil, it is only later that he gets it educated out of him. That response is not a “meh,” along with a casual shoulder shrug.

fail.

The only appropriate response to evil, as demonstrated by five year old me, is to throw rocks at it.
Childlike Joy Good and Evil Humor
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My Trip to Austen: Quidditch, Hang gliding, and Other Rash Behaviors. Part I

My Trip to Austen: Quidditch, Hang gliding, and Other Rash Behaviors. Part I


My adventure to Austen was SO awesome and so frikkin packed that I’m going to have to break it into three separate blog posts, which I will post this week (I swear).  Part one will focus on my time spent on the UT Quidditch fields.


            For those of you who have not heard, Quidditch, the magical broom riding sport of the Harry Potter world, has launched into muggle universities all over the US. My friend Augusta, who I was visiting this weekend, plays for the Gryffindor house at UT. Soon, her and her teammates will be traveling to the Quidditch world cup in New York. There will be something close to 40 college teams competing there from all over the world! Who knew right? Anyway, when I rolled into UT, Augusta and her roommate were already getting suited up for their Quidditch tournament against Slytherin, Ravenclaw, and Hufflepuff. I was very excited to even have the chance at witnessing such an event, but as we drove over to the field I was offered the opportunity of a lifetime: The chance to be the Snitch.

^ ME
GOOD HIT BRO!
Now let me explain for a moment how “Muggle Quidditch” as it has come to be known, is played. The players must hold a broom between their legs as the run around on the ground, attempting to throw a volleyball through three hoops at the end of the field. The snitch is actually played by a person dressed in gold, (usually a cross country runner or rugby player) who tucks a sack with a ball into the back of his shorts. The seekers attempt to pull said ball sack from the Snitches pants (no one ever jokes about this at all).  The thing that really makes this whole thing so awesome though, is that Snitches literally have no rules.
They can run wherever they want, do whatever they want, tackle, taunt, shove, and disrupt in whatever manner pleases them at any given moment. If you would like to see some premier seeker action from last year’s world cup in New York City, check this out:




For me, an ex cross country runner and rugby veteran, this was a dream come true! NO RULES? DO WHATEVER YOU WANT? TACKLE GUYS WHO CAN ONLY USE ONE ARM?
I think yes.
By the end of the night I had hid in two separate buildings, climbed over a barbed wire fence, hid on top of a roof, used innocent bystanders as human shields, disrupted a Frisbee game, a soccer game, and three separate tennis matches, tackled the crap out of the seekers, and thrown up a ham sandwich all over the field. It was pretty intense. But in the end, it really was a very joyful and outrageous experience.

This is a short clip that I think really captures the spirit of the game. Check it.


I’ve written about a few emerging games from the millennial generation, such as Humans verses Zombies and Assassins, and Quidditch really follows suit. It is a game that you can take super seriously, but will always, always be ridiculous. Childlike joy, my friends. That is what playing is all about. For those of you out there who would have never played or seen a Quidditch match, it is a thing worth adding to your bucket list. Look around online and I’m sure you’ll find a team or a tournament near you.

Here are some pictures of me snitching:


SO MUCH FUN!!!!

Fence Jumping!

About to throw up



YEEESSS!!!

SUCKIT GRIFFINDOR SEEKER!
Austen Childlike Joy Storytime
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Josephine's Coins

            As I set out in my thesis, this blog is going to be about bringing out the child within us that our society constantly suppresses. I’m sure that my thoughts and imagination will take us elsewhere on our travels through blogland, but I recently was touched by a child and wanted to share the experience with you. I think this story really embodies so much of what I want to communicate in this blog, so it is a fitting place to start. This is the story of Josephine’s coins, and the glee of giving.
            Last week I was lucky enough to be asked to play at the open mic night at the pub. I haven’t played much recently, so before I was scheduled to go on, I walked outside to the area in front of the bean, and sat down on the edge of the fountain to practice. I twisted the tuning knobs with delicate precision, closed my eyes, and began to pluck out the chords to my newest song “20 Dollar Bills.” I was halfway through the first verse when I heard the following:
            Ping           pang    ring
                                                Shing
                                                         ring shing shing
      shick

I immediately stopped playing, looked down and saw a quarter on the ground at my feet. Of course I looked up at the windows and balconies on the piazza above me, but there was no one around at all! I didn’t even hear so much as hear a chuckle. So I picked up my guitar again and strummed the melody. As soon as I began to sing, I heard it again.
            pang Pang shing
                                    Ring shing
                                                     Ring shing shck

Another quarter dropped at my feet.
            I kept playing.

