Karate Kid

Following the "Karate Kid" craze in '84 and '86, I began Kenpo Karate lessons in '86. By '89 or '90, I was testing for my green belt (brown, then black to follow). My instructor's instructor was Ed Parker. He sat in on my green belt test. If you pass your belt test, then you get a swift kick to the stomach as a ritual. I passed, so I got a kick. Back in the day, Ed Parker was Elvis Presley's instructor among other celebrities. I guess you could say I shook the hand that shook the hand. Or, you could say I got kicked in the stomach by the one who kicked Elvis in the stomach.

Red Neck Recollection I Reckon

Miss the days in college when my roommates and I used to shoot Starbucks bottles off the toilet in the front yard with a pellet gun. Yep. It was in the front yard. The trucks on blocks were in the front yard too. And, we had this irritating Woodpecker that my roommate tried to shoot with the same pellet gun in the morning. We'll say it was "too early" to get a good shot off.

Second Grade Attempt at Behavior Modification

Our second grade teacher kept two plastic cups on the window sill. One was for the boys and the other for the girls. At the end of the day, if us boys were good, we got a marble. If the girls were good, then they got a marble. Once the cup was full, the boys or girls got a prize. As you might suspect, this never worked out well for us boys. Year-end-score: Girls 8, Boys 1.

Men Still Can’t Cook, or Can They?

Alem never thought it possible. What kind of a man could prepare injira? She ran through a mental check list of all the brothers, cousins, and friends of family from Ethiopia who had failed. The concoction was too much for the male species to handle. Only a woman’s touch... No. Only an East African woman’s complexities were capable of working out this special type of sponge-bread staple found in Somalia, Ethiopia, and Eretria.

“No. Only women make injira!” Alem announced to the class. An eruption of smiles and conversations in Somali, Amharic, French and Arabic confiscated my classroom. Our three Spanish speakers were as dumfounded as I was.

I smiled.

“Whoa. Whoa. Wait a minute. Whaddya mean?” I asked.

“Only the women. No man can make engeeyra. It’s too difficult.”

“Holy smokes.” I said. (My old-school, English vernacular emerges when dumbfounded.)

A Somali woman waved her hand in the air. Her name was Fartune. “The men can make samboosa, maybe other kinds of things. But, they can’t make injira. It’s too hard. Only a woman can make it.”

Conversations oscillated the room at high velocity.

A middle aged, Mexican gentleman named Jose raised his hand. I was curious.

“Hold on everyone! Hold on everyone! Jose has something to say.”

“The best are men.” He held his hand in the air with thumb and fingers pressed together. He grasped for English.

“The chef. The chef.” He held his contorted hand in the air.

“Oh yes.” I said. “I gotcha Jose. Everybody listen. Can you say that again Jose?”

“The chef. The chef. They are men. The best for cooking is men.”

I smiled. This was getting heated.

“Okay. Do you hear what Jose is saying? He’s saying that people who cook the best are men. Do you know what a chef is?” I asked.

Heads nodded, comprehension unknown.

“A chef is a person who cooks food in very expensive restaurants. They make very good food. The best food.”

I looked at Jose. “Yes, Jose. It is true. There are many chefs who are men. Maybe even more men than women. But, there are a lot of women chefs now too.”

I decided to join the competition. This was getting good.

“Now, you’re telling me there aren’t any men out there who can cook injira?”

Voices raised in affirmation.

“Is there any man in this room who can cook injira?” I asked.

A man named Ali Mohamed raised his hand. Short bursts of laughter percolated the room in disbelief. Ali’s English is poor and he rarely speaks. When he does, it’s usually Bass with a hint of English.

“Injira.” He waved his hand. “I make everything.”

The room erupted back into chatter, discussion, smiles, and laughter. I’d had a smile on my face for the past five minutes.

“Okay everyone. Okay everyone. Listen. I have something I want to say. Okay. Listen everybody. I have something to say.”

Ten seconds passed to settle down.

