[Quick update before today's post: Roberts The Boxer--see earlier posts--won his first round by knockout. His next bout is tonight.]
Joshua is 5 1/2 now.
(At which age did we stop counting the fractional parts? The same age we decided that a nap in the middle of the day was a good idea?)
A few weeks ago, we had our dog neutered. This required Benziger to wear an E-Collar, as described on our vet receipt. The "E"--improbably--stands for "Elizabethan."
But our dog didn't look Shakespearean, or otherwise noble. He looked. . .uncomfortable. And decidedly helpless, which is the point of the collar.
One evening, Bryan and I were in our family room when we heard a wretched, piercing yelp from the dog, followed by Joshua crying in a sudden burst, then running towards us.
He was hysterical. Not funny hysterical. Histrionics-hysterical. What on earth?. . .
He couldn't tell us, such was his crying.
"Are you hurt?" He shook his head.
"Why are you crying?" Couldn't answer.
I thought of the dog yelp. "Is Benziger hurt?" He nodded. Woefully.
"Did you hurt him?" He nodded again, he cried even harder.
"Well, what did you do to him?" Josh resorted to mime. He grabbed two ends of something, as though holding a pole, and then he bit down on whatever was in his hands as though--
No. It couldn't be. There's no way this means what it looks like it means. But. . .what else could it mean?
"Josh! Did you bite his tail?"
Even greater wailing ensued.
How long had Josh wondered what it would be like to bite the dog's tail? Each time, did he think, "No, because then the dog will bite me"? But now--with that collar on--the dog was defenseless.
Or was this the first time he's ever considered it?
Was this something he really wanted to do, or did he figure, "Eh, why not?"
I know I'll think this again, but right then was the moment I thought it for the first: What goes on in that boy's head?
Gemma was not around for this incident. When we told her--girl-child that she is, wiser at age 8, as she figures it--she said, "Ew, Josh, you put his tail in your bare mouth?"
Wednesday, February 29, 2012
Tuesday, February 28, 2012
The Fighter Still Remains
I would not have guessed this, but boxers taper as swimmers do. In his last week before the tournament, Roberts went for a short run in the morning, and then met a coach for a workout in the evening. By Thursday, though, he had shut the energy valves all together.
Before his arrival, I'd had the impression that this elite athlete would be among us, training for hours on end and consuming mass quantities of food. Instead, there was an elite athlete among us who read a lot, napped each afternoon, and chatted about his family, my family and, as his week of weight-watching progressed, all the food he would eat back in Chicago after the tournament. Portillos. Nina's steak house. Giordano's stuffed pizza. Poor guy.
And we talked more about boxing:
Does he know most of the guys he'll be competing against in this tournament?
Yeah, most of them. And they know him.
Does the posturing start right there in the hotel lobby while they're all registering for the event? You know, like the swagger and the stink eye and staring guys down?
No. They usually shake hands (he mimes the hand-grip-pull-in-for-a-man-brother-hug) and say 'How you doin'?' and stuff. And then in the ring, they just fight.
Are there any competitors he just can't stand?
No, he likes them all well enough. Sometimes they'll want to be friends on Facebook. Robert says, "They try to 'friend' me, and I'm like, 'The extend of our relationship is that we punch each other,' but they're all good enough guys."
Does he feel acclimated?
Yes, he can tell a big difference from his first run here. Not all the competitors will have had the opportunity to acclimate, so his strategy will be to hit the gas right away and get the other guy winded.
(The fights are 3 rounds of 3 minutes each, which doesn't seem long to me. But in the ring, I'll bet "early" feels "early" and the "later" feels a lot later.)
I asked him if he was well known, if he was a guy to watch out for.
He's modest. Not enamored with himself. But a record is a record, and his is pretty notable. Yeah, guys know who he is, and that he's "heavy-handed."
Huh?
"They tell me that. I'm real heavy-handed, like my punch just goes right through them. Some guys are heavy-handed like that--just the physiology and the bone structure" (and the technique, I'm thinking) "makes the punch just plow hard. Some guys they call 'feather-fisted,' because the punches just don't land hard."
How could someone feather-fisted even compete? A point is a point, I guess, regardless of how much the opponent feels it.
Hey. "Heavy-handed," I'm going to add that to the List on our List page. Check it out. The tab is at the top.
Roberts liked our dog, Benziger. He's small. (The dog, not Roberts, who is 6'3.) But he's confident. (The dog, not. . .oh, well, yes, both of them.)
Benziger barked at Roberts when we first came in the door from the airport. One bark. Pause. Another bark. Pause. Another. And so on for a couple minutes.
