Response to a Windows User

Earlier today, Fermicat posted an entry (Mixed Marriages) about her constant computer-platform "debate" with her husband, "PDM." My comment on that entry grew too long, so I have decided to post it here as an entry of my own.

One or two of my one or two regular readers might not care about this entry; nonetheless, it might possibly provide you with a pleasant (if not too literary) way to pass a few minutes.

FC: "PDM is a Mac person and I use a PC."

Me: Oh, my God! You shouldn't have written this entry! But I will try not to make you regret it! I don't want you to start seeing only the words, "Blah, blah, Mac, blah, blah..." in this entry. ;-D

And, yes, my smile was *that* big while I was reading your entry. At this moment, I can say with some certainty that I am a big fan of your husband. ;-)

FYI: I was a self-taught Macintosh network administrator at a relatively large school district from 1998 to 2003 (until budget cuts eliminated my position). I was a self-taught amateur prior to that time, from 1988 to 1998, using both PCs and Macs and hating the PCs with a passion (no offense). Needless to say, I could never have been a self-taught Windows network administrator, because everything is about twenty times more complicated than it needs to be in order to do the very same things I did with Macs. Think of it this way: If Apple built fighter jets, they would make them so that the average person on the street could hop in one and fly it like a pro with minimal experience. I know this because I was one of those people (computer-wise, that is). If Microsoft built fighter jets..., well, let's just say there would be lots of training fatalities, and I'm not saying that as a joke.

FC: "It’s not the end of the world. We can (and do) use each others’ computers."

Me: I'm sure PDM is well aware that any Intel Mac you buy now will also run Windows natively. In fact, in some reviews I've read, PC users believe Windows works better on the Mac than on a PC box. For instance, take a quick peek only at the title of this article; or this one. Just think how you and your husband would have one less difference between you (hardware-wise, at least) if you were to buy one of those multi-platorm Macs. Of course, then you might be fighting over who gets to use the computer. Ha.

FC: ...Highly specialized scientific applications are usually only available for PCs...

Me: I think you'd be really surprised at the number of highly specialized scientific apps for the Mac, maybe not the exact same ones, but there are a lot of them. For instance, a few years ago, a huge number of NASA engineers used Macs and refused to use Windows. They were dead set on giving up their Macs when a new busybody, know-it-all NASA chief tried to switch them all to Windows. I do not know if he was completely successful or not. I just know they preferred their Macs for their highly complex work.

FC: "Like most (all?) Mac users, PDM is quite vocal about it."

Me: Did you ever think that there might be a legitimate reason for our being so vocal? It's not as if we drank some spiked Kool-Aid or were starved for some sort of cult to follow (I hate all "cults," whether they are obscure or mainstream). I think our vocal nature comes from a sense of disbelief, among other things (more later). Here we Mac users are, driving down a beautifully designed interstate highway, while the majority of the world's drivers are crowded onto a bumpy, poorly maintained gravel road that runs parallel to the interstate. Many of us Mac users (not all) shout over to some of you Windows users, imploring you to join us on the better road (such invitations have nothing to do with being mindlessly devoted "fanatics"). Instead, you (I mean "you" in a generic sense) call us fanatics and say, "We're not interested. Most people are on this road. It suits our needs perfectly fine. We know all the twists and turns and curves and stop signs. Besides, we need to remain in contact with everyone else" (never mind that the interstate and the gravel road are nearly 100 percent connected and lead to the very same destinations).

FC: "He even blames problems with Mac stuff on Microsoft. 'If they didn’t have to make it PC-compatible, it would work fine.'"

Me: He knows what he is talking about, FC. ;-)

FC: "...Bill Gates and Microsoft are evil, money-grubbing, unfairly competing pigs..."

Me: "Once again, he's right. You only have to read some of the various computer histories to know those statements are based on fact, not on opinion. I rave just as much about Gates and Microsoft as he does; although, now I have quieted down a lot because Apple has been making a major comeback in recent years, and Microsoft is well aware of it. I hope Gates lives long enough to be put in the position in which he once put Apple, when he stole their idea, marketed it as "Windows" and licensed it to Apple's competition (cut-rate PC companies).

Since PC companies in the 1980s and 1990s were selling "IBM compatible" computers, people naturally felt "safer" buying any computer that was associated with that "famous IBM logo." The operating system was merely an afterthought for most first-time computer buyers at that time. Apple, the little upstart company with a masterpiece of an operating system (and which had been the first company to mass market the personal computer) didn't stand a chance against the big-name (cut-rate) discount companies with cheap metal boxes using a shoddily constructed imitation operating system. The average buyer had no idea. They only saw that "IBM compatible" tag, and that's all they cared about. Bill Gates is the traitor who ripped off the little company (a company that truly believed in selling a quality product and user experience) and licensed its secret to the big discount profit makers.