“Okay. This is what I want to say. On the last day of class we will all bring food from our home countries. This is what we do each semester on the last day of class. Do you understand?”

Heads nodded.

Then, I threw a curve-ball.

“So, on the last day of class we will all bring food to class from our home country, but Ali Mohamed and I will bring injira!”

Arms flailed, smiles broke out, and a multitude of languages circulated again. Fartune suggested Ali Mohamed and I might cheat by finding someone else to cook the injira for us before bringing it in.

“No.” I waved my hand. “When I make injira, I will have a video camera to show you that I am making it myself!”

That was stupid. I thought to myself.

The challenge is on and there’s no way I can make this stuff. Maybe Alem was right afterall. Whatever happens, it'll be a comedy routine disguised as my classroom.
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All names are psuedonyms but do represent names from the countries represented by my real students.

Guys’ Night Out, Dinner Date, Water Balloons, and Fake Bodies

In college, I created a problem for myself when I chose a friendly dinner date over Guys’ Night Out. I heightened the problem because I was one of the original instigators for this particular evening, and now I was backing out. We’d originally decided to recreate an evening that our upper-classmen friends had performed a couple years earlier in which they constructed a fake body, drove it around town, and videotaped themselves dropping it out of a car, driving over it, and throwing it off parking garages. Sounds horrible, but it was really quite harmless. Nevertheless, I got heckled for going out with a friend of mine for Mongolian Barbecue, instead of joining them. Between you and me, we know that they’d all have made the same choice and gone with the girl.

In addition to the whole fake body thing, I also found out that the boys were going to ‘TP’ Bob’s house at 12am, after the fake body festivities. Bob was the director of the student Christian organization the guys and I were a part of. This was our way of delivering a physical term of endearment to our dear friend Bob—‘TP’ the house and leave fake bodies on the lawn. This was about the most mischief we could come up with.

I met up with my friend Lori at about 7pm. We had a nice dinner. Sometime during the course of our meal I said, “What do you think about filling up some water balloons and ambushing the guys? They told me they’d be ‘TP-ing’ Bob’s house at 12am.” This is my idea of a date, apparently. Water-balloon 15 adult males while they are up to no good, and drag some innocent girl along in the process.

For the sake of some fun and a good story, Lori was down for it. We picked up the balloons at Walgreens, loaded them up in a bucket, and then headed for Bob’s at 12am. It was the perfect plan. No one knew a single thing about us coming, sort of like one of those movies when everyone thinks the main character is dead and he figures out a plan to defeat the bad guys, like James Bond. At least that’s what I’d like to think.

Bob’s house was located in the center of a block along a street that looped around in a somewhat closed square, with only two exits, I believe. The corner (adjacent to his house) had tall, 6 foot bushes—a perfect entry point and hiding place for launching our attack. The guys were there and we drove by once to get a good look. We went unnoticed and pulled around the block to hide behind the bushes for our first attack.

Lori drove by and I launched the first wave of balloons from the window. Hit a few men I think. They were dumbfounded. We pulled around for a second wave, hiding behind the bushes again. This time, I got a little more daring and told Lori to pull ahead of the house about 25 feet or so. I’d get out of the car, pull out the bucket, and really get some nice throws off grenade-style. She pulled around, I got out, threw the balloons, and inflicted a few wounds in the process. It was all guts and glory until two football players (seriously, they were UofA football players) started chasing after me. Lori stepped on the gas a little and I found myself left behind. Nothing like running away from a UofA center and tight end at twelve-in-the-morning. Somehow, I got back into the car (thanks Lori) and we drove off.

We pulled around to the bushes once again in order to collect our thoughts. We’re sitting there behind the bushes talking in the car when all of the sudden a human-sized, fake body falls on top of the hood. A couple guys had thrown it over those 6-foot bushes! Lori stepped on the gas and we took off out of there. I think the moment the fake-body unexpectedly landed on top of the car would be a good picture-dictionary-definition for the word 'incongruity'.

