College was a time of transformation. I met people that changed the way I approached the world and planted the seeds for who I have become today, which is still a work in progress. The largest part of that change started with someone I grew very close to over my final two years at UIUC, someone who challenged my narrow-mindedness, and someone that cared enough about me to be more than a friend but a coach and a mentor. We often found ourselves in the same English classes and in discussing an upcoming registration period, she recommended a class, advertised to me by an assurance of an easy A, but laced with learning and mindset shifts that would be impossible to explain over lunch or seen in a syllabus. There was no catchy name. CHLH 199b (Community Health). Here’s the current description:
“This 3-credit course is open to anyone wishing to learn more about sexual violence and its impact on our culture. The course will discuss the impacts of media, gender, power and privilege on the rape culture, as well as the effects of sexual assault, services available to survivors, and ways to get involved in ending sexual violence.”
Since my experience, I’ve affectionately referred to it as the ‘ism class,’ as prior to the deep dive into sexual assault, the class covered topics of racism, classism, ageism, and sexism, among others. Conversations throughout the semester were heavy; people often left the room if something hit too close to home or got too heated. We shared, we learned, and we grew close as a unit. Then the sexual assault portion of the class began. I don’t think I’ve ever been so impacted by a single portion of classroom material than I was over those weeks, especially so by a panel of survivors (fellow students). It was the beginning of the transformation.
As the semester, and school year, neared its end, our facilitator mentioned that students who want to become FYCARE Workshop Facilitators may apply at the end of this course. F.irst Y.ear C.ampus A.cquaintance R.ape E.ducation was something that all incoming freshmen went through and promptly ignored, myself included. I never wanted to teach, didn’t see myself as any sort of volunteer or activist, and turned a deaf ear whenever Mr. Wantland would mention the next steps of the facilitator application process. Club baseball was cruising, summer was coming, and senior year would be waiting for me on my return. I was good.
Additionally I didn’t see much value in my role at these things. Why would someone want hear from me, the kind of guy that most people would expect to be the subject of the conversation? Not that I was an overly aggressive type, but I looked the part. By this point, my wardrobe had turned over to button-ups and polos, I spent most of my free time at bars or baseball, I was to be living in a house with frat boys and lacrosse players, and I didn’t really have much school spirit in terms of giving back. I was selfish, egotistical, and uncommitted, traits that don’t describe the kind of person that would stand in front of 30 freshmen and teach them about the effects of sexual assault on a victim or worse, the role of alcohol. What did I know about that experience besides what was discussed in a classroom? How could I connect with anyone. Everyone would see through me. Clearly this wasn’t something for me.
When the time to apply came, I shared my reasons for not wanting to get involved. One of my best friends at the time challenged back.
Because of who you are, you need to do this. Because you play sports, you need to do this. Because you party with frat boys, you need to do this. Because you don’t think you’re a role model… you need to do this.
This decision, these experiences, those people, and that time has shaped me more than anything else in my entire life.
I wasn’t the kind of person you would expect to see standing at the front of the room, and that meant so much to the people looking at me. Did I show up hungover on a Sunday evening, knowing full-well I would be leaving after the workshop for a night at the bars? Yes. Did I wear my Illinois Club Baseball hoodie and sweatpants (humble brag)? Yes. Did I talk about my own experience when I was in their shoes, sitting in the back, not talking, not participating, signing my name, and leaving? Yes. I did all of that. And it mattered. It mattered because of who I was.
My colleagues and friends who presented with me weren’t any more or less qualified to teach, didn’t know the content any better or worse than me, and didn’t care any more or less than I did, but we all had our unique perspective. Many were from a very personal source, often even from their own experiences. Some were the kind of kids that had been volunteering their whole lives. Some were quiet. Some were nervous. And some were like me. We were loud, and honest, and brutal. We were sympathetic and relatable. And we were not what anyone expected.