I have this thing wherein I don't believe in rewarding criminals by buying their products. That belief is even easier to maintain when the criminal is selling a product that is far inferior to the original. Yes, I know that hundreds of millions (probably billions) of people are completely used to using Windows and feel totally at home with it. That's understandable, but it is not a good enough reason not to try something else. They just need to realize that there might be a bit of "unlearning" to do in the process.

FC: "...All I hear is 'Blah blah Mac blah blah blah…' and my eyes roll back in my head."

Me: :-) Please answer this question. Which one of you is more familiar with the other person's preferred platform? Do you have more experience with the Mac platform, or does he have more experience with the Windows platform? I'm willing to go out on a limb here and guess that he has more experience with Windows because this is a Windows world. If that is so, then is it possible that he might know what he is talking about when he trashes Windows and praises the Mac?

FC: "My problem with using a Mac is that because I learned how to do everything first on a PC, doing it on a Mac seems backward and unnatural."

Me: I understand what you're saying, and, I'm sure you would agree that it's merely a matter of perspective. However, that which came first should not be considered "backward" and "unnatural." The Mac operating system came first -- in January 1984; therefore, it is forward and natural :-). Windows 3.0 came second -- in 1991, after Microsoft had struggled for seven years to disguise an arcane DOS operating system with a Mac-like "look and feel" (like putting lipstick on a pig). Therefore, it is backward and unnatural. As is the case with that gravel road, you've just gotten used to it.

FC: "I don’t enjoy things that make me feel stupid."

Me: First, you are married to a Mac user! Have him teach you! That is the perfect way to kill two birds with one stone: 1.) You will learn how to use a Mac (discovering that it is far easier than you think), and 2.) You and your husband will have yet another excellent excuse to do something together. A side benefit of No. 2 (at least I imagine it might turn out this way) is: Since he is teaching you how to use a Mac, he would almost certainly be far less vocal about them (at least in an angry way) than he presently is. Part of his vocal side might just have to do with your seeming reluctance to take him seriously and to see if he possibly has a point.

Second, you are a medical physicist who is studying to take the ABR exam. You are certainly not "stupid," and you are also quite obviously not unwilling to learn complicated things. That said, learning how to use a Mac is the exact opposite of complicated.

Furthermore, if you buy a Mac that can use both operating systems side by side, you could slide back and forth between the two operating systems whenever no one is "looking." You could do your "serious" work on the Windows side and, whenever the spirit moves you, you could jump to the Mac side and just play around a little and explore. Pretty soon, you will find fewer and fewer reasons to return to the Windows side. I say this because it has been the case with the vast majority of former Windows users I've taught in recent years.

FC: "Plus there are some things I just don’t know how to do yet on a Mac..."

Me: In the past 18 years, I've taught a lot of Windows users (and beginners) to use Macs. I've also read many testimonials of Windows users who have switched to Macs. The thing I have found to be true at least 90 percent of the time is the fact that most tasks are so simple on the Mac that Windows users cannot figure out how to do them. They are convinced that there must be a "hard way to do it" (they aren't consciously thinking in those exact terms, though), so they spend a long time trying to find the hard way, when, in the end, the task could have been completed with a mouse click or two. I'm sure your husband will agree with me.

FC: "I get frustrated trying to locate an appropriate application for something so simple it would take me two minutes on a PC.

Me: I'm not really sure if you are talking only about locating the applications or if you are also referring to the tasks for which you would use them once you have found them. If it is the former, we will have to agree to disagree. Application storage on a Windows computer is incredibly confusing. I used to have to try to teach people how to use Windows computers when I worked at the local public library. It was a miserable experience. When I did find the appropriate application to do what they (or I) wanted, it could barely do one-fourth of what an equivalent Mac application could do.

The only "drawback" for Windows users and beginners when it comes to using Macs is the fact that you can store many applications anywhere you please (many are automatically installed in the Applications folder, but most 3rd-party apps may be stored anywhere the users chooses). Most computer users are neither organized nor tidy (the same is true in regular life). They end up storing some apps in very strange places (either on purpose or by accident), and then they end up blaming the computer for their own lack of organizational skills. I'm not saying that is the case with you, because you don't even own a Mac.

FC: "I’m sure that will get better the more time I spend using PDM’s Mac."

