Video of the Year

I was thinking just now about what I should write as my final blog post of the year, and then I couldn't come up with anything so I thought, "Why not just post a video that sort of sums up the year?" So I started looking through the top hits of 2011. LMFAO, Katy Perry, Adele. But then it hit me: The song below, though it's a quarter century old, sums up the past year like no other. Even my last post was about rebelling (though I didn't intend to draw any parallel--just dumb luck).

When I first heard this song I thought, We'll never see a day like what's being described in the song. But from Egypt to Wall Street to just about everywhere on the Internet, this song would fit right in. Tracy Chapman was just a little bit ahead of her time.

It'll be interesting to see if this spirit carries forward into the new year, and if it does what it means (good or bad) for the world...


(I can't see the video.)

The Rebel Inside, part two

(Click here for part one.)

I attended undergraduate school at Kentucky State University in Frankfort, my hometown. As is the case in most post-secondary schools, there was an orientation meeting scheduled for all incoming freshmen during the summer. I received a letter in the mail informing me of the day of my orientation, and listing an agenda for the morning. In addition, I was informed that all incoming freshmen at KSU were required to take the Comprehensive Test of Basic Skills (CTBS), a high school achievement test that I'd taken in May for the last four years in a row. The letter stated that I could take the three hour test in the afternoon on the same day as orientation, or I could take it on one of several other dates listed in the letter.

I wasn't looking forward to taking the CTBS test for a fifth time. When I'd taken it just a couple of months before I'd had a pretty keen sense of deja vu. Unlike the ACT or the SAT, the CTBS didn't change from year to year, so when I re-read the questions for the fourth year in a row, I hadn't even needed to read entire passages. I'd just skim the first sentence in the reading test, and think, "Oh yeah. THAT one!" and I'd then answer the question. Further, I'd just gotten my scores in the mail about a week before, and I'd gotten 12.9 (the highest possible score) in every section.

Why was I taking a high school test to get into college? I thought to myself. Weren't my ACT scores good enough? Wasn't my high school diploma good enough? Why go through this again? So I did what I felt was sensible: I took my printed test scores with me to the orientation. After lunch, when everyone was coming in to get ready to take the CTBS, I walked up to the man in charge (a white haired, bearded, rotund, older man who--if he didn't play Santa Claus at holiday gatherings--was missing a fantastic opportunity) and handed him my CTBS score sheet.

"Hi," I said. "My name is Bryan Sweasy, and I'm scheduled to take the test this afternoon, but I was wondering if--since I have my scores right here, and since they're perfect scores--that I might be excused from the test this afternoon." It seemed like a perfectly reasonable request to me, and I was sure that he would say yes. But no, I was informed that the scores I got in high school didn't matter, that the university wanted to know what my abilities were now. When I told him that I'd just taken the test six weeks ago and how could my abilities have changed much since then, he told me that for all he knew I'd forged the document in my hand and that for that reason he couldn't accept it. I'd have to take the test again.

I wasn't happy about it, but I sat down and took the test again. This was my first day on campus as an officially accepted student, and besides, I had a university scholarship on the line. I didn't want to make any waves. I wasn't happy about it, though, and when I got my scores in the mail in a few days and they were again 12.9 across the board, I really felt like I'd wasted my time.

But that was just the beginning of this story. I forgot all about the CTBS test until two April's later, at the end of my sophomore year, when I received another letter from the university stating that all students finishing their second semester of their sophomore year were required to re-take the CTBS test in order to measure growth. The letter listed a series of dates for the test and stated which one I'd been assigned to. If I couldn't make that date I needed to select another. The letter ended by stating that sophomore students who did not complete the re-take of the CTBS would be denied credit for their second semester courses.

This must be some mistake, I thought to myself. What growth could I possibly have? There was no way that the university intended for ME to re-take the CTBS. I looked at the date on the letter and made note of it. I then called the university and made an appointment to see the professor whose name was on the letter. My appointment was the day before my test. I took BOTH copies of my CTBS scores (the ones from high school and the ones from my orientation), and I walked into the room on the day of my appointment, and there was Santa Claus behind a desk.

After a few moments of introducing ourselves, I held up my CTBS papers and said, "Look, I scored a 12.9 when I was a senior, and I scored a 12.9 at freshmen orientation. The letter says you're trying to measure growth, but there's no way to grow when I already have a perfect score. I don't see why I should have to take this test again. It's a waste of my time."

