The Perks of Petrovice

As a history lover I've always wished I had a more tangible heritage. For some reason I've always felt a weird sort of identity gap. I've always felt that I perhaps lacked something that might separate me or grant a unique distinction in my life.

When my grandfather first began researching our genealogy I latched on to the famous "relatives" as if they were a feather to stick in my cap. But it all felt so very removed from reality--too distant. And with the immigration coming so long ago and in my mind from a "generic" place like the British Isles, it lacked luster to my young eyes. It all seemed too normal.

Identity had to be found in other places instead. Growing up in Arkansas it seems that I latched onto the affiliations that wuold separate instead of include. I rooted for the Cubs in the land of Cardinal fans, the Longhorns in the land of Razorbacks. Most avidly though, I clutched onto my maternal roots as a Texan. It is hard to conjure an apt metaphor to illustrate the....uncouthness of this particular stance as an Arkansan. Texas and Texans it seems are always hated or loved. There is no middle ground. Arkansas seemingly suffered in the shadow of Texas much like a little brother might (for most I think this was largely a result of many years of Southwest Conference football games).

This path of separation continued into my years living in Texas as I began to trumpet my Arkansan roots. Though never a hater, it was as a resident of Texas that I first realized how to appreciate the land I called home. I suppose I was wishing so badly to have an identity--wishing I came from somewhere--that I never realized I had always had one.

My own desire for an identity led me to be jealous of those I knew that had, as I saw it, tangible roots. So it was with some excitement that I found out for the first time that my grandfather knew the exact town, even the exact street address of the house in which my great great grandfather lived in Petrovice, a small town in the southwestern corner of the Czech Republic (though my Czech is nonexistent, I'm fairly certain that, irony of ironies, Petrovice is translated as "Peter Ville"). For the first time in my life I felt an attachment to a place, that those "tangible roots" were for the first time indeed tangible.

Though the world is vast, though there are many things I want to see, and though there are many places left to explore, for the time being they must take a back seat to my pilgrimage to Petrovice. It is perhaps premature to speak of this since it will be many months before this idea blooms into reality. The actual difference this discovery makes in my overall personality is most likely negligible, it is within the scope of possibilities that the biggest difference is made. I'm still the person who somewhat inexplicably roots for the Cubs and Longhorns but I've been granted an additional genealogical anchor that paradoxically opens up the world a little bit wider for me. And that, in my eyes clouded with the love of place and history, is a wonderfully uplifting gift.

Low and High II

After receiving varied feedback it became evident that a more thorough exploration of the topic was required. My aim, beyond the obvious self-satisfying benefits of keeping a blog, is to be thought provoking, perhaps even somewhat insightful. I suppose the topic has been on my mind quite a bit of late. So I have decided to take the thread and forge forward into the dark woods. The thread really begins with my very good friend Tank and his comment to my previous post that I think is worth noting. He spoke of the necessity to live in the here and now, to let the adventures come when they come. Sage advice, albeit somewhat difficult to always follow.

Life is a shifting shape. It's like a water tube (I believe they may also be known as "slippery snakes"), those somewhat slimy plastic cylinders that are impossible to grasp. The trick, it seems, is in not grasping at all. Each time you try to squeeze it, the tube pops out of your hand. One might be able to grab it for a second before it squirts away again but that second is all one will ever be able to hold on to.

And so it is with life. We flail around in space, grabbing onto things and people, hoping they can provide the contentment we seek. We grasp onto fleeting glimpses of a happiness thinking it might last. It isn't until we are placid that the impossible toy is caught. Never through grasping are we to find our contentment but only with the open hands of calm patience.

Somewhere along the way I learned to accept life's gifts as they come--to give love, to accept love, and to live honestly--with others but especially with myself. My own potential for these things is not always met but I strive. Given the statements in the previous paragraph, striving might seem counterintuitive to patience. In my mind, striving for oneself, or attempting to reach a certain goal is definable and takes true patience. It is happiness that is mercurial. How do you strive after an elusive and incorporeal idea?

Perhaps it is too expansive and/or trite to summarize happiness in this way but it is as thus that I find myself. I still seek to experience the world on its own terms, I still dream dreams, I still breathe the oxygen of potentialities. The world of possibility, however, is something separate. The greatest of possibilities spring from true happiness and are not born of discomfiture.

Low and High

Having been out into the world, I often find myself restless here in my piece of America. From big dreams of a life of ease and happiness to smaller short term aspirations, I continually seek something greater. This is not necessarily because of my situation here. I believe I've always been this way. Though I do wonder if perhaps living in a smaller town creates bigger escapist fantasies, a sort of mental counteraction to fate's circumstances.

There's a person I work with whose own aspirations seem limited to a few drinks each night, a good meal, football video games, and a warm spot in bed next to his girl. His own scope, seemingly, is limited more to the here and now. Excepting the video games, his aspirations are as old as time. There are often times when I envy that, wishing I could be contented so easily. Looking back into my life I wonder if being abroad created greater horizons in my mind and thus destroyed any hope for that idealized notion of simplicity from my life.

"Focusing on nowhere/Investigating miles/I'm a seeker/I'm a really desperate man."

Just as I know those who seek solid and simple pleasures, I know many more who seek to explore, to know, to experience. We all dream of something more for our lives but paradoxically it is with those seekers that I, the inveterate homebody, find more common ground with. At times it seems a curse that my contentment isn't fated to last for long but I wonder if it's not actually a blessing.

Rebel in the Night

The other night I was jolted from my peaceful sleep by a piercing noise. My first thought was that it was already 6AM and my alarm was going off. Frantically I mashed every single button as I tried to turn it off. Instead of eradicating the noise I ended up with two books, a lamp, and a cell phone on the floor. Standing there, confused and frantic, I realized that the noise was coming from my phone. Though the ring tone is ostensibly a melody, it seemed like a torturous siren. It made my ears throb.

Late night phone calls, though not a regular event, are far from a novelty for those in my demographic. As such, I presume many can probably sympathize with my state of utter confusion. Discounting the occasion that I almost punched a female “friend” who caught a ride home with a roommate after a night of drinking and decided to wake me up at 3AM, my late night wake ups are generally calm (explanation: the punch was almost thrown not because I disliked the person but because being woken up at 3AM when you aren't really expecting to is kind of freaky, especially when that person is more a stranger than a friend). As I lay back down to sleep that night, I was more than slightly dismayed at my crazed reaction to the midnight phone call.

My dismay was rooted in memories of my father. No matter the circumstances of the event or the time of night, whenever my siblings or I woke up my father, his reaction was always the same. In a state of confused alert he would bolt upright out of bed and frantically scan his surroundings trying to figure out what was happening. I saw my father in my reaction to the ringing phone.

For most of us, life is spent as an active pursuit of separation from our parents. This isn't necessarily born out of a distaste for those that brought us into this world but instead it is a quest for a unique identity. Unfortunately, it seems that the truth behind actions of separation and personal growth aren't always grasped by parent or child. It took me a long time to realize that. Though I seek to become known as my own person, I feel that I am finally coming to terms with all those traits I share with my parents. From my mother's emotionalism to my father's easily startled nature at night, I am a mess of quirks and idiosyncrasies. Paradoxically it seems that acceptance is the truer form of rebellion.