And even though I didn’t have first-hand knowledge of how it feels to wake up feeling violated, I had the knowledge of what it was like to not care. To turn a blind eye. To live my life as if there wasn’t a widespread issue and everything was fine. I showed that even someone that looks like me, and talks like me, and acts like me, can still care so deeply about the experiences of others, even if I can’t even begin to imagine the true depth.
It’s because of who I am that it is so important I stand for what is right and try to make a difference. Your voice is important. Let it be heard.
My whole day was just a series of event clusters with an array of objectives and outcomes, reasons and results, but with one consistent thread laced throughout: efficiency. Being as efficient as I could while showering. Being as efficient as I could while getting ready for work. Being as efficient as I could on my drive to the office. In putting away my lunch and washing out my smoothie cup. In zipping through morning emails. In project work. Heating up my lunch. Working out. Making dinner. TV. Aside from the irony that it’s taken me one hundred words to explain that I get joy from figuring out the fastest, easiest, and most effortless method of doing anything (except maybe storytelling, but c’mon, that’s not supposed to be a race to the finish line), many things in my life are a result of planned, organized, and well-thought-out processes and procedures to address the persistent and eternal banalities of life.
For the last three years, I lived in a spacious 2-bedroom apartment with my brother. And when I say spacious, I mean we could have put a pool table in our living room and barely had a move our furniture an inch. My bedroom was so big I thought it was a brilliant idea to expand into the space and buy a king size bed, only to still have enough room to work out or have an indoor picnic. Three years in the same cavernous apartment meant you get good at moving, even sliding, around. Everything had its place. Nothing was in the way of something else. You could move freely and effectively. The space did not require much efficiency.
One month ago, I slept in my new apartment for the first time. Ten days of moving in, slowly, worked just fine as more and more of my stuff filled closets, drawers, and cabinets. When the final [big] piece was delivered (couch), the place was pretty much done. Over the next few weeks I only tinkered: hung art, built bar stools, replaced the coffee table, bought a floor lamp, picked up some live plants, etc., but as of April 10th, it was time to get efficient. I was no longer traversing a hallway long enough to be a bowling lane on an hourly basis. My life was condensed from 2,000 square feet to 630, and I reveled in some discoveries.
My new bed is a full frame with built in storage in the headboard and in drawers below. I assumed this killed the rest of my under-the-bed space not taken up by drawers, until, after seeing my bed matressless for a week, I decided to take out the drawers completely and push box after bag of extremely rarely used, back-of-the-closet type containers into the bowels of the bed, maneuvering between the slats to make it all fit like a beautiful, eclectic puzzle of forgotten crap. Crap that, in another move or two, will be the first to go, but crap that as of now, I might need or if nothing else, want.
I found more and more efficiencies throughout the new place. I adjusted shelf heights in the fridge to perfectly accommodate bottles of whatever on two different shelves instead of just one. I also adjusted shelf heights in some of my periphery cabinets, giving me the height to perfectly slide in some excess wall art that would be too big for my aforementioned under-the-bed openings. I also adjusted heights of my closet built-ins to, okay you know what, I mainly just adjusted shelf heights, but clearly the new place was coming together in a way that made my organized and efficient self very happy.
Then I started actually living here. Not just sleeping or building or unpacking or setting up, but really living here. Day after day of three meals, work, and lounging. Of making trips to the bathroom. Showering. Cleaning. Walking.
I understand that it’s a new place and of course I don’t know every turn, every corner, or every inch of every cabinet. Of course I’m not going to find my measuring cup on the first or second or third try. Of course I’m going to stub my toe on the feet of my new couch. Of course I’m going to forget which light switch controls the vanity, the shower, and the overhead lights in the bathroom. But those inefficiencies don’t bother me because they’ll go away. I’ll remember where I put all my shit. I’ll learn the characteristics of my new couch. I’ll spend a few hours creating a job aid for the light switch in the bathroom and in a few months, I’ll be batting 1.000.