The dog followed our guest down to his room in the bathroom and instead of following me back up as Benziger always does, he stayed there watching Roberts. Kept poking his head around the corner to see him, Roberts reported, and then darting back whenever Roberts turned to look.
Good dog. Keep an eye on that guy.
The kids liked Roberts, too. There wasn't any wrestling or horsing around--I do believe Josh could injure someone--but there was something about him that the kids appreciated. Gemma made him an elaborate birthday card. Josh burst into tears when told that Roberts would be leaving the next day.
And Bryan liked having him visit as well. Didn't get to talk with him as much, but enjoyed his company when he could.
We had a bit of time to use before he was to leave with Bryan to check in at his hotel and tournament. And we used it to watch an episode of Seinfeld, of which Roberts is also a huge fan.
(It was the one where Kramer gets a rooster and names it 'Little Jerry' and ends up training it for a cock fight. Roberts and I were laughing the whole time. Bryan came in at the end, saw Jerry holding up mits for the rooster to peck at during its training session and said, "Cocks fight with their feet. This is ridiculous," and that is why Bryan a) hates the show and b) ruins it for the rest of us but also c) demonstrates his devotion to me in that he is the one who bought me the deluxe box set of the series when it was half off at Best Buy.)
It was time for him to go, and we prayed for him. Roberts is a Christian. These were prayers he appreciated.
I am writing this post on Saturday, but it will not go up until Tuesday, by which time, Roberts will have already fought at least once. I intend to keep you posted on his results.
But in the meantime, let me tell you the highlight of my week with this person:
He decided he wants to try acting. He's got plans for boxing, hopes for going professional, other hopes for expanding his business as a personal trainer. But he wants to try acting.
He took a class at Second City and decided he liked it. He was able to get some nice head shots. He's ready to start seeking agent representation.
And all this was my highlight because it was just so inspiring. Why not? You like acting? You've always wanted to try acting? Then why wouldn't you go ahead and try acting?
I had been thinking for months now that I really wanted to blog again.
"But this."
"But that."
"But. . . "
And then: Why not?
Before his arrival, I'd had the impression that this elite athlete would be among us, training for hours on end and consuming mass quantities of food. Instead, there was an elite athlete among us who read a lot, napped each afternoon, and chatted about his family, my family and, as his week of weight-watching progressed, all the food he would eat back in Chicago after the tournament. Portillos. Nina's steak house. Giordano's stuffed pizza. Poor guy.
And we talked more about boxing:
Does he know most of the guys he'll be competing against in this tournament?
Yeah, most of them. And they know him.
Does the posturing start right there in the hotel lobby while they're all registering for the event? You know, like the swagger and the stink eye and staring guys down?
No. They usually shake hands (he mimes the hand-grip-pull-in-for-a-man-brother-hug) and say 'How you doin'?' and stuff. And then in the ring, they just fight.
Are there any competitors he just can't stand?
No, he likes them all well enough. Sometimes they'll want to be friends on Facebook. Robert says, "They try to 'friend' me, and I'm like, 'The extend of our relationship is that we punch each other,' but they're all good enough guys."
Does he feel acclimated?
Yes, he can tell a big difference from his first run here. Not all the competitors will have had the opportunity to acclimate, so his strategy will be to hit the gas right away and get the other guy winded.
(The fights are 3 rounds of 3 minutes each, which doesn't seem long to me. But in the ring, I'll bet "early" feels "early" and the "later" feels a lot later.)
I asked him if he was well known, if he was a guy to watch out for.
He's modest. Not enamored with himself. But a record is a record, and his is pretty notable. Yeah, guys know who he is, and that he's "heavy-handed."
Huh?
"They tell me that. I'm real heavy-handed, like my punch just goes right through them. Some guys are heavy-handed like that--just the physiology and the bone structure" (and the technique, I'm thinking) "makes the punch just plow hard. Some guys they call 'feather-fisted,' because the punches just don't land hard."
How could someone feather-fisted even compete? A point is a point, I guess, regardless of how much the opponent feels it.
Hey. "Heavy-handed," I'm going to add that to the List on our List page. Check it out. The tab is at the top.
Roberts liked our dog, Benziger. He's small. (The dog, not Roberts, who is 6'3.) But he's confident. (The dog, not. . .oh, well, yes, both of them.)
Benziger barked at Roberts when we first came in the door from the airport. One bark. Pause. Another bark. Pause. Another. And so on for a couple minutes.