Me: Once again, does he have an Intel Mac? If so, maybe he would install Windows on it for you

FC: "In spite of our significant difference of opinion on computers, PDM and I get along very well and enjoy spending time together."

Me: "Will wonders never cease?" ;-)

FC: "We are best friends and that one thing will smooth over an awful lot of irritating differences, like his near-constant grumbling about traffic and vocal Mac superiority complex."

Me: Ask yourself why he does it? Does he do it for his health? Of course not. Does he do it to annoy you? I'm sure that's the last thing he would wish to do. Something legitimate must be motivating him to speak about Mac superiority constantly. You would think I would be more "agnostic" with all my years of experience on both platforms. But I'm not. The more I use Windows computers, the more I never want to use them again.

There is one other possible reason for your husband's vocal nature. I know it is true of me. You should ask him. From 1988 to 1996, I was critical of Windows computers and of Bill Gates, but I had nothing but my own opinion and experiences on which to base my personal preference. During that time, almost every Windows user I knew was incredibly insulting of the Macintosh platform (calling them "toys," etc.). As angry as their arrogance made me, I couldn't argue technical details because I would not have known what I was talking about. I just defended my choice and grew angrier and angrier at them for their condescending attitude. Then I discovered the internet, and soon thereafter I found endless facts (independent studies, etc.) to back me up. I began returning the insults to those condescending, insulting Windows users with a vengeance, mostly in an effort to shut them up before they even had a chance to begin attacking me. I discovered the best way to deal with them was to beat them at their own game. If any of them ever brought the topic up, I immediately took the offensive. There was no better way to kill a condescending smug attitude than to attack fast and hard and to act absolutely certain of myself. I also backed up my certainty with indisputable facts, because I finally knew what I was talking about on the technical side. I was the oppressed getting even with the oppressor for years of mistreatment, and it felt great. I'm sure the same is true of millions of other Mac users too. After a while, we just got sick of being ridiculed, especially when we were using the superior product. It's like North Koreans criticizing Canadians (for example) for practicing democracy. The astounding thing is that the North Koreans actually believe what they are saying.

FC: "...and my ever-growing shoe collection and refusal to ever cook anything."

Me: "Not even a frozen dinner? ;-)

FC: "I hope we will spend many more happy years together, during which I can tune out all that crap he says about how his Mac is better than my PC."

Me: Be a diplomat. As much as it galls you, try to take a genuine interest in what he is saying. As I wrote earlier, I think he would calm down quite a bit if you were to do this.

My Alma Mater

This was the scene at my alma mater on the evening of Friday, July 28, 2006:

Luckily, the campus was saved, but it was a really close call. Click this link to learn more. There isn't much else to add. The picture and the article pretty much say it all. P.S. The tall building is the college's eleven-story residence hall. Photo was taken by Con Marshall of Chadron State College.

Desperate Times, Desperate Measures

This entry is a "counterbalance" to my previous entry.

In September 1974, when I was 13, we made a trip to Middleville, SD (not its real name). My dad was interested in purchasing the ancient "Duff Hotel" (located on main street) and having us move there to operate it. As with our own "Earling Hotel" in Earling, SD (not the real name of the hotel or the town), the Duff Hotel's ground floor was a full residence, in which we would live.

From about September 1971, when I started the 5th grade in Earling, through early 1974, I had occasionally asked my parents if we could move away from Earling because I wasn't that fond of the place. After my future best friend's arrival in early 1974, my desire to move slowly started to disappear. By September 1974, I was probably not yet entirely opposed to moving; however, living in Earling was finally starting to become more enjoyable. If we had not been out of town so frequently that summer on vacation trips to California, eastern South Dakota and Missouri, I would have seen my new best friend even more, and so my desire to stay might have been even stronger than it was.

As we departed from Earling on a Saturday, bound for Middleville, I was probably looking forward to the adventure and maybe even to the promise of starting over in a new location.

Then we arrived in Middleville.

From that moment on, my opinion about moving, at least to Middleville, changed dramatically.

The hotel was very old, very poorly lit and, as a consequence, very depressing. The interior seemed as if it had last been remodeled in 1900. It just felt like the sort of place where social losers and 90-year-old hermits would come to hide away from the world. I couldn't imagine living in such a place (at least not until I was a 90-year-old loser hermit).

My parents and my younger brother and I sat in the living room and visited with the poorly dressed, overweight woman who owned the place. She had a somewhat attractive daughter, who was about my age. I remember being somewhat receptive to her presence, but I couldn't concentrate on her because I was more interested in getting out of that town and going back home. Knowing me, I probably whispered my opinion of the place to my parents every time the opportunity arose and was either ignored or told to be quiet.