Santa stared at me for a moment before laughing and saying, "The point of having all students take and re-take the test isn't to measure an individual's growth. It's to see how we're doing as a university. With that in mind, there may be students, such as yourself possibly, who actually score LOWER on the re-test your sophomore year. So it's okay that you don't have room for growth. Besides, that may not actually be true. Just because you have a 12.9 doesn't mean you have a perfect score. The 12.9 just places you in a grade level, and that is as high as it measures. You can get a 12.9 without getting a perfect score. And the 12.9 isn't the number we use. It's the smaller, raw score number that we use."

I examined my tests. "Huh," I said. "I see the raw score number. And you know what? It's the same for every subject on both the one I took in high school and the one I took at orientation. How close are these to a perfect score?" I handed him the two score sheets.

He took them with a smile and stared at them for a moment, and then, with a smile still on his face, he pulled out another sheet of paper he had in a folder and compared my scores to that paper. After a moment his smile vanished, and he glared at me for a second or two before leaning in to the two papers even a little more closely.

"How did I do?" I asked. "How close was I to a perfect score?"

"It doesn't matter!" he snapped as he all but threw my papers back at me. "It doesn't matter whether you have a perfect score or not. All sophomores are required to take the CTBS again!"

"Well, I'm not doing it!" I said vehemently.

"That's FIIIINNNNNE!" he said, a fake kindness in his voice. "You just won't receive any credits for this last semester."

Now I was the one to glare at him. A dozen comments popped into my mind, but (and I must say I'm proud of this) I withheld all of them. Then an idea popped into my head. To quote from Boris Karloff in the Grinch, I got "a horrible, awful idea" (At least, it was GOING to be a horrible idea for me!).

I smiled. "Okay, then. I guess I have to take the test. I really appreciate your time, and I can see that you're doing a bang up job here. Thanks again." His eyes narrowed, but he accepted my words at face value, and we parted ways. The next day I came, took the test, and thought the whole matter was over.

I'd pretty much completely forgotten about the entire incident, in fact, when in September of that year I got a letter in the mail from the Vice President of Academic Affairs stating that I had an appointment with her the following Monday at 10 o'clock. I'd met her once before, back in May. I was one of four sophomores to serve as Honor Guard for the senior graduation, and  the four of us had met with her then. She seemed to take a liking to me, and I liked her, too.  I didn't for the life of me, though, know what she would want. I called her office and her secretary answered. I informed her that I'd received the letter and that I had a class during the time of the appointment, and could we reschedule. The secretary put me on hold for a moment, and then came back and said, "She said to tell your professor that you're going to miss that class. You need to see her."

So I did. And at 10 o'clock on Monday I walked into the Vice-President's office still without any idea that anything was wrong. When I walked in and saw Santa Claus sitting in one of the two visitor's chairs, though, I froze.

"Hello, Bryan," she said to me. "Come on in and take a seat." I did so. Slowly. As I eased into the leather chair, I glanced over at Santa, who was glaring at me.

After a moment's silence, she said, "I suppose you know why you're here."

I knew EXACTLY why I was there. "I honestly have no idea," I said as innocently as possible.

She turned her head and looked at me out of the corner of her eye. "Bryan," she began, "every student in this university is required to take the CTBS at the end of his or her sophomore year."

"I know," I said. "And I took it. I didn't want to, but I took it."

"You did?" she said, in a way that suggested she wasn't buying anything I was saying.

"That's right," I said. "I took the test just like I was asked."

"Then we have a problem. Professor, would you like to explain?"

I turned to Santa. He was smiling again, and he began talking again that fake, kind way. "Bryan," he began, as if were lecturing me in a class, "I teach Statistics. I'm a statistician. And let me explain something to you. The Comprehensive Test of Basic Skills is a multiple choice test with four possible answers per choice. If someone knew NOTHING about the content on the test, one would expect him or her to score somewhere around a 25%. I could hand someone a score sheet and--even without seeing the questions--that person could guess and get somewhere around a 25%. Would you agree?"

"I don't know," I said sheepishly.

His kindness disappeared. "Of course you agree! You're a bright fellow! After all, you've scored a perfect score at least twice on the test! Right?"

I smiled triumphantly. "I KNEW my raw score was a perfect score! I KNEW it!"

"That's not important now," Santa Claus said. "What matters is this: The chances that someone could take the test, put in his best effort, and somehow miss EVERY question on the test, is almost impossible. Those odds become even larger when the person has a previous perfect score. That's why," he finished, "the only thing that I can assume is that you missed every question ON PURPOSE!"