The dog followed our guest down to his room in the bathroom and instead of following me back up as Benziger always does, he stayed there watching Roberts. Kept poking his head around the corner to see him, Roberts reported, and then darting back whenever Roberts turned to look.
Good dog. Keep an eye on that guy.
The kids liked Roberts, too. There wasn't any wrestling or horsing around--I do believe Josh could injure someone--but there was something about him that the kids appreciated. Gemma made him an elaborate birthday card. Josh burst into tears when told that Roberts would be leaving the next day.
And Bryan liked having him visit as well. Didn't get to talk with him as much, but enjoyed his company when he could.
We had a bit of time to use before he was to leave with Bryan to check in at his hotel and tournament. And we used it to watch an episode of Seinfeld, of which Roberts is also a huge fan.
(It was the one where Kramer gets a rooster and names it 'Little Jerry' and ends up training it for a cock fight. Roberts and I were laughing the whole time. Bryan came in at the end, saw Jerry holding up mits for the rooster to peck at during its training session and said, "Cocks fight with their feet. This is ridiculous," and that is why Bryan a) hates the show and b) ruins it for the rest of us but also c) demonstrates his devotion to me in that he is the one who bought me the deluxe box set of the series when it was half off at Best Buy.)
It was time for him to go, and we prayed for him. Roberts is a Christian. These were prayers he appreciated.
I am writing this post on Saturday, but it will not go up until Tuesday, by which time, Roberts will have already fought at least once. I intend to keep you posted on his results.
But in the meantime, let me tell you the highlight of my week with this person:
He decided he wants to try acting. He's got plans for boxing, hopes for going professional, other hopes for expanding his business as a personal trainer. But he wants to try acting.
He took a class at Second City and decided he liked it. He was able to get some nice head shots. He's ready to start seeking agent representation.
And all this was my highlight because it was just so inspiring. Why not? You like acting? You've always wanted to try acting? Then why wouldn't you go ahead and try acting?
I had been thinking for months now that I really wanted to blog again.
"But this."
"But that."
"But. . . "
And then: Why not?
Monday, February 27, 2012
A Fighter by His Trade
There's something Romantic about boxers.
Not boxing, per se. But the actual boxers.
The heads slamming back, spit flying out, knees buckling under, wet bodies landing on the mat like small trees felled--that's all. . .too much. . .hurt for my tastes.
But the picture of two men stepping into the ring to do all that slammin' and spittin' and bucklin' and fallin'--it's grand. It's a Big Idea embodied. The definition of Romanticism.
Everyone else recognizes this Romanticism, too, if we judge by the ubiquitous nature of boxing language and metaphor. There's that Teddy Roosevelt quote about victory belonging to "the man in the ring."
The phrases, "Throw my hat into the ring," and "take the gloves off," and "below the belt."
And the Simon & Garfunkle song. (It's going to be in my head all day now. Maybe yours, too.)
[Care to add any references? There is a tab on top of this page titled "Lists," and we can use that page to compile a list of boxing references. Just leave your ideas in the comment box. I'll bet we can get to 25.]
Then, one day, I picked up a boxer at the Colorado Springs airport. Roberts Jacobsons, and that first "s" is not a typo, his family is from Latvia and that's how they do boy names.
No need to panic, Bryan and I are still very happily married.
Roberts is a family friend from Chicago, and he is competing in the US National Amateur tournament this week. The winner of his weight class will have the opportunity to qualify for the Olympic team. He stayed with us all of last week to acclimate to the altitude. Great guy. Very polite guest. Very nice young man.
Very patient with my long list of Questions Any Normal Person Would Want to Ask a Boxer.
"Does it hurt when you get hit?"
No. Well. Maybe if the guy lands a good body shot. But not in the head. It might tingle a little, but it doesn't hurt.
"Does it help if you can get angry right before the fight?"
No. Anger works against you. It helps to get psyched up with a lot of energy, but not with anger.
"Are you scared right before a fight? Especially if the other guy is really big?"
No. The only time I was scared was right before my very first fight. And I'm in a weight class with a max 200 lbs, and I'm 200 lbs even, so there's no one bigger than me anyway.
About the weight: Roberts had to be careful all week. You don't come all this way just to be disqualified for being a pound over. Before his arrival, I thought for weeks about the meals I would plan and the day before, I bought plenty of healthful groceries.
Then the guy got here and was dieting like a girl. . .
He was also battling chronic "sinusitis"--kind of like a sinus infection, in terms of symptoms anyway. moving to super-dry air isn't going to help that a whole lot.