Sometime after sunset, I went outside and stood there, frustrated with my inability to have a say in my own future. I stood in front of the hotel and inspected Main Street by the light of the street lamps. A few feet away, at the corner of the hotel, a few kids my age were standing in a group. They completely ignored me. The hotel owner's daughter was among them. They were all smoking cigarettes. To me, that made them a gang of total delinquents. My assessment of Middleville and its inhabitants was suddenly complete and completely irrevocable. There was no way on earth I would agree to our moving to a place where I would have to grow up among "those sorts of kids." In "Earling" County, I had seen practically no kids who smoked. As such, I had been very well insulated from humanity's more unpleasant realities (according to my innocent standards).

I hoped beyond hope that my dad would not be interested in buying the hotel. As soon as we were alone, I told them what I had seen outside and insisted very strongly that we not move there. I continued to insist, even though I was pushing my luck by being so demanding. I'm sure my dad lost his temper with me more than once, but I was convinced that my childhood would be going down the toilet if we moved to a town like that. Incurring the wrath of my dad for a short period of time was vastly preferable to ruining the remaining years of my youth by living it out in a dump of a hotel in a dump of a town with "trashy" kids.

We stayed that night in the hotel (I must have blotted this out in my mind because I cannot remember it at all). We left for home the next morning (Sunday).

I was completely distraught during the trip home. I continued to argue for the first hour or so (maybe more), and I'm sure my dad finally lost his temper, saying that the decision was final. We would be moving to Middleville as soon as possible. I was forced to give up for the time being. I lay in the back seat (my antagonistic younger brother must have been in the front seat between my parents), pretending to sleep while secretly shedding a few tears. I was now old enough (tears aside) that I thought my opinion should count for something.

But it didn't.

Even a brief sightseeing tour through the Badlands did not cheer me up. I could not stop thinking that I would soon be living among "delinquent" kids, and my dad didn't care.

Then, somewhere between the Badlands and Earling, as I lay in the back seat, I had an idea. It was a long shot (and then some), but it was better than doing nothing at all.

As soon as we arrived home, and the coast appeared to be clear, I went into my dad's makeshift office to put my plan into action. I knew my own handwriting was still clearly recognizable as a kid's handwriting, so I put some paper in my old Royal Typewriter.

First things first, I had to come up with both a realistic man's name and a town name. They had to seem relatively unique and authentic. It wasn't so difficult making up the man's name (although I can no longer remember what it was), but I was drawing a blank as far as a town name was concerned. As I stared at the junk on top of the desk, I saw a catalog. In the small print on the back cover, I saw "Modesto, California." It sounded like a convincing name.

I then typed something along these lines:

"Dear Mr. [MW's father],

"We are sorry to inform you that the Duff Hotel has been sold to Joseph Henderson of Modesto, California. We thank you for your interest."

Sincerely..."

That was essentially all I wrote. I then put an envelope in the typewriter and typed my dad's name and address. In the return-address spot, I typed the owner's name and "Duff Hotel, Middleville, SD." After stamping it, I walked to the post office, about a block and a half down main street from our Earling Hotel.

It was a very quiet Sunday afternoon. Everything was closed; not a soul in sight. As I contemplated what I was doing, my greatest fear was that my dad would notice that the postmark was from "Earling, SD," instead of from "Middleville, SD." It was a chance I was completely willing to take. Besides, I knew him well enough to know that he seldom paid attention to such details. If he did notice it, then it would be purely by accident. I also had to hope that neither he nor the hotel owner would decide to call one another.

Yes, my scheme was extremely risky; nonetheless, as soon as I dropped the letter in the slot, I felt a great sense of relief -- and empowerment. I, a mere 13-year-old, was taking not only my own future but also my family's future into my own hands. All that remained now was to lay low and wait.

Normally, I picked up the mail every day at the post office during my walk home from school, but this time I didn't want to be associated with that letter in any way, shape or form. I wanted it to look like a completely legitimate letter, and that could only be accomplished if my dad or my mom picked up the mail and saw that letter in the box. I believe I even stayed away from home after school for the next day or two so that I wouldn't be asked to go get the mail. Besides, I especially didn't want to be around when my dad finally read the letter.

