Huntington

I am taking a computer science class where I am learning the programming language C++. The hardest part of the class is finding time to do the work. Because I am familiar with HTML and CSS, and had started to learn JavaScript, the concepts of programming make a lot of sense to me. Despite having difficulty keeping up with the assignments, I am in a position to help some of the other students. The student that I have been helping the most is unsurprisingly the one that I sit next to. This student (lets call him Jim) is eighteen years old and is going into computer science as a major. We first got talking when he was having trouble loading the text editor / compiler on his laptop because it was running windows 8 (which is still in prerelease preview). Since then we have talked a little more each class session.

This last class session we spoke about some more personal matters. We got to talking about our shared love of coffee (Jim works at a Starbucks) and I told him about how it helps me focus and keeps my eyes lubricated (I have shitty tear ducts). I also mentioned that I don’t like the addiction part of it. Jim told me that isn’t the worst part for him as he smokes. We got into a discussion about smoking and how one gets started in such an anti-smoking culture as Southern California. All this was regular small talk until he told me why he isn’t afraid of the consequences of smoking. Jim’s family has a history of Huntington’s Disease.

What more do you say after something like that. None of us know when we will die but Jim has a better guess than most. He alluded to having watched his family members go through the wasting effects of the disease and told me that he has thus far avoided learning too much about it. He is trying to focus on living his life and not think too hard about the game of genetic roulette that he is subject to. After a rough pause and some sad words we forged on to easier topics, but I have not been able to shake the thought.

This really made me grateful for my health. I know that I would react in a different way than Jim has and try to learn all I could about the disease. I would get my DNA sequenced and find out for sure if I had the gene. What terror it is to know that you have a 50% chance of an incurable degenerative disease when you reach somewhere around 35 to 40 years of age.

What an unfair world we live in.

Redeployment

My brother’s Deployment ceremony was this past weekend. The last two times he was sent off to war he was stationed in Washington so I wasn’t able to go to the ceremony if there even was one. This time I went. I had to leave early because of a test in the Cisco class that I was taking but I was there for an hour. The ceremony was essentially a block of solders sitting while some officers talked about how proud they were of them and of the unit in general. Then they sang the army song and fell out.

It was an emotional ceremony for me because it called to mind how it was during his second deployment to Iraq, when I wasn’t sure if I would ever see him again. My brother is very important to me. He has been my guide and friend and has helped me find my way more times than I can count. Anyone who knows the two of us can see how similar and how in sync we are.

This time I am less afraid for his life. I know that he will be working at a higher echelon than the last time and that he will not be on patrols. What I am afraid of is that he will be hurt, not hurt physically but mentally. I know that war has changed him. Seeing and doing the things that a soldier does and being in a place where there are people lurking with hatred in their hearts waiting for the chance to kill whomever they can has altered the landscape of his life. He can no longer enjoy fireworks on Independence Day, and he gets angry and frustrated quicker than he used to.

I am afraid that he will come back even more changed. That the scars that are already there under the surface will be added to. I am afraid that he is paying into this war with his mental health and his best physical years. I am afraid that he will come back and give in to the thought of being a career soldier and spend the rest of his life in the armed services, where things are structured and predictable.

Seeing this ceremony made me a little emotional. I am afraid that I could lose him, angry that he has to go, sad for everyone who's family has to be kept apart for this mad war. I hate seeing him go willingly to where he will be hurt again. He goes for honor and duty and because he promised he would and I would never ask him to forsake all that, so I stand by and watch it all happen again. It is hard to keep from going into a rant at this point. I want to ramble on about political will and cultural incompatibility but that isn’t the point. The point is that I don’t want to lose my brother.

Failure

Things have been bad for a while. I have less and less money every month. My job gives me only a day of work for every week or two, and I have not been able to find another job. Part of this is may be my unwillingness to search for retail positions. The end result is that I am once again looking to move back in with my mother. This time I will be taking my girlfriend with me.

This has been both a difficult and simple decision. I know that the rent that we are paying is unnecessary. I know that I will have the same amount of autonomy that I have now. I will also have access to more crafting space in the garage. I will be able to focus on getting my bachelors degree in as short a time as possible, without the added pressure of needing to work.

The problem is a social one. I have to move back into my mothers house after a second failed attempt to live on my own. Novia and I will once again be sharing our space. It is a hard thing to consider. I look around at the home we have put together and see that in two months, when our lease it up, it will all be gone. Our home will be dismantled, and the pieces will never again form the configuration that they hold now. The home that this apartment represents will cease to be. It will be another white box in another pile of boxes and the time we spent here will be over.

It feels like I have failed.

It hurts. 

Old Friends

Facebook is an interesting thing. It serves as a sort of portal into another person's life. It has become an absolutely crucial tool to keep in touch with some of my friends who live far away or travel in different circles, but tonight I see it in a different way.
Tonight I am looking at the facebook profile of a friend of mine for whom I acted as best man when he was married. I had stumbled onto his profile and then browsed his recent pictures. I was about to say that I can't remember the last time we hung out but I can because it happens so infrequently these days and it was more than 6 months ago. It makes me sad, but I understand why.
(here is the part of the post where I get more specific and the two guys to whom the above applies figure out which one of them I am posting about)
We have known each other since high school and were constantly at each other's houses for years but all that tapered off. I don't blame his wife who is the force that changed him and enabled most of the things that keep us from being closer but the truth is that he doesn't need me any more. He has his shit together now and sets and attains his goals like he never could before. She has made him into a more complete person. I have never gotten along that well with the wife but I recognize that she is good for him, and that they love each other very much. Now despite us living about 15 minutes from each other, we never meet up. We do different things, go different places, and have different goals.
I know that people change and that people have some friends for a couple of months, some for years and some for the rest of their lives. It is just strange to see the friends with whom our bonds have long since slackened still living out their lives in different ways so close and yet unseen except for through the crystal ball of facebook.
I know that you are going to call me bro (you were always better at that then I), and we should meet up and get caught up. maybe lunch...

R.I.P.

Grand Master Chong S. Kim, the founder of Kim's hapkido died last week. Even though my Dojo no longer carries his name (we switched to Mile High Karate about 6 months ago) and even though I never met the man in person, he had an enormous effect on my life. He taught Master Les Connard who is the master of the Dojo where I train and it is the Jang Mu Won style that he taught that I learned. His teaching and the sense of family that he instilled in his dojo will stay with me for the rest of my life.