He was using homeopathic nose sprays (no medicine at all, the doping list is long and convoluted and he didn't want to take the chance); inhaling steam from boiling water, putting hot Korean red pepper sauce on his food (the only spicy stuff we had). By the end of the week, he reported that his nasal passages were feeling a lot better.
"What do you think helped the most?"
Honestly, not being punched in the nose all week.
Other questions:
"Do you watch old video of famous fights? Like the 'Thrilla in Manilla'?"
Yeah, sometimes. This lead him to comment on Ali, how he should have stopped his career after that particular fight. Both those guys were in the hospital for 2 months after that fight. 15 rounds in the Philippine humidity. Their gloves--at first just 10 oz--now full of Vaseline and sweat had to have been over 2 lbs each. They were killing each other.
"Wait. Vaseline?"
Yeah, the cut man keeps them patched together with grease and Vaseline.
"Do you have a cut man?"
We don't need them in Amateurs. We use head gear, so you don't really get cut, and if there's any blood, the ref stops the fight.
"So you don't really carry the reminder of every glove that laid you down and cut you 'till you cried out in your anger and your shame that you were leaving, you were leaving, but the fighter still remained?"
I'm kidding. I didn't ask him that.
But now you definitely have that song in your head.
(Part II to follow)
Not boxing, per se. But the actual boxers.
The heads slamming back, spit flying out, knees buckling under, wet bodies landing on the mat like small trees felled--that's all. . .too much. . .hurt for my tastes.
But the picture of two men stepping into the ring to do all that slammin' and spittin' and bucklin' and fallin'--it's grand. It's a Big Idea embodied. The definition of Romanticism.
Everyone else recognizes this Romanticism, too, if we judge by the ubiquitous nature of boxing language and metaphor. There's that Teddy Roosevelt quote about victory belonging to "the man in the ring."
The phrases, "Throw my hat into the ring," and "take the gloves off," and "below the belt."
And the Simon & Garfunkle song. (It's going to be in my head all day now. Maybe yours, too.)
[Care to add any references? There is a tab on top of this page titled "Lists," and we can use that page to compile a list of boxing references. Just leave your ideas in the comment box. I'll bet we can get to 25.]
Then, one day, I picked up a boxer at the Colorado Springs airport. Roberts Jacobsons, and that first "s" is not a typo, his family is from Latvia and that's how they do boy names.
No need to panic, Bryan and I are still very happily married.
Roberts is a family friend from Chicago, and he is competing in the US National Amateur tournament this week. The winner of his weight class will have the opportunity to qualify for the Olympic team. He stayed with us all of last week to acclimate to the altitude. Great guy. Very polite guest. Very nice young man.
Very patient with my long list of Questions Any Normal Person Would Want to Ask a Boxer.
"Does it hurt when you get hit?"
No. Well. Maybe if the guy lands a good body shot. But not in the head. It might tingle a little, but it doesn't hurt.
"Does it help if you can get angry right before the fight?"
No. Anger works against you. It helps to get psyched up with a lot of energy, but not with anger.
"Are you scared right before a fight? Especially if the other guy is really big?"
No. The only time I was scared was right before my very first fight. And I'm in a weight class with a max 200 lbs, and I'm 200 lbs even, so there's no one bigger than me anyway.
About the weight: Roberts had to be careful all week. You don't come all this way just to be disqualified for being a pound over. Before his arrival, I thought for weeks about the meals I would plan and the day before, I bought plenty of healthful groceries.
Then the guy got here and was dieting like a girl. . .
He was also battling chronic "sinusitis"--kind of like a sinus infection, in terms of symptoms anyway. moving to super-dry air isn't going to help that a whole lot.
He was using homeopathic nose sprays (no medicine at all, the doping list is long and convoluted and he didn't want to take the chance); inhaling steam from boiling water, putting hot Korean red pepper sauce on his food (the only spicy stuff we had). By the end of the week, he reported that his nasal passages were feeling a lot better.
"What do you think helped the most?"
Honestly, not being punched in the nose all week.
Other questions:
"Do you watch old video of famous fights? Like the 'Thrilla in Manilla'?"
Yeah, sometimes. This lead him to comment on Ali, how he should have stopped his career after that particular fight. Both those guys were in the hospital for 2 months after that fight. 15 rounds in the Philippine humidity. Their gloves--at first just 10 oz--now full of Vaseline and sweat had to have been over 2 lbs each. They were killing each other.
"Wait. Vaseline?"
Yeah, the cut man keeps them patched together with grease and Vaseline.
"Do you have a cut man?"
We don't need them in Amateurs. We use head gear, so you don't really get cut, and if there's any blood, the ref stops the fight.
