Give and Take

When we heard the diagnosis, I remember thinking “well, that’s what you get when you’ve smoked for fifty years,” a viewpoint that was unfortunately and, somewhat horrifically, echoed by my father. Theirs was a strained relationship, so while Dad was dealing with the understanding that a significant part of his life was in great peril, I was dealing with the all-knowing adolescence within me. Or perhaps it was merely a front, a way to push the loss away. Though, having seen my grandfather maybe one week out of every year, I can’t say I felt much anyway.

I do remember things, now and again. Most often through those items of his that are now in my possession. I remember playing games. Cribbage, which he taught my brother and I. Rummy. Trouble. The game doesn’t matter so terribly much. What does matter, what strikes me during these moments of reflection, is the steady breathing with which my grandfather attended his every move, his every play. In one of the creation stories from Genesis, God breathed life into the lifeless clay and formed Adam and Eve. That was the breath of my grandfather. I sometimes wonder if it was the cancer breathing or if it was just him, but his ghostly yet comfortably even breath chilled me. I would revel in his respiration. The mental gears working, the coming to conclusion, the acting out of a maneuver—all of these were revealed in that steady breath. Seeing and hearing the unspoken genius of my bloodline at work, I marveled at it.

It is interesting to me that the two things I remember most of my grandfather are those so diametrically opposed to one another—the breathing to the maintenance of life, and the cancer to its detriment. When my grandfather died we flew down for the funeral. He was placed in the veteran’s memorial. I don’t remember where it is. But I do remember the ten gun salute, the roses we laid on the casket, and my uncle breaking down in tears.

A year later, when my grandmother had finished going through his possessions, we returned via station wagon to collect those items which were “up for grabs,” so to speak. I vaguely remember some of the things I took, or was given—two white shirts, one with a bald eagle reading “Freedom is not Free.” Another with a western landscape, and “Running Strong for American Indian Youth.” (Wrapped in their original plastic, they were little more than freebies, even to him, but I took them anyway). A machete with “1945 U.S.” stamped into the blade. A metal wall cross. Some old tools. A red handkerchief. Most importantly though, to my fourteen year old self as well as to me now: a short sleeved army relief, with a “LUND” name patch above the right breast pocket.

Given my age at the time and my compatibility with the typical action-starved-teenager role, this jacket was the ultimate method of breaking through to that alternative action world. I wanted to wear it everywhere—at home, at school, on the bus. Without regard to my grandfather, I aimed to use the jacket as a means to an experience.

My parents had other plans—I could hang it up in my closet, and be content just knowing it was there. The reasoning was sound, if a little outdated. My mom thought that the crazies might take a shot at me, out of some misguided anti-Americanism. My grandmother thought it would be disrespectful, to the point that she invoked my grandfather’s will as well. My father didn’t say anything, but I could see that he agreed. My father doesn’t stay silent if he disagrees.

---

As time has gone on, I’ve realized that the jacket and the LUND patch on it represent more of a shared history than a personal one. In its time of use, it referred specifically to Andrew Christoffer Lund, military Seargeant in Vietnam and Korea. As a relief, it was used in the time of peace between conflicts, or for times away from combat in the military camps. I can’t be certain of its exact origins, but that I can be fairly sure of.

Now, in my possession, it does not have the immediacy of military context. That takes a backseat to the familial connections it allows. Certainly, my grandfather was doing great things while in the possession of the jacket. And I can’t help but try and take up that mantle, to be my very best if for nothing else than for my ancestry, to whom I owe my existence.

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I didn’t know my grandfather long enough or well enough to know what he thought of me. Did he harbor expectations? Resentments? Which if any of my pursuits would he approve?

I approach these questions with a social curiosity expected of my generation. We swim through the waters of our world always asking, always probing—what does she think of me? What about him? In my case it is almost universally a search for approval. Acknowledgment. Maybe even acceptance. We exist in the eyes of others.

But in the case of my grandfather, who I never knew, the question leaves a different taste in my mouth. A funny one. So when my family told me, unanimously no less, to hang it away, the hole I felt inside was more than the superficial action-seeker undercut by paternal reason. It had more to do with the fact that I had finally found a way to share a space with my grandfather. To get inside his skin, or carry him with me, or whatever. Regardless, the relief jacket was and is my closest link to him.

Genetically, I am 25% Andrew Christoffer Lund, and 50% Andrew Christoffer Lund Jr. The same is true of my brother, Andrew Christoffer Lund III. I mention this because, aside from being the second child, the younger brother, I am also the one who does not bear my grandfather’s name. But I believe that he is watching me with, at the least, some curiosity. I believe that other ancestors, even more distant, are lining up to get a seat.

So at night when I go to bed, regardless of their characters, I give a wave and a bow to the multitude of my past that is forever cheering me on. It’s a give and take: I keep them alive—they keep me honest.

And in my darker times I put it on, the jacket, and let my military history well up within me. It is a history of power: the power of my grandfather, the power, though often questionable, of the US government. It is the power of breath, the weight of death, and the promise of life rolled into one.