There was a moment of silence while he glared at me. I was sure I was about to get kicked out of the university, or at least put on probation or something. And then I heard a strange noise from the direction of the Vice-President. I glanced over at her, and found that she was stifling a laugh. I grinned, too, and my grin sent her into an outright laugh.

Santa Claus did not join us. "This is SERIOUS!" he said loudly. "Because of this, the entire results are skewed!"

I didn't even listen to him. I turned to the Vice President and said, earnestly, "I'm sorry, Dr. Smith. I shouldn't have done it. I just didn't want to take the test. What do I have to do to make this right?"

"I need a letter of apology from you to [Santa Claus--sorry, I forget the guy's name] explaining what you've learned." I nodded that I was okay with that. "I also need a letter from you to me explaining why I shouldn't put you on probation and how you're going to avoid situations like this in the future." Again I nodded. "And," she said, "you're going to need to retake the CTBS one more time, at [Santa Claus'] convenience, and this time take it seriously."

"I have to do all that AND take the test AGAIN?" I was exasperated.

She nodded gravely. "Yes, you do. And you should count yourself lucky that this isn't going on a permanent record anywhere. If it were just about anyone else, I think it would be."

So I took the test again. And I tried my best. And in the end, to the great celebration--I think--of Santa, I actually missed one of the mathematics questions. I'm sure he felt vindicated.

Not me. I felt beaten. Don't get me wrong. I was grateful for what Dr. Smith had done for me. But I also realized a painful lesson: The consequences of rebellion can be pretty significant. If I was going to be a rebel, that was fine, but I needed to choose my battles. And I needed to consider in advance what the consequences would be for my rebellion, and I needed to be willing to live with them.

So I'm a lot more compliant today than I used to be. I grew up a lot that day in the office of the Vice President for Academic Affairs. And today, I'll let people know if I think what I'm being asked to do is a bad idea, but when push comes to shove, I'll probably hunker down and do the work. But that rebel is still inside me, so I'll repeat to you what I say over and over again to my wife:

Don't tell me what to do.

The Rebel Inside, part one

For years now, whenever Lisa "asks" me to do something without actually asking, I always give her the same reply. We'll be sitting in the basement and she'll say to me, "Hand me the remote control on the table beside you," or we'll be at the dinner table and she'll say, "Hand me the salt," or we'll be sitting on the back porch and she'll say, "Tell me about your day." And the same thing always happens next.

I snap at her, "Don't tell me what to do!"

I'm not sure why I do it, to be honest (and I've actually been consciously making an effort lately to not do it). It's a knee jerk reaction in me. I guess it's supposed to be a joke. But it's neither funny nor amusing anymore (if it ever was). Mostly it's just one more quirk that ensures that--if anything ever happens to Lisa--I'll be unable to ever sustain a serious relationship with another woman...

 But I'm not here to talk about my marriage today. I'm here to talk about this: every joke (even a bad, annoying one) has an element of truth in it. And though I rarely ever really refuse any request my wife makes, my instant desire to reject any command put on me points to a basic personality characteristic (or maybe defect) that I possess.

I don't like to be told what to do.

 I've wrestled my whole life with a tendency to want to reject anything that I've been told I HAVE to do. If I'm ordered to do something I always bristle a little, but it's even worse for me if what I am being asked to do sounds unreasonable. And I still struggle with this tendency today. There are about ten different posts on this blog (see here, here, and here for just a sample) that focus on the fact that any sign telling me not do to something just makes me want to do whatever it is I've been told not to do. And sometimes this tendency has gotten me in trouble...

I remember two specific incidents that occurred within a very short period of time when I was in the sixth grade. First, my entire grade was taken on a field trip to see THE NUTCRACKER ballet. As the teachers were preparing for the trip, they went through the list of rules we'd have to follow. Most were pretty standard rules that you'd expect on any field trip (No shouting on the bus, No wandering off alone, No "horseplay"), but one rule was unique to this trip.

"Finally," my teacher said severely, "I don't want to hear anyone laughing at the men in tights." As soon as she said this, most of the students in class started laughing uproariously. This seemed to make the teacher angry, and she furrowed her brows and shouted, "I MEAN it! No laughing during the performance if there are men in tights on the stage, or there's going to be big trouble!" Her anger just made the class laugh more.