"So you don't really carry the reminder of every glove that laid you down and cut you 'till you cried out in your anger and your shame that you were leaving, you were leaving, but the fighter still remained?"
I'm kidding. I didn't ask him that.
But now you definitely have that song in your head.
(Part II to follow)
Sunday, February 26, 2012
Your First Court Appearance
(Part II, see previous post)
Tuesday, 1:30, 3 weeks after the ticket was issued.
You haven't given it too much thought since that productive google search. You know it's going to be expensive, but this won't bankrupt you and your partner in finances isn't upset or even annoyed.
(He's probably thinking that this is a small price to pay to have a wife who will no longer harass him about his speed.)
Two different friends have offered to watch your son while you go to court, but you decide to take the boy. It should be a good experience for him. Especially because you already see in him the makings of a fine lawyer, and if that's the path he ends up taking, then seeing the wheels of justice turn could only be helpful.
You might even see some bad guys. That'd be cool, right?
There were no bad guys. Just a bunch of other people showing up to the courthouse at the same time as you for, roughly, the same offense. Your courtroom is right off the main lobby, so you don't get to walk where any real action is going on.
The room has a lot of oak furnishings in front, like Judge Woppner's, and is filled with oak church pews for seating. Not that they came from a church. But the supplier must be the same. No kneelers, though. . .
You are nursing a sense of dread, still. How bad is this going to be?
But in a spiritual sense, you feel alive. Just this morning, you had been thinking, "What would that be like, to face death, knowing that you're not perfect, haven't lived a perfect life, haven't loved perfectly, haven't grown perfectly? Knowing that there really is a Justice beyond this lifetime? What would that be like to look towards that without knowing that I have a Savior who stood the justice for me?"
You went to this courthouse thinking, "I'd love to tell just one person here about Jesus and what the cross means. Should be easy to get into, right? The whole justice-theme will be in the air. . ."
But you don't. You either don't have the opportunity, or don't make the opportunity, or don't have the courage to pursue the opportunity.
You sit in the front pew, awaiting your paper plea agreement to come back. The side door opens now and then (and your son peeks through and reports that it's "a computer room with two people in suits") and the City Attorneys bring out your ticket with their offer on it.
The whole room of law-breakers get their papers back and we watch a DVD presentation on our rights. Spanish speakers are told where they can view a presentation in Spanish. Korean speakers, too. Hearing-impaired people are not told out loud, but the words are printed on the screen. New Age, soothing, "Everything will work out just fine" music plays in the background until the flat screen shuts off.
You butt into the conversation going on in the pew behind you. Between a father and son, the son destined to campus in the Fall on a football scholarship, college un-named, but you have advice anyway. It's good advice. He seems like a very nice kid. Not what you thought you'd be talking to a stranger about, but you do, anyway.
The CA comes in and gives a lively presentation of how this process works. You have the opportunity to plead guilty to driving with a "faulty headlamp," which makes for 1 point against insurance. The minimum fine for your offense is $120, but it's double for being in a school zone. Then there are court fees on top of this.
In all, you are looking at the minimum penalty permitted by law. If the judge accepts it.
A lady in another pew asks, 'Will the Judge look at the policeman's comments on the back of the ticket?"
What? Comments?!
Your cop made notes as well, that hadn't shown up on the copy you've been hanging onto for 3 weeks. He recorded his version of your conversation with him. He accuses you of being "sarcastic."
Well. This is not an accurate report at all. He left off the part where he smirked at you. Where he used the phrase "just stay at home."
Time for another stand for justice, if it comes to it. If the judge wants to go harder on you because he is annoyed with your comments to this officer, you'll just contest.
Your memory is practically audiographic! You can repeat the conversation verbatim these 3 weeks later and demonstrate that you are a fine citizen, a practically-not-even-guilty citizen. What? Are you supposed to not be permitted to speak to a policeman? This is so out--
You stand for the Honorable Old Probably Retired and Now Working Part Time Judge. You tell your son to stand. Judge starts rattling off plea agreements. Lots of "Yes, your Honor's" and "Thank yous."
"Thank you." Will you say "Thank you" to this judge? Why would you thank him? He seems to have practically nothing to do with this.
Your name is called. Yes, you are pleading guilty to driving with a faulty headlamp. That offense costs $240 in the city of Colorado Springs, plus court fees. $275 total, room 108.
"Thank you," you say. Because he was kind of a cute old man.
Your court appearance lasted 9.8 seconds. It takes a mere 3.5 minutes to pay down in room 108, where their system is well-oiled and cheerful.
