I am back in Amarillo again, visiting family with my daughter.
Amarillo is a strange place, to say the least. It is the epitome of America I think, encapsulating nearly every quirk, every good thing, and every questionable thing about my country, all rolled up into one, neat and tidy little ball.
As such, I have had a love/hate relationship with Amarillo over the years, as with America herself. Amarillo was the source of inspiration for the town "Yellow Sands" (Amarillo means "yellow" in Spanish and was thought to describe the dry soil here) that appears in my novel that I wrote in college, Instant Karma Koffie . Not exactly a flattering portrait, but honest to a degree. I would be more forgiving if I were to write it into a novel today, which I will with my current project, Theodditty , but I wrote what I was feeling at the time.
Heraclitus is known for a parcel of fragments that have come down through the ages and are collected and mulled over by philosophers and scholars of ancient greek alike.
Perhaps his most famous one is: πάντα χωρεῖ καὶ οὐδὲν μένει” καὶ "δὶς ἐς τὸν αὐτὸν ποταμὸν οὐκ ἂν ἐμβαίης
Translated, "everything changes and nothing remains ... and ... you cannot enter the same river twice."
One of the biggest conflicts that I had with Amarillo was the topic of swimming. Moving from the verdant horse country of Louisville, Kentucky to the dry, arid High Plains desert of Amarillo, Texas was a bit of a shock. Being a very shy, and at the time, slightly pudgy young kid, it was a tough transition. Because of a serious of mutual acquaintances, I joined the swim team.
Now, joining the swim team in a small, conservative town in Texas is about the biggest, blatant kabosh one can put on his or her social life and is more or less dooming you as a softy, queer, or whimp, or...pick your redneck pariah designation. Add to that that I was in the honors program in a mixed school and that I was morbidly shy, well, you probably are getting the picture. For some reason, can't imagine why, Goonies was one of my favorite movies...
Well, things progressed rather rapidly with swimming. Within two years, I went from the new kid on the block to the fastest kid in Texas, and rapidly in the country within two more years. We practiced at the Amarillo Town Club with the Amarillo Aquatic Club, AAC, of which I still have a large monogrammed towel from. It is a very, very bad pool with regards to swimming dynamics. Horrible gutter system that causes major splashback, no real deep end, and had massive concrete starting blocks, now removed. But, training in the worst (nearly, Pampa's is by far the worst) pool in Texas gave us an advantage. Basically, any pool was better, and faster. The University of Texas at Austin has one of the "fastest" pools in Texas and it was nothing short of hearing the angels sing walking into that building as an impressionable, shy kid from Amarillo.
However, rising up to the ranks in swimming to now the international level, being ranked in the Top Ten in the World in a few events didn't matter. I didn't play football. By this point, the pudge was gone and I was able to bench press more than any of the football players except for a couple truly neanderthal-looking guys, and the coaches were doing their best to get me to play football.
Sure, so I could give up international recognition to beat--Lubbock? I think not.
Kabosh.
Lots more on the swimming, for later, but the point is that I am now back in Amarillo, having also lived on international level as well, and swimming at the pool at, guess where--the Amarillo Town Club. Now, the entire building has been renovated, except for the pool. I went back there last summer as I had not been there for nearly 25 years because of the memories of the place and I was somewhat speechless. It was like walking back in time. Except for the concrete blocks being removed, a couple of doorways sealed off and an observation window gone, and a very, very curious large psychedelic mural of swimming elephants on the wall, nothing seemed to have changed, except me.
I was happy to be back.
I swam there last summer and this summer as well while I am in town. It is a trip. I can almost here the swim meets from old in there, see my old coaches on the deck, see the old octagon-shaped pace clock that was to be my best friend in Amarillo for many years, but it was all different as well.
Swimming has given me the opportunity to make friends in all the countries I have lived in or travelled to in various ways, it has been the one constant in my life. I love the water. I swam with a Master's team while I lived in Italy and plan to once back in Belgium after India (already located a pool in Madurai as well).
There is another conundrum in ancient greek philosophy about a boat (sometimes a pen knife is used as an example). If you have a boat and you replace each part of it, separately, over time, piece by piece, plank by plank, until eventually no piece is original, but the boat looks the same, is it the same boat?
I thought of this while swimming the other day. What if all the tiles had been replaced, one by one, the pool repainted, the water is obviously different, was it the same? Was my body the same, with all of my cells changing over time, leaving only my memory of that shy kid swimming here 25 years ago?