I don't remember the next few days very well. I just kept hoping that I wouldn't suddenly hear my dad shout my name at the top of his lungs. Luckily, that didn't happen. I cannot believe my parents didn't wonder why I had suddenly stopped protesting our possible move to Middleville. They should have known that was unlike me. In fact, I didn't even tell my best friend what I had done because he might inevitably have told someone else (for instance his own parents), and they would eventually have told someone else, and ultimately the story would have reached my dad through the grapevine (as for telling my brother, that would have been like personally whispering it in my dad's ear; my idiot brother would have "tattled" on me even if he had been a co-conspirator). Not only would I be up a certain creek without a paddle, there might still have been time for my dad to call the owner and buy the hotel.

It took a while for the results of my scheme to trickle down to my ears, but.....

Guess what.....

It worked!

It actually worked!

I had outwitted my dad and changed the course of our family history. Even more importantly, I had changed the course of my own life!

I don't remember when I became aware of my success, because I had kept my distance from my dad for several days or more, and I certainly never again asked about our possible move to Middleville (you would think they might have at least noticed that little detail...). When I did learn the news (probably from my mom), I had to turn somersaults silently. Speaking of which..., you do realize just how incredibly difficult it is for a 13-year-old to celebrate anything silentlly, don't you? But that's what I did, because that's how desperate I was not to move and/or get caught.

I even continued to refuse to tell any of my friends what I had done because of my respect for the power of the grapevine. As long as I was a kid, my dad could never learn what I had done. I don't remember when I finally did spill the beans to one of my friends in Earling County (maybe I never did).

Sometime in the early 1980s, when I was in college, I decided it was safe to "confess" to my mom (she had played no real part in the Middleville deal). She was utterly shocked. She quickly warned me that it would still be unwise to confess to my dad, because he had been extremely angry when he read that letter. She told me that he (as well as she) had been completely fooled by it.

My mom eventually blew the secret herself and told my dad what I had done (she has always been a terrible secret keeper). One day a few years later, my dad or I finally mentioned the subject to the other. He told me what Mom had told him. I replied with the hugest, most sincere smile he had seen on me in years.

What else could I say? :-)

I had waited for over ten years for this moment! It was finally time to rub my dad's nose in my one-and-only "glorious" victory as a kid. And, let me tell you, I had a blast -- but all in good fun, of course.

He was still very irritated about it, because, as he explained it, there had been an economic boom near Middleville right after we had visited the town, and he might have made a lot of money by immediately turning around and reselling the hotel during the height of that boom.

I replied that I couldn't care less about any lost profits. In fact, I told him that he could have made a million dollars, as far as I was concerned, and it still would not have been worth it for me to have lived in that miserable town.

Yes, dear reader, I am still very proud of what I accomplished on that Sunday in September 1974. I had scored a victory for powerless kids everywhere.

P.S. To this day, my mom regrets that she didn't save that letter as a treasured family memento (she now gets a real kick out of my success also). I agree completely. I used to be a major pack rat (maybe I still am), but I was so intent on staying away from my dad after I mailed that letter that I wasn't about to take a chance on looking for it.

Thirty Years Ago Today

In an attempt to be profound in this entry, I must also show you my self-centered side. I know you'll indulge me, just this once.

But first, a little rambling...

One of these days, those of you who are younger than I am by ten or twenty years will be in the same place I am right now -- that vague void between young age and old age that is sometimes known as limbo (this vague void is more pronounced if you are still single). Old people will see you as young (but not for much longer), and young people will see you as old (forevermore). As for most people your own age, they will be busy with their own families and/or careers.

When you arrive here -- in this vague void -- you will finally understand just how wrong it feels to use the phrase, "It was thirty years ago today...," when referring to a day that you can remember as if it were only yesterday. For instance, ten years ago, when I was 35, I could have said, "It was thirty years ago today...," and I would not have caused myself too much mental stress. Why? Because my memories of my life at the age of five are really vague. It was still the beginning of my life. Today, at the age of 45, when I say, "It was thirty years ago today...," I am referring to myself at the age of 15. My life at that age doesn't feel like another lifetime. The memories are still really clear. In fact, it feels as if it were only yesterday in some ways. I was pretty much the same person then as I am now (only with a lot less experience and a lot more optimism because of it).

But there is more: What if time also seemed to stop for me "thirty years ago today"? Of course, I don't mean that in the literal sense. Rather it stopped in more of a metaphysical, science-fictiony sort of way, wherein the protagonist says, "Hold on a minute; I'll be right back." Then he steps through a door and into a waiting room in the Twilight Zone, never to be heard from again.

I am like that protagonist. Even now I am able to look back through that door and see that day in 1976, exactly as it was, waiting for me to return.

But, of course, I cannot return. I can only view it in sad resignation (even if I could return, what sort of bag of mixed blessings would await me?).