You see the football player and his dad on your way out and wish him "luck."
"Luck." Though you don't even believe in it.
Tuesday, 1:30, 3 weeks after the ticket was issued.
You haven't given it too much thought since that productive google search. You know it's going to be expensive, but this won't bankrupt you and your partner in finances isn't upset or even annoyed.
(He's probably thinking that this is a small price to pay to have a wife who will no longer harass him about his speed.)
Two different friends have offered to watch your son while you go to court, but you decide to take the boy. It should be a good experience for him. Especially because you already see in him the makings of a fine lawyer, and if that's the path he ends up taking, then seeing the wheels of justice turn could only be helpful.
You might even see some bad guys. That'd be cool, right?
There were no bad guys. Just a bunch of other people showing up to the courthouse at the same time as you for, roughly, the same offense. Your courtroom is right off the main lobby, so you don't get to walk where any real action is going on.
The room has a lot of oak furnishings in front, like Judge Woppner's, and is filled with oak church pews for seating. Not that they came from a church. But the supplier must be the same. No kneelers, though. . .
You are nursing a sense of dread, still. How bad is this going to be?
But in a spiritual sense, you feel alive. Just this morning, you had been thinking, "What would that be like, to face death, knowing that you're not perfect, haven't lived a perfect life, haven't loved perfectly, haven't grown perfectly? Knowing that there really is a Justice beyond this lifetime? What would that be like to look towards that without knowing that I have a Savior who stood the justice for me?"
You went to this courthouse thinking, "I'd love to tell just one person here about Jesus and what the cross means. Should be easy to get into, right? The whole justice-theme will be in the air. . ."
But you don't. You either don't have the opportunity, or don't make the opportunity, or don't have the courage to pursue the opportunity.
You sit in the front pew, awaiting your paper plea agreement to come back. The side door opens now and then (and your son peeks through and reports that it's "a computer room with two people in suits") and the City Attorneys bring out your ticket with their offer on it.
The whole room of law-breakers get their papers back and we watch a DVD presentation on our rights. Spanish speakers are told where they can view a presentation in Spanish. Korean speakers, too. Hearing-impaired people are not told out loud, but the words are printed on the screen. New Age, soothing, "Everything will work out just fine" music plays in the background until the flat screen shuts off.
You butt into the conversation going on in the pew behind you. Between a father and son, the son destined to campus in the Fall on a football scholarship, college un-named, but you have advice anyway. It's good advice. He seems like a very nice kid. Not what you thought you'd be talking to a stranger about, but you do, anyway.
The CA comes in and gives a lively presentation of how this process works. You have the opportunity to plead guilty to driving with a "faulty headlamp," which makes for 1 point against insurance. The minimum fine for your offense is $120, but it's double for being in a school zone. Then there are court fees on top of this.
In all, you are looking at the minimum penalty permitted by law. If the judge accepts it.
A lady in another pew asks, 'Will the Judge look at the policeman's comments on the back of the ticket?"
What? Comments?!
Your cop made notes as well, that hadn't shown up on the copy you've been hanging onto for 3 weeks. He recorded his version of your conversation with him. He accuses you of being "sarcastic."
Well. This is not an accurate report at all. He left off the part where he smirked at you. Where he used the phrase "just stay at home."
Time for another stand for justice, if it comes to it. If the judge wants to go harder on you because he is annoyed with your comments to this officer, you'll just contest.
Your memory is practically audiographic! You can repeat the conversation verbatim these 3 weeks later and demonstrate that you are a fine citizen, a practically-not-even-guilty citizen. What? Are you supposed to not be permitted to speak to a policeman? This is so out--
You stand for the Honorable Old Probably Retired and Now Working Part Time Judge. You tell your son to stand. Judge starts rattling off plea agreements. Lots of "Yes, your Honor's" and "Thank yous."
"Thank you." Will you say "Thank you" to this judge? Why would you thank him? He seems to have practically nothing to do with this.
Your name is called. Yes, you are pleading guilty to driving with a faulty headlamp. That offense costs $240 in the city of Colorado Springs, plus court fees. $275 total, room 108.
"Thank you," you say. Because he was kind of a cute old man.
Your court appearance lasted 9.8 seconds. It takes a mere 3.5 minutes to pay down in room 108, where their system is well-oiled and cheerful.
You see the football player and his dad on your way out and wish him "luck."
"Luck." Though you don't even believe in it.
Saturday, February 25, 2012
Stages of Guilt
I got my first speeding ticket a few weeks ago. 32 in a 20.