 I was NOT one of the students who laughed. I guess I should be embarrassed to admit this, but at age 12 I didn't know what tights were, and I also didn't know why anyone would laugh at a man wearing tights (Thirty years later, I have a pretty good idea of what the joke was).  In any event, I thought it a little unfair that we should be punished for laughing, something that is a pretty automatic response and hard to suppress, so I decided that--whether I got the joke or not--I WAS going to laugh at the man in tights. Trevor, one of my friends in 6th grade, sat beside me at the performance, and he was one of the people who, that first day, had seemed really amused by the whole guy/tights thing, so I asked him to let me know when a guy in tights came out.

I was actually pretty sure it was never going to happen. The whole ballet seemed interminable to me. It was interesting at first to hear the thrilling sound that was the orchestra playing, and it was interesting at first to see the delicate women in the equally delicate and colorful costumes come out onto the stage and dance. I was especially entranced by their ability to stand on their toes and leap around. But then the same thing seemed to happen over and over again, and I pretty soon lost interest. I wasn't even watching the ballet, in fact, but was looking around the performance hall and noticing how each section, row, and chair were either numbered or lettered, when Trevor elbowed me in the side and whispered, "There's a guy in tights on stage, Bryan!"

I took in a deep breath and laughed as loudly as I could before shouting, "Hey! Look at the guy in tights! That's hilarious!"

I got in a lot of trouble for that one...

Later that school year, my rebellious side caused more trouble. I had been identified as being "Gifted and Talented," and as a result I'd been placed into my elementary school's Gifted and Talent program, which was called--for reason unknown to me then and now--"Pegasus." This blog post is already getting to be a little bit on the long side, so I'm not going to go into all of the reasons why I had trouble getting along with the Pegasus teacher (some reasons which--looking back as an educator--were quite valid on my part, and some that were just me being a jerk). That may be fodder for a later blog post. Suffice it to say, though, that I DID have trouble getting along with her. I KNOW I was a thorn in her side, and she certainly was in mine.

Our disagreement came to a head when she asked us to complete an activity that didn't seem like a good one to me. I whispered to a fellow Gifted and Talented classmate (probably Trevor again), "I don't want to do this. This is stupid..."

The teacher overheard me and I guess misunderstood what I'd said. She quickly walked over to me and got her face about a foot and a half from mine. "Bryan!" she sternly said. "If you have something to say about ME, I suggest you say it to my face!"

This was unlike her. She was a VERY soft spoken, kind, demure teacher (In retrospect, I wonder if she hadn't complained to some veteran teacher about her problems in class and the teacher had told her to "get tough" with me). In any event, I was taken aback. "I didn't say anything about YOU," I tried to explain. "I just..."

"Nope! Nope! Nope!" she all but shouted into my face. "If you have something to say about ME, you need to say it directly to me!"

The response that came into my head I KNEW was going to get me into trouble, but I felt trapped by the situation, and I honestly couldn't stop myself. "Okay," I said slowly and quietly to her as I stared unblinkingly into her eyes. "YOU'RE stupid!..."

That comment landed me in the principal's office for a conference with the principal, the Pegasus teacher, her supervisor from the Board of Education, and my mother. I don't recall the entire conversation (I've tried to block such unpleasant memories from my mind), but I do remember my mother finally saying, "It sounds like Bryan is just unhappy in the Pegasus class, and maybe he should just be pulled from it."

The board of education supervisor, who had been mostly just observing, stood up immediately and said, "I'm afraid you don't understand. Once a student is labeled Gifted and Talented they ARE Gifted and Talented, and we have to provide services. No one's ever left the Pegasus program before. I mean there's just--" She paused, trying to find the right words. "--No one's ever quit before. He can't!"

There were several more minutes of conversation, and I was kind of like a witness in a criminal trial. I was there, but no one was allowing me to testify. Finally, though, the elementary principal, Mr. Johnson, turned to me and said, "Bryan, what do you have to say for yourself?"

I pointed to the woman from the Board of Education. "Did you just say that I CAN'T quit Pegasus?"

"That's right," she said. "No one's ever quit before."

I turned to my mom and Mr. Johnson. "Okay, then. I DEFINITELY quit!"

And so I was pulled out of the Pegasus program for the remainder of the year. The following year I moved on to the middle school and had a different Gifted and Talented teacher and everything was fine again. But I missed a lot of opportunities in that Gifted and Talented class, including the chance to go to Washington, D.C. with my classmates. All because of my resistance to being told what to do.

Okay, and maybe because I was a little bit of a jerk, too...

Though--as I mentioned before--the tendency to be a rebel is with me still, I FINALLY learned that knee jerk rebellion wasn't worth the consequences in my second year of college. I came perilously close to getting kicked out of the university I was attending.

But this blog post is long enough already, so I will tell THAT story in a later post.