To Research Proposals

Proposal 1: For the research of the Male Confidence

Though empirical evidence suggests it’s obvious, no controlled studies have been done to determine the exact ratio of the average American male’s confidence-to-skill-set ratio. The researchers understand this is much like testing whether or not grass is green or water is wet, yet assumptions must always be questioned, especially when they are widely held. As a follow up study, because the authors are male, we need to determine if overconfidence is a problem, as the name suggests, or if it is, in fact, an asset. We suspect the former and will suggest that “overconfidence” be labeled, more accurately, “underdeveloped realism.”

Proposal 2: For the research of the Therapeutic Uses of Tequila

Wine, beer and to a certain extent, gin, have been the subject of much research, connecting these to health benefits that extend to pulmonary, nervous and endocrinology systems. However, much more research is needed into the distilled extract of the agave plant. Researchers hypothesize that those who drink tequila will, on average, have improved health in all of the above mentioned areas. However, if the research shows no improvement or even a decline, we will to ask the secondary question: how much the participants care, given the fact that they get to drink tequila? Due to the controversial nature of the study, the researchers have generously agreed to be the subjects of the study. You’re welcome.

Proposal 3: For the research of Dreams Delayed, Denied, Destroyed

Past research has been founded on the belief that delayed, denied and destroyed are all different ways that aspirations and goals may be limited or, in some cases, buried. We suggest this is mere tautology, but recognize the value of controlled subjects to determine the validity of our assumptions. We will take recent college graduates and over the course of six months, systematically and measurably, undermine their beliefs by either: 1) delaying them 2) denying them and 3) destroying them. At the end of six months, subjects will be interviewed to determine qualitative differences in subjective experiences.

We realize this seems cruel. We take no pleasure in this experiment. Our ethics board is urging us not to move forward with this. They will be our control group.

To The Steel Drum Band Practicing in the Room Next Door to the One I am Teachinng

A guy with a guitar and a few chords can sound kind of halfway decent without a lot of effort. Not great, but not awful.

 

This is not the case with steel drums. Steel drums take practice.

Many steel drums, a whole band’s worth of them, take even more. Exponentially more.

 

And you are all apparently very dedicated to the cause, showing up on Wednesday afternoons for the entire hour--maybe longer--of my writing class. 
 

One the first day, we were charmed. We all laughed when we had to shout to be heard and then suddenly the music stopped and we were still shouting. Anthony spoke up, I swear, just because he wanted to shout in class and it was ok.

But every day, the wall thinned, as if your music, the off tempo beat of that one drummer who just could not seem to get it right, shaved layers of plaster off so that, by the 4th week, we could hear the clatter of the drum sticks against the floor. We could hear the director clear his throat.

These became writing days. We would spend a few minutes talking, asking questions, but there was little need to try to have a conversation. Maybe we could do small group work, if they huddled together in two’s and three’s. But mostly we wrote.

Anthony wrote about politics. Barack Obama  was running for election and though he appreciated what it meant to have an African American president, he didn’t like him. He was torn, proud and confused at the same time. Nicole wrote a lot about coming to school, leaving her family in Columbus. Two hours away. On Thursdays she tells herself not to go home, to stay on campus for the weekends; she’ll make more friends. On Fridays she’s in her car headed south on 71. Her own bed. Her mom’s spaghetti. The familiar laundry soap.

One day, Dolores--who is in her 60’s and decided to go back to school, she loves being around “the kids”--isn’t there. Two days later I get an email from admissions that she has died. I find out it was an aneurysm. As the students enter the room, they can tell. Something’s wrong. We hear the drummers laughing softly.

We sit in a circle and I tell them what happened. Some get a little teary. Today is not a day we will work. I tell them they can stay and write if they want. They do. They pull out their notebooks and laptops and write poems, journal entries, letters. We look at her chair a lot. At first, we do it shyly, but then we just stare. Every once in a while, someone says, “Wow,” or “I can’t believe it.”

The drums pick up a bit. You’re sounding better now. The one guy, who couldn’t seem to get it, makes it all the way through. When they are done with the song, they cheer for themselves. A first. A good day.

To Third Party Candidates

Remind us again there is no black and white.

By Tom Arthur from Orange, CA, United States
(vote for better tape  Uploaded by Petronas) [
CC BY-SA 2.0 (http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/2.0)],
via Wikimedia Commons

Remind us that conservative and liberal mean nothing without each other.

Remind us that we have a lot to lose in the the bifurcation of our national agenda.

Remind us we have some things in common.

Remind us of choice and freedom. Remind us what those look like.

Remind us that we can think more than we can see. Be the Picasso in a world of Vemeer.

Complicate it for us.

You draw tiny but enthusiastic crowds. You get no air time, even on your hometown local station. They see you fringe. Radical.

Late into the night, you're writing emails to the faithful. You can't yet admit defeat, though you know it eminent.

Dear supporters,

We have several months to reach our goal of getting on the ballot in all 50 states. Shout out to Wyoming for being the first to verify that we made it on the ticket there!

The conversation has grown so small, the sound bytes so tight, the tweets so curt, that political dialogue sounds like nails on a metal counter. We must understand the mission here, the greater good.

We will not get elected. We will not be making policy. I can shake 10,000 hands but we won't even register as a blip on the screen.

But all change starts small. Keep talking. Be that one voice someone else can't forget. The one “what if”