A 20 because it was a school zone. And I was speeding in it, if the radar gun is to be believed, which brings me to the topic of this post:
There are Stages of Guilt. I'm not sure if they apply to all guilt, or just moving-violation-guilt. You tell me.
Stage One: Your Gut Tells You That You Are Guilty
You make the turn from a busy road onto a residential road and a moment later see 4 motorcycle-cops lined up, lying in wait. Your foot jerks to the brakes. Your stomach sinks. Your eyes darted to the rear view mirror. Guilty.
Stage Two: Someone Else Points Out That You Are Guilty
That someone else could be your 5-year-old son sitting the backseat, asking 'What's wrong?' because you've just cussed and are now pulling over.
Or, it could be the cop who informs you of the Big 32 and then asks, in a tone that does not bode well for your ensuing relationship with him, "Any reason for the speed?"
Is there any answer you could give that would make this go better?
Stage Three: You Believe it is Classy to Admit Guilt and to Apologize for it, Thinking that Consequences of Guilt Will be Lighter if You Do So.
While awaiting results of your classy reaction, as cop is fiddling with paperwork, you move onto--
Stage Four: Question Whether You are Really Guilty
4 cops? Full time officers? Setting a speed trap for all the soccer moms there to pick up kids from school? You're the tax payers, for goodness sakes! Shouldn't these guys be downtown, arresting miscreants? Pulling over people who run red lights? If they wanted to maintain the school zone, all they had to do was put one of those "YOUR SPEED IS" machines on the road because soccer moms in minivans don't gun it to get the highest number on those things, only the soccer dads do. . .
Yet there you are. . .with 3 more minivan drivers now pulled up behind you, getting tickets as well, you figure. Because writing up a warning should not be taking this long.
Stage Five: Decide to Take a Principled Stand Against Injustice
The whole conversation isn't relevant. Just the good part.
The officer explains that you've been assessed 4 points (4 points!) on your insurance, fine yet to be determined (it's that bad!) with a mandatory court appearance (court?! stay cool, do the Principled Stand thing first, freak out later.)
You say, "You might want to suggest to management that this is not the relationship the Colorado Springs Police Department wants to be cultivating with citizens."
He says, "What relationship is that?" It was with a smirk. It was with one eyebrow up and his aviator shades still on. It is totally OK for you to say the following:
"Oh, I think you know what I mean."
This stage lasts a while. Plenty of mental fuel for it. No one to argue with you as you drive on, having gotten your other child and continued back through the school zone at a sarcastic 10 mph.
You didn't give him the finger on your way out, either, which means that you are even less guilty than before.
Stage Six: Grief
You get home. Your husband gets home earlier than usual. Just in time to see you fall apart.
Yes, you really were speeding and yes you are guilty and it's fine that you got a ticket, but, really? You were going to pick up your kid from school--she only goes to school one day per week!--and you had spent the whole rest of the day getting your other kid signed up for this same program and every other day you're educating them at home and it's not like you were speeding to get your hair done, or to get to the office for some fancy career--and that a**hole cop had the nerve to snap at you, "So you just stay home?" when getting your phone number, can you believe that?--you were just taking care of your kids which is what you do every single fricking day--everything you do is for someone else and you were ticketed for that and you feel betrayed.
The Holy Spirit reminds you, "But for this ticket, you love your life, and there's nothing you can sacrifice that God does not make you glad for." Ignore Him. Something about this tantrum is too irresistible.
Your husband's mouth is hanging open, his brain furiously calculating what to say and not say next. Don't say, for instance, "Have you taken any crazy pills?"
He decides on, "Don't take this ticket personally. You're just a quota."
Stage Seven: Fear
Lose sleep for the next two nights because you fret over the coming court appearance. You know you shouldn't be anxious--you've done breast cancer, for goodness sakes! this is just a ticket!--but there's an authority-pleaser buried deep within you that fears Court.
Decide to google the terms, "speeding school zone penalty colorado springs" --
Oh. Not so bad.
Arkansas, however. Yikes. Potential 1 to 10 days in jail.
But Colorado? You're looking at a massive fine. No beatings. No de-lousing chambers. No fitting for orange jumpsuits.
Stage Eight: Acceptance
You now have a traffic ticket story to tell. Being a quota means you're part of the cool crowd, now. You mentioned your story. They all tell theirs. And they're on your side, too.
A speed trap catching Moms on their way to pick up kids? So bogus. This is why they didn't vote for the bonding issue from 2 years ago to increase CSPD funding. You did vote for it. But now?
Heh. You now see what they mean.