When I checked out, the "kid" (probably nearly 30), who checked me out at the desk saw my name and asked, "Are you the Robert Fulton? You still have almost every record in town!" I think I know how Bono from U2 feels now...
But, good question, am I?
Showing posts with label amarillo. Show all posts
Showing posts with label amarillo. Show all posts
Friday, July 22, 2011
Monday, July 18, 2011
Remembering Tragedy
I flew with my five year-old daughter from Brussels Zaventem to the newly refurbished Rick Husband Amarillo International Airport in Amarillo, Texas, where incidentally the album, "The Best of Bread's" inner spread photo was taking in the 70's. Looks quite different from that old black and white album jacket that I have.
Husband, who was a commander of the Space Shuttle Columbia when it exploded in 2003, was honored earlier this week as the new Amarillo terminal was unveiled. You could still smell the "new car" smell of the carpet, walking out into the 97-degree Fahrenheit, twilight atmosphere. Quite a change from the significantly colder, wetter climes of Belgium that we had left some twenty hours prior.
Appropriate timing for Husband's tribute as the Space Shuttle Atlantis marked an end of an era last week as the final Space Shuttle mission was launched. The end of the Space Shuttle is truly a demarcation of time for me. I was born in 1969, the year of the Lunar landing, which for some is the greatest achievement that America has ever had during the heated Iron-Curtain era space race with the Russians, set upon a world stage.
For my generation, it was the Space Shuttle. And, unfortunately the explosions, for tragedy often leaves a deeper impression than triumph.
I remember very well when Space Shuttle Challenger exploded. I was a junior at Amarillo High School, and we had a moment of silence over the intercom. It was an odd experience for us all. Normally, in a "typical" high school, straight out of Grease or, closer to home, small-town Texas à la Friday Night Lights, announcements on the intercom where usually times to chat, goof off, ignore, or whatnot. But, that day, an eerie silence covered the halls. I remember one of my favorite teachers from Junior High, Mr. Devoe, had wanted to be a teacher selected to be on the Shuttle. That fatal day, Christa McAuliffe, the teacher picked for the Teacher in Space program, died in the explosion, along with the six other crew members, who have come to be known as American Heroes for their sacrifice.
When the Columbia exploded, I also remember quite well where I was and what I was doing. I was at a water polo tournament in Florida, acting as coach and player.
We had flown all of the way over from Texas for this event. No one really knew who this team from Austin was. We blew them away, until the game that counted. We lost the one game we needed to win to put us into the finals, against a B-team, whose A-team we had already beaten. We choked. As a coach, you take responsibility for your team's loss, even when it is not your fault. It is not the refs' fault, nor the fans, but you, the coach, must shoulder the burden. As Hopper from "A Bug's Life" says, "First rule of management, it's always your fault."
As we were transferring planes in Houston, we passed a crowd of onlookers watching the World Cup Womens' soccer finals, and the US team dismantling within seconds during the penalty kicks. Lots of disappointment in the terminal. The news commentary afterwards was essentially that even though it was a loss for the US, it was a gain for soccer "appreciation." On small penalty kick for woman, one giant leap for soccer...Perhaps, Americans are fickle fans with women's sports, and soccer.
After the disappointing loss in Florida, I remember talking with my team, who all had their tails tucked under their legs, like dejected puppy dogs who had just been caught peeing on the carpet, again. I was also going through a very difficult time as a teacher, as one of my favorite students had just been admitted to psychiatric hospital back in Austin that I had visited the day before we left.
I told my team that there were far worse losses and defeats in life. People were currently picking up body parts in a field from the Space Shuttle's second disaster, and one of my most cherished students was currently so doped up on anti-psychotic medication that I barely recognized this brilliant young man any longer. Perspective changes a great deal of self-pity.
In September 2001, I remember teaching my course, The Curse of Socrates, and the events of September 11th became a crucial component of that course. Walking into class that day, literally minutes after seeing the second tower fall, I walked into a room of complete and utter shock. The kids were sullen, speechless, bawling their eyes out. One latecomer, Mark, the only student who did not condemn Socrates to death when we voted after reading the Apology, saw the seen, had not heard the news and quipped, "Woah, I need to watch TV more often, I guess."