The main point of this rambling, pseudo-philosophical prelude is the fact that when I utter the phrase, "It was thirty years ago today...," it feels really wrong, or rather unreal. I was only supposed to be gone a minute...

Okay I suppose I'll Get to the Anti-Climactic Point.
It was thirty years ago today (Wednesday, July 21, 1976), that my family moved from our home in central South Dakota to a home here in western Nebraska. I desperately did not want to move here. We had visited this town six weeks earlier, and I did not like what I had seen. Please don't jump to conclusions, though. I didn't even know that my parents were considering moving here when we made that visit, so one cannot say that I was judging it through biased eyes. I just didn't like the general unfriendliness of the residents of this area. They seemed to exude a strong air of conceit and snobbishness, even when they were trying to be friendly.

As for a sense of humor in the local population, it was totally non-existent (and nothing has changed). That didn't bode well for a kid who had grown up in a place where good-natured sarcastic humor was everything to everyone.

As for my own generation, the kids in this area were especially rude, conceited and humorless. They were even foul mouthed right in front of adults. That was a new experience for my family, and it should have given my dad (a former teacher) pause in his plans to move here, but it didn't. His mind was already made up.

As I reread the previous three paragraphs, I can sense that everyone who reads it must surely think I am exaggerating. Regrettably, I am not.

During the last day of that short "reconnaissance" visit, while my parents were out with the "boss" and his wife, I accidentally learned that we would be moving here. I can remember the blood going to my feet and my indignation rising in my brain when I looked on the "boss's" refrigerator and saw "house hunting with the 'MW' family" scrawled on a note. That gave me six weeks in which to try to convince my dad to change his mind, while also anticipating with terrible dread "the end" of "paradise" as I knew it.

As you already know, I was unsuccessful in changing his mind, but I never stopped trying, even after we had moved here (I did it more for the sake of revenge after we had moved here, because I hated that I had been treated as if my life and goals were meaningless).

Worst of all, there had been no sense in my dad's decision to move here. He was doing extremely well at his "district manager's" job in South Dakota, consistently beating most other district managers in the region (that's why the "boss" liked him so much). The move to this town (the "boss's" home town) was purely optional and completely superfluous.

Of course, the unfriendliness of the people in this town wasn't my only reason for not wanting to move here. I desperately did not want to leave my old home and my best friends either, all of whom looked positively saintly and exciting compared to the kids here. It had taken me a long time to start liking it in that little town in South Dakota and to make real friends there. In fact, I had even started to love living in that little town, in spite of its own numerous flaws.

How It Turned Out in Nebraska
When we arrived here thirty years ago today (egad, it's hard to write that!), there was still one month of summer vacation remaining. It gave me time to acclimate myself to my new environment before dealing with a new school and new classmates. We lived a few hundred yards outside the city limits, so my brother and I were isolated from most of the rest of the town and its inhabitants. By early August, I had started to imagine that I might not hate it here as much as I originally thought I would. I was even considering the possibility that I might make even better friends here than I had in South Dakota. It's not that I was thinking maturely. I was simply a natural-born optimist in those days (as I state in the fourth paragraph). The hopeful kid in me couldn't help but fantasize that there were great friends and beautiful girls just waiting to be met once school started.

When school finally did start, I was still optimistic -- and nervous. Within two days, my optimism was out the window. I realized I had accurately described the kids here two and a half months earlier. In fact, I had been too kind in my description of them (there were very few attractive girls either).

Making matters worse (ironically), I was a friendly, naive and optimistic sort. The kids here were cold and unfriendly. They took delight in laughing in the faces of new kids who were friendly, naive and optimistic. It took me a long, long time to learn to give up trying to become friends with any of them (there were a couple of very minor exceptions). When I finally did give up, I was a lot more cynical than I had ever been before. A lot of the kids in my hometown in South Dakota may have been obnoxious troublemakers a lot of the time, but when it came right down to it, most of them, deep down, were good-natured, friendly characters who would go out of their way to make a person feel welcome.

Naturally, my parents refused to believe me when I told them about my experiences with the local kids (at least that's what my dad told me at the time). They were convinced that I was either making it up (they knew I had not wanted to move here) or that it was my fault that I couldn't make any friends. As a result, I grew to resent them more and more with every passing day for ever bringing me to this place against my will and then not believing me when I tried to tell them what it was like for me here (long story as to why I am here again at this time). This was somewhat ironic in my dad's case, because his parents had moved him from his beloved hometown in South Dakota when he was a freshman, and he had spent the next two years doing everything he could to get them to move back, to no avail. You would think he would have realized that he had become his dad and was putting me through the same situation that he had experienced.
Conclusion
I spent two long, miserable years here as a sophomore and junior. Near the end of my junior year, I was lucky enough to spend a week with friends in my old home in South Dakota (my parents let me make the trip alone). I even went to school every day as a guest. It was a truly wonderful experience. Kids who had hardly noticed me before were genuinely happy to see me again. I was treated like an honored guest. After two years of nothing but rudeness, insults and indifference, I felt as if I was in heaven.