Coming Soon: Your First Court Appearance
A 20 because it was a school zone. And I was speeding in it, if the radar gun is to be believed, which brings me to the topic of this post:
There are Stages of Guilt. I'm not sure if they apply to all guilt, or just moving-violation-guilt. You tell me.
Stage One: Your Gut Tells You That You Are Guilty
You make the turn from a busy road onto a residential road and a moment later see 4 motorcycle-cops lined up, lying in wait. Your foot jerks to the brakes. Your stomach sinks. Your eyes darted to the rear view mirror. Guilty.
Stage Two: Someone Else Points Out That You Are Guilty
That someone else could be your 5-year-old son sitting the backseat, asking 'What's wrong?' because you've just cussed and are now pulling over.
Or, it could be the cop who informs you of the Big 32 and then asks, in a tone that does not bode well for your ensuing relationship with him, "Any reason for the speed?"
Is there any answer you could give that would make this go better?
Stage Three: You Believe it is Classy to Admit Guilt and to Apologize for it, Thinking that Consequences of Guilt Will be Lighter if You Do So.
While awaiting results of your classy reaction, as cop is fiddling with paperwork, you move onto--
Stage Four: Question Whether You are Really Guilty
4 cops? Full time officers? Setting a speed trap for all the soccer moms there to pick up kids from school? You're the tax payers, for goodness sakes! Shouldn't these guys be downtown, arresting miscreants? Pulling over people who run red lights? If they wanted to maintain the school zone, all they had to do was put one of those "YOUR SPEED IS" machines on the road because soccer moms in minivans don't gun it to get the highest number on those things, only the soccer dads do. . .
Yet there you are. . .with 3 more minivan drivers now pulled up behind you, getting tickets as well, you figure. Because writing up a warning should not be taking this long.
Stage Five: Decide to Take a Principled Stand Against Injustice
The whole conversation isn't relevant. Just the good part.
The officer explains that you've been assessed 4 points (4 points!) on your insurance, fine yet to be determined (it's that bad!) with a mandatory court appearance (court?! stay cool, do the Principled Stand thing first, freak out later.)
You say, "You might want to suggest to management that this is not the relationship the Colorado Springs Police Department wants to be cultivating with citizens."
He says, "What relationship is that?" It was with a smirk. It was with one eyebrow up and his aviator shades still on. It is totally OK for you to say the following:
"Oh, I think you know what I mean."
This stage lasts a while. Plenty of mental fuel for it. No one to argue with you as you drive on, having gotten your other child and continued back through the school zone at a sarcastic 10 mph.
You didn't give him the finger on your way out, either, which means that you are even less guilty than before.
Stage Six: Grief
You get home. Your husband gets home earlier than usual. Just in time to see you fall apart.
Yes, you really were speeding and yes you are guilty and it's fine that you got a ticket, but, really? You were going to pick up your kid from school--she only goes to school one day per week!--and you had spent the whole rest of the day getting your other kid signed up for this same program and every other day you're educating them at home and it's not like you were speeding to get your hair done, or to get to the office for some fancy career--and that a**hole cop had the nerve to snap at you, "So you just stay home?" when getting your phone number, can you believe that?--you were just taking care of your kids which is what you do every single fricking day--everything you do is for someone else and you were ticketed for that and you feel betrayed.
The Holy Spirit reminds you, "But for this ticket, you love your life, and there's nothing you can sacrifice that God does not make you glad for." Ignore Him. Something about this tantrum is too irresistible.
Your husband's mouth is hanging open, his brain furiously calculating what to say and not say next. Don't say, for instance, "Have you taken any crazy pills?"
He decides on, "Don't take this ticket personally. You're just a quota."
Stage Seven: Fear
Lose sleep for the next two nights because you fret over the coming court appearance. You know you shouldn't be anxious--you've done breast cancer, for goodness sakes! this is just a ticket!--but there's an authority-pleaser buried deep within you that fears Court.
Decide to google the terms, "speeding school zone penalty colorado springs" --
Oh. Not so bad.
Arkansas, however. Yikes. Potential 1 to 10 days in jail.
But Colorado? You're looking at a massive fine. No beatings. No de-lousing chambers. No fitting for orange jumpsuits.
Stage Eight: Acceptance
You now have a traffic ticket story to tell. Being a quota means you're part of the cool crowd, now. You mentioned your story. They all tell theirs. And they're on your side, too.
A speed trap catching Moms on their way to pick up kids? So bogus. This is why they didn't vote for the bonding issue from 2 years ago to increase CSPD funding. You did vote for it. But now?
Heh. You now see what they mean.
Coming Soon: Your First Court Appearance
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