But there’s one thing that killed me.
Due to my reckless expansion in what was an absurdly large bedroom for Chicago, my new bedroom is about 87% bed and 13% walk around, 5% on each side and 3% at the foot. I also decided to upgrade my media viewing situation in the living room, so what used to be a massive TV for the times (46” in 2010) is now my bedroom TV. Clearly I don’t need a TV in my bedroom, but I like it and I wanted to make it work. I knew I could make it work.
Do you know how I knew I could make it work?
Once I signed my lease and before I moved in, I took the blueprint of my apartment, scaled it up in PowerPoint, and proceeded to create to-scale shapes of every piece of furniture I planned to move or buy. Exact size. Exact layout. And the wall across from my bed had the exact amount of space required for a 46” television between the swing of the bedroom door and the opening of the bathroom door. Maybe an inch to spare on each side. Like a goddamned glove.
But do you remember what percentage of my room is left at the foot of my bed? Yeah not much. So even though it fit width-wise, I knew it would be a pretty tight squeeze depth-wise. And in the first week here, I challenged the integrity of the bookshelf supporting the TV a bit too frequently for my taste. I can only imagine what the bookshelf was thinking.
I am in the middle of the strangest stretch of my life. Many of you are in the same situation, but since I can’t be sure of your circumstances, I’ll speak from my own point of view.* I’ve been beyond lucky that my job has been barely impacted (actually have slightly more work than usual while my team works from home), my company is doing well to weather the storm (it’s nice not being publicly traded), and apparently I just moved into a new apartment where I actually get to enjoy spending time here instead of getting anxious at the office that my new house plants are going to die in the package room. I miss bowling. And going out to dinner. And I really want to be able to hug my parents. The list is nearly endless of shit I miss or want or wish I could do, but that is our reality, at least for a while.
One thing that I can do is make sure this time isn’t wasted. I love the eagerness and willingness for so many people to jump on video calls to catch up and I really hope we continue to nurture those connections, especially with those we love who we don’t live near. I’m excited to continue discovering new hobbies, from Rubick’s cube solves to crossword puzzles to (in a few weeks) rollerblading (importing from Denmark (baller)). I’m grateful to have time and rededicated focus on editing the previous one hundred and whatever posts in here down to the best and brightest for what I hope to one day be a book someone besides me will read. I’ve cooked more. I’ve ordered from local businesses to show support and solidarity. There are a lot of silver linings that, admittedly, are easy for me to find given how many other parts of my life have not terribly affected.
If you’re wondering how a post starting with efficient showers has turned into this, you’re not alone, but if you’re silently screaming at me to land the plane, here we go.
If there’s one thing I want to take with me once we get to Phase 5 and life feels the closest it can to normal again, it’s to slow, the hell, down. Every time I bumped into my rickety excuse for a TV stand on my way through my bedroom I thought, what’s the hurry? Seriously, WHERE AM I GOING? As Greg Focker once brilliantly asked, “where’s the fire?” Why am I washing dishes like the last gallon of water in Lake Michigan is draining? Why am I going to turn on my evening ambient lights like they emit oxygen and I’m clutching onto my final breath? Why?
Going fast and being efficient are not identical. Actually, efficiency can replace the need to be fast. But that wasn’t how my mind worked. It was ingrained in me to be fast AND efficient. I didn’t always want to be, but that was my natural default setting. So I am trying to change. To slow down. To realize the difference between taking 4 or 6 minutes to do the dishes is not worth the mess in splashed water and flicked suds. I am going to try to take my time, if not for my head, at least for my kneecaps and my poor, exhausted bookshelf.
*To anyone that got this far that is having a tougher time than I have been over the last few months, I was in no way trying to make it worse for you. I can only speak for myself. But if you’re struggling, I am so sorry. I wish I could do more. You are loved. You are constantly thought about. And we’ll get through this.