                        Ping Ping ping Pang Shin shang
                                    Shing ring ringaring
                                                Shing ringaring shing schk ring shkk

Dimes, quarters and nickels started to fall all around me, and I still couldn’t hear or see anyone on the balconies above. There weren’t even any lights on in the windows.  I played on as coins dropped all around me, and finally, between the “pings” and the twinkling sounds of silver dropping to the cobblestone, I heard a faint giggle. It was the delighted chuckle of a little girl, who very much wanted to be caught. I saw her little fingers dart out of a small tear in the screen of her window and toss out a handful of change:

            ping Chang chiing shinga ching
                        Ring ringping pangashing shing ching shinga
                                                Shck ping shk shick ping singring 
                                                            Ring     shing shk ring      ring   shk

I laughed with her, delighted at her playfulness, and so I sang her a song, and as I sang, she dropped coins, attempting to time it so that the coins bounced in rhythm with me. She made a game out of the music, and giggled every second. When it as my time to go on, I thanked her, gathered the change—she ensured that I did not miss a coin—and counted it all. She had thrown down four dollars and thirty seven cents in pennies, nickels, dimes, and quarters. With a brand new joy, I walked in to play for the audience at the pub. I was given my free Godfather (Scotch and Ammaretto, my fave), and they applauded after I was finished. I found out later that the girl was Josephine Dix, the daughter of the owner, a troublemaker if there ever was one. She was three years old and she was already tearing holes in screens to throw things out at people. I have to say, I cannot wait until the day—to the dismay of her parents and all of the Ave Maria community—she discovers water balloons. It will probably be the greatest discovery of her childhood.

            I have to tell you, that I audience I had in Josephine, that moment that I stood, serenading a small child from below her window while she giggle and threw coins from a tear in her screen, was one of the most memorable shows I’ve ever played. Even though my drink was worth well more than $4.37, and the audience was far bigger in the pub, the highlight of the evening was Josephine.
            This got me thinking about charity and almsgiving. Whether Josephine went into her fathers wallet or smashed her own piggy bank in order to give me that moment, the gift she gave me was in the giving. There is nothing special or noteworthy about dropping a couple Washingtons and a Lincoln in the guitar case of a street performer. What would he do, I wonder, if you were to walk across the street to the hotdog vendor, buy him a chili cheese dog and drop it in his case (carefully of course). Or what if you dropped in an invitation to your house for dinner? Charity is most appreciated and most striking when it is creative.
            Saint Nicholas’ great charity is not remembered for the magnitude of what he gave, but because of how he gave it. There is one famous story of a man who was in debt to his landlord. His landlord threatened to take the man’s three daughters and sell them into prostitution to reconcile his debt. St. Nicholas, wanting to give an anonymous gift, dropped three bags of gold down the man’s chimney in the middle of the night. I can’t know exactly what that man’s morning must have been like, but I’d like to think it probably went something like this:

Imagine waking up, walking blearily eyed to the sink to slap some water on your face. You step on a coin.  You are confused, and that state of morning annoyance, you bend down to peal it off your bear skin, only to find several more coins littering your path. Your eyes follow the trail of gold as it glimmers in the light of a new day, all over the tile. Gold has spilled out over the ashes of your fireplace, and “pinged” and bounced and rolled into every, nook, and crack and hole of your life.

That must have been a powerful surprise. I can’t imagine “thank you” would have been quite enough to express the feeling.

But thank you, none the less, Josephine, for your joy, your charity, and your delight. I hope to emulate your kindness and adventurous spirit!

-Marcellino
Charity Childlike Joy Coins
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