We talked about everything that happened. It was a no-holds-barred discussion. Anything went. One young man decided on the spot to join the Army, which he did. Others decided to change their majors. Many things were decided in the next 90 minutes, their lives had changed forever. They had grown up in a matter of minutes from goofy college kids to adults. Without fail, each one of them later recounted to me that every other class they had that day had gone on that day as if nothing had happened. Nobody talked about what had happened that morning. I was stunned.
People often deal with tragedy with the most damaging way of all, we ignore it. However, later, the memorials do come. But, have the emotions already passed?
Husband, who was a commander of the Space Shuttle Columbia when it exploded in 2003, was honored earlier this week as the new Amarillo terminal was unveiled. You could still smell the "new car" smell of the carpet, walking out into the 97-degree Fahrenheit, twilight atmosphere. Quite a change from the significantly colder, wetter climes of Belgium that we had left some twenty hours prior.
Appropriate timing for Husband's tribute as the Space Shuttle Atlantis marked an end of an era last week as the final Space Shuttle mission was launched. The end of the Space Shuttle is truly a demarcation of time for me. I was born in 1969, the year of the Lunar landing, which for some is the greatest achievement that America has ever had during the heated Iron-Curtain era space race with the Russians, set upon a world stage.
For my generation, it was the Space Shuttle. And, unfortunately the explosions, for tragedy often leaves a deeper impression than triumph.
I remember very well when Space Shuttle Challenger exploded. I was a junior at Amarillo High School, and we had a moment of silence over the intercom. It was an odd experience for us all. Normally, in a "typical" high school, straight out of Grease or, closer to home, small-town Texas à la Friday Night Lights, announcements on the intercom where usually times to chat, goof off, ignore, or whatnot. But, that day, an eerie silence covered the halls. I remember one of my favorite teachers from Junior High, Mr. Devoe, had wanted to be a teacher selected to be on the Shuttle. That fatal day, Christa McAuliffe, the teacher picked for the Teacher in Space program, died in the explosion, along with the six other crew members, who have come to be known as American Heroes for their sacrifice.
When the Columbia exploded, I also remember quite well where I was and what I was doing. I was at a water polo tournament in Florida, acting as coach and player.
We had flown all of the way over from Texas for this event. No one really knew who this team from Austin was. We blew them away, until the game that counted. We lost the one game we needed to win to put us into the finals, against a B-team, whose A-team we had already beaten. We choked. As a coach, you take responsibility for your team's loss, even when it is not your fault. It is not the refs' fault, nor the fans, but you, the coach, must shoulder the burden. As Hopper from "A Bug's Life" says, "First rule of management, it's always your fault."
As we were transferring planes in Houston, we passed a crowd of onlookers watching the World Cup Womens' soccer finals, and the US team dismantling within seconds during the penalty kicks. Lots of disappointment in the terminal. The news commentary afterwards was essentially that even though it was a loss for the US, it was a gain for soccer "appreciation." On small penalty kick for woman, one giant leap for soccer...Perhaps, Americans are fickle fans with women's sports, and soccer.
After the disappointing loss in Florida, I remember talking with my team, who all had their tails tucked under their legs, like dejected puppy dogs who had just been caught peeing on the carpet, again. I was also going through a very difficult time as a teacher, as one of my favorite students had just been admitted to psychiatric hospital back in Austin that I had visited the day before we left.
I told my team that there were far worse losses and defeats in life. People were currently picking up body parts in a field from the Space Shuttle's second disaster, and one of my most cherished students was currently so doped up on anti-psychotic medication that I barely recognized this brilliant young man any longer. Perspective changes a great deal of self-pity.
In September 2001, I remember teaching my course, The Curse of Socrates, and the events of September 11th became a crucial component of that course. Walking into class that day, literally minutes after seeing the second tower fall, I walked into a room of complete and utter shock. The kids were sullen, speechless, bawling their eyes out. One latecomer, Mark, the only student who did not condemn Socrates to death when we voted after reading the Apology, saw the seen, had not heard the news and quipped, "Woah, I need to watch TV more often, I guess."
We talked about everything that happened. It was a no-holds-barred discussion. Anything went. One young man decided on the spot to join the Army, which he did. Others decided to change their majors. Many things were decided in the next 90 minutes, their lives had changed forever. They had grown up in a matter of minutes from goofy college kids to adults. Without fail, each one of them later recounted to me that every other class they had that day had gone on that day as if nothing had happened. Nobody talked about what had happened that morning. I was stunned.
People often deal with tragedy with the most damaging way of all, we ignore it. However, later, the memorials do come. But, have the emotions already passed?
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