The story isn’t finished, however. After we left, the guys left two fake bodies on Bob’s lawn. The neighbors across the street thought that maybe some sort of cult or Satanist group left dead bodies on Bob’s lawn because he was the director for a student Christian organization. The police woke him and his wife up at 2 or 3 in the morning. He must have told them something like, “These are the Christian students I serve as director for. They ‘TP-ed’ my house and dropped off fake bodies on my lawn. No need to investigate further, officers.”

Like I say, it was a loving action of endearment.
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Memory might fail me in a few places, but overall the story is accurate.

The Destruction of All Bicycles

I’m on a mission to eliminate all bicycles. Destroy them. Pound them. Jump on them. Whatever it takes.

Destruction number one. I purchased a blue, 20 inch BMX from my friend Rory, in the sixth grade. Twenty payments at $1 per week. A grand total of $20. The bike had a smooth ride. Really smooth. Slick bearings I presumed. The black handle bars had a V-shaped crossbar. I leaned them forward slightly, per the style in 1987. Totally rad.

I rode down to Whittier Elementary School, cruising my little blue machine on the sidewalks, jumping off the high, two-foot curbs. This thing was fast. Really fast. I revved up for a solo drag race down a corridor. I’d take the 90 degree turn, darting to the right in the last moment.

The sidewalk was slick. Really slick. When the turn came, I turned the handle bars, but the bicycle kept going straight. I straightened them back out. Oh no. I thought. The tire took the hit first. Then my head plowed into the old, red brick wall. It took a moment to regain my composure. I’m okay. I’m okay. I thought. I started turning around to ride off, but the bike was stubborn. It wouldn’t move. I looked down and saw the bicycle frame split in two places. The front wheel was unable to turn. So much for my $20. So much for this rad, blue machine. It’s cruising days were over.

Destruction number two. My friend’s younger brother, Justin, let me borrow his 16” BMX bike on a beautiful Sunday afternoon. The bike was too small. I had to raise the seat stem approximately 12” higher than the handle bars. We were at Whittier Elementary School, and once again those two foot curbs were calling me to jump off them with Justin’s little bike.

This thing had hops. It felt like a feather. I was energized. I took that first jump and slammed it right onto the blacktop with some serious confidence. Slam. I heard a small squeaking sound. I had split the frame. Again. Poor Justin.

Destruction number three. In my senior year of high school, I was riding a red and white, Spalding brand 18-speed that was a little too tall for me. Approaching stops was tricky because the cross-bar didn’t give me any mercy.

One afternoon, I was riding home through the neighborhoods by North High School, my secondary alma mater. Three factors led to the destruction of this final victim. First, it didn’t have coaster breaks. Second, I was riding with no hands. Third, I had my head down, and had just opened a 16 oz, glass bottle of Gatorade.

I looked up just in time to see the collision coming. Oh no. I thought. My tire, then my head, plowed yet again into another non-moving object. This time it was the rear end of a parked, 1990 Chevy Blazer. I fell to the ground. The bike sat halfway on top of my legs. I had split yet another bicycle frame. I looked up at the Blazer and noticed that the mouth of the 16oz, glass Gatorade bottle, somehow suction-cupped itself onto the rear window of the Blazer, at a 90 degree angle, without breaking any glass. Hurricanes do weird stuff like this. I stood up, threw the bicycle to the ground, uttered a few profanities, pulled the Gatorade bottle off the Blazer, and wheeled my bike home on its back wheel.

It’s 15 years since my last victim, but I’m still on a mission. The destruction of all bicycles.

White Man in a Black Church

It's hard to shake off "visitor status" when you're the only white man visiting a several thousand member black congregation in Inglewood, California. That's what I found out in 1999, when a friend of mine named Lori invited me there for a visit. We arrived separately and she was running late. I sat in the back of the congration just a few steps above the main walkway that ran to the exit. Lori missed me while entering and sat far away, towards the front-center.

