“The Miracle of Life—the Evolution of Self”

My birth was nothing unusual, just another ten-pound children born in the great state of Mississippi. At least that’s what the Earth thought. On the contrary, the planet had bitten off more than it could chew.

The first thing my father said to me as he laid his eyes on his second-born son was, “Put ‘im back in, he ain’t done yet!” I, of course, have no memory of this event. I apparently lived in Pascagoula as a baby with my parents and 2-year old brother, Russell.

I soon moved to a cozy home 139 Green Forest Drive; Clinton, Mississippi and lived the American Dream for a while. I shared rooms with my brother almost my whole life, but we almost never fought, and even if we did, one of us would say, “I give!” and we’d go right back to being best friends. I had a California Raisins poster and my life was going great; at least what I remember.

My mother informed me that I had severe acute asthma as an infant. So severe, in fact, that I was on a respirator for months. Many people didn’t expect me to survive, but I’ll have to ask her to see if I did or not.

Miraculously, at the age of 2, my bronchial passages untied themselves and I was able to breath normally. My first clear memory is my brother and I holding a burping contest on our bunk beds, which I lost 20 to 1, only because he drank a Dr. Pepper. Upon realization of this violation of the Burping Contest Bylaws, his victory was invalidated, and the fifty-cent bet was nullified.

Also I recall one of my brother’s many successful attempts to horrify me, in which he turned my T.V. on and off with the remote control until it blew up. Well, I suppose that when it blew up, we were both a bit frightened.

The most terrifying event of my childhood was when my Russell, surely inspired by a movie of some sort, transformed into a vampire right in front of my eyes. He then bit me, so I ran; so of course he chased me with scissors until I cried. My only form of defense was to dash with all of my five-year-old fat fury into our room and hold the door shut. I was a pretty hefty kid, mind you, so I could balance all of my weight on the door just right to prevent the seven-and-a-half year old vampire from entering the room and stabbing me to death and drinking my blood.

Then I saw it: his Mickey Mantle. “Beh!” my infantile self spouted, as I dove toward his Triple Gold Limited Edition Elite Series One Of A Kind Topps Superstar Mickey Mantle Athlete Most Valuable Player Hologram Card, which he had mistakenly left scattered with the rest of his less valuable cards. Somehow or another, I fought the evil bloodsucking monster with a little Black Magic of my own: Voo Doo. Now you may not believe it, but that card must have been magic, because when I crumpled it into a pathetic wad, my brother crumpled up into one, too.

That card’s probably worth around $2,500 now, but there isn’t a price too high to protect yourself from a vampire. Remember that.

“Elementary School: Reading, Writing, and Childhood Trauma”

Yes, I actually recall looking forward to school. Before my fourth birthday, I could already read, and even write my alphabet. I believed my mind to be a juggernaut, I felt unstoppable: as if nothing could stand in my way as long as I had my Ninja Turtles pencil and my brain. And while it may sound sophomoric, I still believe it to be absolutely true.

My favorite part of school was definitely “nap time.” Just think of the brilliant concept of the whole thing. Learn some ABC’s, form straight lines, go to the lunchroom, come back and sleep like a bear in the winter. I’m not sure at what grade they sustained our nap-time privileges, but I’m sure that’s about the time most students go into their “School Sucks” phase, which lasts until... well, usually when they graduate.

Nevertheless, I socialized well with my other students, mostly because of the fact that I could help them learn to add whenever the teacher’s “two apples plus two more apples” theorem failed to put their train of thought in motion.

I’d say my six-year popularity slump began the day that the class was preparing for a field trip as I innocently played with my toy car. Well, the kid sitting adjacent to me had mistakenly placed a can of soda in the way of the Ronnie Racer’s 130 mile per hour course around the rug. The collision was enormous; the Ronnie Racer was totaled on impact, the driver sustained heavy injury, and the twenty-foot tall Sprite was punctured! It spewed hundreds of gallons of Lemon-Lime soda all over the building block city, and no matter how smart I was, nobody’s ever nice to the kid that ruined the field trip.

“My First Girlfriend—My Last Ounce of Dignity”

Well, I suppose that I was somewhat of a child prodigy, from what I can recall. While most students at my elementary schools were learning to piece together words to form sentences, I had typed over five pages of my life and observations. Observations such as “Alabama looks like Mississippi looking in a mirror.” My teachers and administrators were so proud of me. The superintendent of the school board actually came to my classroom and talked to me about my story.

Maybe young Allison had a thing for brains, or maybe no other guy would date a girl a foot taller than him, but she told Susie that she liked me, who told Johnny, who told Betty who in turn told me. Well, I got her phone number and we were “going out.” Of course, back then, I had no idea what “going out” meant. I had never kissed a girl or understood them. Well, I still don’t understand them.