Long story short (I'll tell it at length some other time), in August 1978, I was actually able to return to my old home in South Dakota -- alone -- and attend my entire senior year of school there. My parents were actually enlightened enough to trust me (my dad may have had enough of my continual complaining, too ;-). Besides, I stayed with some of their old acquaintances anyway, so they felt it was safe. Aside from the family with whom I stayed, it was a dream come true.
Endnote
Not long after moving here, it had become clear that my dad's "boss" had greatly exaggerated the "potential" of this area with regard to product sales. By then, my dad was too proud to admit his mistake, especially to me, because he would have been admitting that I, a mere kid, had been right about this place all along. Years later, when I was in college, and he was living in South Dakota, Montana or Wyoming, he admitted that I had been right about the people of this town all along. He had hated it here as much as I did. I refrained from screaming this question at him: "Then why did we stay?! And why did you let me think I was losing my mind all those years?!" His reply: "Because you were a pain in the ass back then. I wasn't about to let you know that you were right."]

What, Really, is Patriotism?

Since the 1950s (during Senator Joseph McCarthy's sham "communist witch hunt"), conservatives have been determined to force us (what an irony) to return to the "way things used to be" in this country, with "traditional values" of patriotism, flag waving, mindless, unquestioning devotion to every whim and desire of our [republican] leaders, blah, blah, blah. I would especially like any "conservative" who stumbles upon this entry to think about that as he or she reads the following timeless editorial by Margaret Deland (1857-1945). As you read it, please keep in mind that it was published 90 years ago this month -- smack dab in the center one of those eras to which you would have us return -- in The Ladies’ Home Journal. I think this editorial, which I have loved since I first discovered it twenty years ago, is especially timely on this 4th of July 2006, as most Americans watch in stunned disbelief as the Bush Administration slowly attempts to destroy our Constitutional freedoms, and calls true American patriots "terrorists" because they dare to question and/or expose the criminal (nay, evil) activities of this truly sick and twisted administration. Some of you may not consider it an "easy" read in certain places. Please don't let that deter you from reading all of it, for it really packs a punch:

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What, Really, Is Patriotism? By Margaret Deland July 1916

I might as well confess at once that I would not drink to Decatur’s toast: “Our country! In her intercourse with foreign nations may she always be in the right; but our country, right or wrong!” On the contrary, I believe of my native land, when it comes to toasts, that they

“… best honor her Who honor in her only what is best.”

And yet I do not think I am one of those persons with

“… soul so dead Who never to himself hath said, This is my own, my native land!”

But whether I may be called patriotic depends upon what patriotism, in a democracy, means. Does it involve the abrogation of individual judgment and, coincidentally, individual conscience? Is a man unpatriotic who refuses to support his nation with voice and sword when, in his judgment, she is doing wrong? Is he patriotic when he does so support her? The definition of the word patriotism does not answer these questions; the dictionary sums it up in those master words of human life — love and service: “Patriotism: Love of country; the passion inspiring one to serve one’s country.” But this only removes the difficulty by one step, because of course the question arises, what do we mean by “country”? The eagle screams, or the lion roars; the citizen boasts; the tourist sees his colors in a foreign land, and his throat tightens — all for love of — something. The train full of Americans who swarmed out of their cars in Germany a year ago last August [1914, the start of World War I], to stand on the platform of a railroad station and, reaching up trembling hands, touch the American flag, the tears wet upon their faces, loved and were ready to serve — something. Just what is it that rouses such poignantly true emotion? Of course it is not the land — the earth; not

“… thy rocks and rills, Thy woods and templed hills.”