The worship service was great. I loved singing repetitions of chorus as it helped me get into a nice focus on the Lord.

A few hours later, the whole thing was over. My plan was to exit stage-right and wait for Lori outside. As I came down the steps towards the main walkway, a woman noticed I was a visitor (duh...). She shook my hand. I tried to step down again, but the next woman also shook my hand. I tried again, but unfortunately a chain reaction had begun which I'd never be able to stop.

My memory is cloudy, but I shook dozens or maybe even hundred of hands that day. It took me a number of minutes to make the door which wasn't far away. It was the closest I've ever felt to being a politician at a rally.

Pitch Black Stall

I walked into a bathroom at the community college and sat down. The stall was quite relaxing and I guess this is why they call it the restroom in the first place. This is one of the few places many of us relax in our fast paced lives.

I’m minding my own business and playing Tetris on the cell phone. I hear a man exiting. All of the sudden, he turns the lights off. He probably didn’t know I was in the stall. Anyway, the room went pitch black and it was silent.

I turned off Tetris because the soft glow of the cell phone was a little weird in the dark. I’m sitting there thinking to myself, This is really strange. But, what am I supposed to do? I can’t get up and turn the light on.

No one came in the bathroom for five minutes. I was trying to take care of matters, but it's surprisingly difficult to know where things are in the dark. A slower process.

Try sitting in a public restroom for five minutes in pitch-black silence, without erupting in laughter at some point. The dark silence dragging on and on is like a British comedy without words--more and more ridiculous.

It was pitch black. Lights out.

April Fool's Day Gone Wrong

Jesus Beltran was a foot taller than me. His heavy, adult-like frame didn’t belong in our seventh grade classroom. These physical discrepancies, along with my egotistical sense for the dramatic, were my undoing.

It was April Fool’s Day, 1988. Jesus and I headed to class. We had decided to stage a fake fight in Mr. Willis’ history class for April Fool’s Day. Mr. Willis was a young and naive twenty-something with pale white skin and red hair. The perfect target.

Jesus and I had a plan. I’d throw a wad of paper at him several desks over, hitting him in the side of the head. He’d get angry, stand up, walk in my direction, and then we’d pretend to fight by wrestling each other to the ground and roll around a bit. Once Mr. Willis pulled us apart, we’d both look up with smiles and say, “Happy April Fool’s Day!”

Here’s what really happened. I’d say we had nothing less than a communication error. I threw the paper. I missed Jesus by ten feet. He stood up and came over. I stood up and moved towards him. Jesus proceeded to clock my block off. He decked me with a full blow. His heavy hand fit well into the curves of my cheek and eye bones. He lunched into me after the sucker punch and desks were all over the place. Our classmates gave us some room, some to watch and others to save their own skin.

Within seconds, Mr. Willis pulled us apart. His face was flushed red, just like his hair. Jesus was still worked up and slightly out of control, but Mr. Willis had a hold on him. Half-dazed, I looked up and said to Mr. Wills, “Happy April Fool’s Day!”

Unfortunately, the fool was me!

Clean Glass Equals Disaster

It was 12am on a crisp evening in Oklahoma. I couldn't keep my eyes open. I walked back towards the house to say goodbye to the 30+ people inside. I approached the entryway. They must have cleaned the glass door really well, because I never saw it coming. The sound was like when a door slams into its jamb, but reverberates back-and-forth a few inches like an oversized tuning fork. For a moment, time stood still.

What's happening? I thought to myself. I was walking. Now I'm not. Why does my nose hurt? Is it broken?

A perfect smudged outline of my lips, chin, and cheeks had been cast upon the glass. I could taste a hint of blood on my lip. I checked my nose and it wasn't broken.

My roommate swung the door open. "Did you do that on purpose?" He asked.

The question didn't register. I only saw my other roommate along with a dozen others in the hallway. They were rolling.

"You really clean these windows good, out here in Oklahoma," is all I could come up with.