Anyway, after entertaining some kids on the bus with my paper-eating talent, I went home and called Allison. I asked her if she liked me and she told me that she did, and I reciprocated. And then... nothing. I didn’t even know what exactly Allison and I “going out” actually constituted. We certainly weren’t going anywhere. We continued to talk to each other at class and after school, but that was it. We never broke up, we never kissed, we just... liked each other. So, then, was the template set for my love life, as could be summarized in one word: “Flop.”

“Popularity? What am I, a Yuppie?”

The first thing I noticed about Hewland Middle School was the divisions, divisions so strong that I was reminded of the caste system of ancient India. The “popular” kids, quarterbacks, cheerleaders, basically anyone who wore Tommy Hilfiger’s personalized clothes were classified as the “A” group. The two black guys in the entire school were “A” kids as well. The goofs, clowns, and fat kids comprised the “B” group, and the “special” students, poor kids, and anyone whose name was an easy joke (i.e. Eric Gaye, Bobby Whitehead) were deemed the “D” kids. The other half of the youngsters, who no one know their name, or cared for that matter, fell into the “C” category. As the tall awkward kid with no friends, no social skills, and only wearing clothes that were donated by my church, you can imagine what group I fell in. I always liked to think that I was the lone member of the “E” club.

The “E” club was not very well liked; a lot of really dumb kids made many really dumb jokes, and I really didn’t care: over the course of my life, I had honed my acute skill of selective hearing.

Finally, my mother had saved enough money to purchase a home down the street from her little sister, in the great little town of Parker Valley. Ross Middle School was great. My uniqueness (who am I kidding, weirdness) gained popularity throughout seventh grade, and then one semester, Parker Valley made the biggest mistake in its history. Three horrendous children named Michael, Tom, Donnie, and myself, were all placed in 7th period Drama. Our teacher obviously hadn’t heard much about the four of us at the time, otherwise she would have made one glance at the attendance sheet and quit her job then and there.

The most memorable entity of Drama class was an old table that had a crack running down the middle. Now let’s think: four of the most attention-deficited hoodlums in the county, a cracked table, and five minutes on the stage. Soon, WCW Nitro reruns were playing in our little heads, and it doesn’t take a genius to figure out what happened next.

Ronnie “The Brain” improvised a scene in which the four of us would brawl for some reason or another, and the tag team of Donnie “The King of the Ring” and Tom “The Bomb from Guam” lifted Michael “The Beast from Greece” up in the air and “accidentally” dropped him right through the table. At least, we told our teacher that it was a mishap. And the crowd went wild.

It was an illegal procedure, but if we learned one thing through our infamy at Ross Middle School, it was that things are only illegal if the referee sees it. And so set our life principle.

“Seniority”

Graduation is abrubt. It sets the point of transition between “life” and real life. It’s an invisible line that lies somewhere between “I can’t wait to graduate,” and “What the heck’s a W2 Form?”

In realization of this, I prepared a speech that every new freshman should hear and take to heart. Countless students could be helped by sitting down at Freshman Orientation and listening to their Class of 2004 Senior Class President reading:

“Money. It makes the world go round. Everyone loves having it. Everyone hates not having it. Everyone loves spending it. Everyone hates earning it. When little Johnny Freshman buys his woman a ticket to see a movie and a small popcorn, did he weld heavy pieces of metal together with a blowtorch for two hours to earn that seventeen dollars and seventy-five cents? No. His father did.

“Before you realize, the tables will have turned and you’ll be the one working forty hours a week for a paycheck that the government takes half of anyway. The word ‘dollar’ will have a new meaning when it’s payday, and you pay your taxes, and your rent, and your car, electricity, phone, gas, cable, and water bills, and that dollar is all the money you have left. And what’s worse, you may not be able to afford anything nice, but you’ll know how to do algebraic equations. Yes, you’ll know the exact date of the Boston Tea Party, but you won’t be able to figure out why the Repo man is taking all of your stuff.

“Whether you plan to go to college, the military, or just jump straight into the American work force, just have some sort of plan. Use these four years to your advantage. Find something that you have a genuine interest for and make a career out of it. It doesn’t matter what kind of a plan it is, as long as you have one. Just remember: none of this is going to matter in the real world. Who you were friends with, what you drove, who you went out with, who thought you were cool, who thought you were cute, and who just couldn’t stand you, nobody in the real world cares. The only thing that matters to them is that piece of paper. Just keep focused on what’s really important: the rest of your life. Little Johnny Freshman is now Mr. John Taxpayer.”