As for Why I Use an Ekans

I think I owe the Waichowsky brothers a good deal of money for their movie Speed Racer. Not that I pirated it or anything—just that I never saw it in theatres and, well, I’ve watched the DVD more times than a DVD probably should be watched. I like to keep some sort of track of how often I’ve seen my favorite films. For the shock value, I guess, when I tell my friends. It’s not as if I sit around all day and watch movies though. It’s just that I, instead of going to theatres, renting other movies, or buying new ones, am often quite content to see the same four or five films over and over again.

I’ve seen Serenity over twenty times (my estimate is twenty-one), Batman Begins around fifteen, and Speed Racer, well, I must be nearing fifteen with that film as well.

There’s a common theme here. Take Serenity: space cowboy Malcolm Reynolds, while harboring fugitives from the oppressive Alliance, stumbles on a truth so earthshattering that it threatens to topple the entire regime. He—although a bandit, smuggler, and thief by day—risks life, limb, and crew in the service of broadcasting this revelation. At any time he could have sold out Simon and River, the two fugitives, but he does not. In the face of all that feels right, he does instead what is right. (Not to moralize the film for you. The film does that for itself.) Batman Begins is the story of vigilante justice, as is Speed Racer to some degree. They’re all about overcoming. Perseverance. Integrity.

Lofty words that operate on a much smaller scale here in the real world.

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Me: you know, I've still never been to a college party

John: heh, you're gonna haveta fix that someday
it's something one should experience, even if one doesn't enjoy it

Me: wtf are you saying

John: what I mean? (and meaning what I say?)

Me: I don't understand
wait, do poker parties count?
there was on occasion loud music and alcohol

John: >_>

Me: what do you want/expect from me?

John: dancing, alcohol, girls
poker is allowed if you have to drink after losing a hand

Me: but the only drink I like is whisky
and nobody keeps that laying around

John: haha, you're like an old english gentleman
don't get me wrong, beer sucks ass. Don't think I'll ever enjoy that drink.

Me: anyway, I'm in no position to even be invited to parties
I have no community through which I might access such things

John: you'd be surprised

Me: and all this before the consideration of whether or not I'd want to

John: yup
simply acknowledging the possibility

Me: I find possibility to be irrelevant of late

John: of late?

Me: yeah
I am here
stuff is there:
irrelevant

John: huh?

Me: I have enough to worry about without chasing the shadows of ghosts of constructs that I’m not interested in to start with

John: ghosts? Constructs? Dude, I know you're a creative writing major but seriously?

Me: I'm speaking about the relativity of existence

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At its heart, Speed Racer is a movie about three things; doing what you love, doing what’s right, and never giving up. Bright colors, quirky editing, and dramatic lighting, in defiance of convention, come standard.

---

When I was younger, I wanted to be a computer programmer. To my child’s mind, it sounded like the ultimate job—computers were at that time already integral components of pretty much everything, so the job market would be easy to slide into. Plus, I was pretty sure that programming computers paid well.

I wrote an exploratory paper about the work of a programmer in a paper for my eighth grade English paper. I discovered why computer programmers are paid so well. Their job is boring and tedious, and I would never make it.

Mr. Jones introduced me, effectively, to the world of science. Seemingly more amenable than computer programming, it held my interest until the first quarter of college, where a difficult calculus class showed me that I would never be happy there either.

---

John: I'm still a bit confused as to your reasons. You want to experience college, yeah?

Me: beats me
what's college?

John: good question
only one way to find out though
and it's not second hand

Me: that's a fallacy
x exists
let's experience x, it must be fun

John: yeah, I know, I know
how about this then, writers draw from experience

Me: but not specific experience

John: nope

Me: if that were the case, all writing would be the same
would you like me to write a vampire novel too?

John: YES!

Me: why would I write about something I have nothing to say about?

John: oh, vampires are simply an embellishment of many human things
lust, sin, using people
...bats
all of which can be found at any good party =P

Me: but they are not the only embellishment of human things
they are only one

John: but you're avoiding my main point

Me: you're discarding my retort

John: I mean, if you honestly don't want the experience, far be it from me to say you should have it

Me: what is the experience? I'm not trying to be existential
i mean, let's define what I'm passing up on

John: why, the quintessential college party!

Me: what is it?
beyond names
beyond categories
what am I missing out on?

John: hard to say in words

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Sometimes when I fantasize about having children, I wonder if it’s not just because I want to be around people who understand me.

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In biblical times, the transformation from boy to man took place quickly, culminating in five quick social steps that facilitated the transformation. In modern times, capitalist media has encouraged if not created a stage of life in between—we call this stage adolescence. In it, we have been convinced that we are defined (passive voice) by what we consume as opposed to what we produce. I consume the heroes of movies and produce none of my own heroics.

But at the same time, I consume food and produce something decidedly less than foodlike.

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Me: dude, fuck zubat, seriously

John: fuckin' zubat.
can't do shit

Me: tell that to my ekans
he's the one getting destroyed by a zubat less than half his level
Christ

John: why would you use an ekans?

Me: for fun

John: even arbok isn't so good

Me: you'd never guess it but using unconvential pokemon makes the game much more interesting

John: I see