Is it, then, the people who dwell in the land? It appears not, because the man who so loves his country that he would die for her has not the slightest impulse to die for an unknown fellow citizen. The woman who wept when she touched the flag never dreams of serving her next-door neighbor. No one would say of any other individual, merely because he was a fellow countryman: “This person, right or wrong! I will love and serve this man, or even this group of men, whose course is opposed to all I call right.” “Country,” then, is not the land, nor the people who live in it — the good, bad, stupid, vulgar folk all about us — ourselves, in fact. And if patriotism does not mean love and service of the people of the nation, it cannot mean love and service of the nation of people — the aggregation of fellow citizens. If they were all blotted out but one man, his country would remain! Now the only things in the world which always remain, which cannot be annihilated, and to which a man may dedicate himself, his soul and body, in reasonable and living sacrifice, are ideas. So I think that, in its last analysis, country, to any man, of any nation, is an idea. It prompts to deeds — golden deeds of courage and self-sacrifice and aspiration; and, as the years and generations pass, these deeds build themselves into that vast edifice of nationality, rounded with the dome of many-colored glass, in which the spirits of men are sheltered. It is interesting to see how, under each nation, lies its own idea — good or bad — its cornerstone for the edifice of life. The very old nations are permanent only as their ideas are permanent: China continues to be China because of ancestor worship; India, broken into bits, invaded and conquered by another nation, coheres and is still India because of the idea of caste. The idea that has made England England is liberty; and until liberty is dead England will live. In the delirium of 1792 old France died with the ceasing of its old ideas — and a new idea, Equality, was born. The idea of the United States is Democracy [actually, it's supposed to be liberty]. If we concede country to be, not us, with our blunders and trivialities and egotisms, but the idea that has made us a nation, it seems to me possible for a man to call himself patriotic and yet repudiate the conduct of his countrymen. That is what a certain English officer did at the time of the Boer War. He was one of many Englishmen who thought England wrong — so wrong that he did his best to thwart her wicked purpose, to save her from herself. He entered the Boer Army. That last is unthinkable to me; I could refuse to fight for my nation, but I could not fight against her; her soul might go; perhaps she might be spiritually dead; but to fight her would be like striking a dead face which once I had kissed! Yet certainly it took courage for this soldier to turn his sword against England; it took love; it meant service. And, also, it meant the utmost arrogance of judgment. The mugwump is always arrogant — the group mind says so. When the single fish swims against the school no doubt all the rest of the fish say, “Bosh!” and call him a traitor; but who can say that the perverse and conceited minnow may not have, somewhere in his dim brain, a vision to which he dare not be disobedient? I don’t mean to deduce from this that the rebel is necessarily a patriot; he is just as apt, perhaps more apt, to be a self-seeker. But certainly the patriot is sometimes a rebel. History is full of passionate minnows who in their agony of conscience earn, while they are alive, the name “traitor,” and when they die are called “Patriot.” Charles Fox was patriotic when, loving liberty, he denounced the English Government for its attempt to coerce the American Colonies, and was called an enemy of England. Zola was patriotic when he cried out, “I accuse!” — and instantly, with “A bas Zola!” the people, in a hurricane of rage, roared hatred of the traitor and denial of the creating idea of France — Equality. As for our idea — that idea for which

“… the embattl’d farmers … … fired the shot heard round the world” —

when we, the people, have trailed it in the dust of apish imitation of the undemocracy of foreign countries, of commercial selfishness, of cheap Fourth-of-July militarism, there have always been single voices crying in the wilderness, single “traitors” who bade us remember our inheritance from the fathers and save our soul (which is Democracy) alive! We have done our best to stifle these patriots, even to the extent of dragging them through the streets of Boston with ropes about their necks. Yet in spite of such things, in spite of us, and our betraying majorities, America’s creating idea still survives, and is something to love and serve, to live and die for! Of course the “betraying” majorities” — or what I like to call the Group Mind — brings to the individual mind puzzling questions about duty. I suppose that in every national crisis men ask themselves whether patriotism means loyalty to parties and governments. If it does, then, as Johnson said, patriotism may be the last refuge of a scoundrel. Faithfulness to country must sometimes involve unfaithfulness to countrymen. The patriot must denounce the government when he thinks it betrays the creating idea; he may even refuse to serve it. If he does otherwise; if, seeing what he thinks is right, he pursues the wrong — if “Faith, unfaithful, keeps him falsely true” — then he is loyal, not to country, not to principles, but to persons; for parties and majorities are only persons. It is that kind of loyalty—that small conception of patriotism — which has wrought evil and suffering in the world, and is the deep cause and root of the awful irrationality called war. So I come back to my belief that Decatur’s speech is an insult to intelligence and morality, and that his patriotism was no deeper than his wine glass! I believe of

THE PATRIOT AND HIS COUNTY — Lover he is, and slave without wage! On bended knee he takes her high command And on his heart he wears her glowing gage — Memories, and hopes, and deaths from her dear hand. But should her lips betray her mighty past, Deny his Dead their deaths for Liberty, Shame the unborn, put first what should be last — Her Lover loves me no more! Her slave is free!