#writing

The Supreme Court ruled in US v. Skrmetti that the state of Tennessee is allowed to ban gender-affirming care for minors. The plain outcome is bad (trans health care bans for minors are legal). The implications are even worse (who's to say you can't ban trans health care for everyone in a given state? What's stopping Congress from trying to enact such a ban nationwide?).

And worst – from a legal perspective – multiple justices outright stated that discrimination against trans people is fine (either because we haven't been discriminated against enough in the past), but the entire majority opinion rests on the notion that trans people are not a "suspect" class in terms of the law, and therefore states only need a "rational basis" for their laws oppressing them.

It's bad, y'all.

There's some pyrrhic fun to be had in cherry-picking the Court's stupider lines of "logic":

Roberts also rebuffed the challengers’ assertion that the Tennessee law, by “encouraging minors to appreciate their sex” and barring medical care “that might encourage minors to become disdainful of their sex,” “enforces a government preference that people conform to expectations about their sex.”

But it's decidedly less than the overwhelming fear and anxiety that arose in me when this was announced.

I'm going to state this very clearly: My first thought was, for my safety, I should leave the country. And I'm stating right now that anyone who does so is making a logical decision to ensure their continued wellbeing.

The executive and legislative branches now have all but full clearance from the Supreme Court to treat trans individuals as sub-citizens. We can have our medical decisions dictated for us by statute, and there's really very little logic stopping them from enacting all sorts of rules that now need only survive rational basis scrutiny – a particularly wishy-washy standard in light of the Court's ignoring or outright inventing facts and precedents to support their desired outcomes.

I’ve read at least one piece that argues against what is described as “catastrophizing.” From the perspective of not wanting people to give up the fight before it’s begun, I absolutely agree. If it’s an exhortation to rally, I’m all for it.

But I don’t want to ignore reality.

The article harkens to Stonewall, Compton and Cooper Donuts, but those are cited as tragic marks on a trail toward the perceived “good” we have it now (or had it before Trump II). There’s an implicit assumption of the notion that arc of history bends toward progress.

That’s not particularly helpful to individuals, or even groups at any given point in time.

We are spoiled, as Americans (and, more broadly, the West) in our political and historical stability post-WWII. We have not seen long periods of want or famine, and life has generally gotten better year-over-year, or at least generation over generation.

We have not (until recently) seen what happens when people collectively are gripped (or engulfed) by fear. Fear of losing what they have, fear of losing their social standing, fear that their lives as they know it are no longer possible.

But we’re seeing it now, especially on the American right. The elderly see that their retirement savings and Social Security payments no longer stretch as far as they once did, or were imagined to. Everyone sees higher prices on every possible item or service, and imagines or lives through the reality of being forced to move for economic reasons, rather than by choice.

Fear is a powerful motivator. When you’re overworked and stressed and concerned about your livelihood, you might not have the inclination or ability to do your research on claims about who’s responsible or plans that promise to fix a nebulous problem.

And there are those who will, who have, taken advantage of that.

So when I hear calls to just fight on, that our victories were forged in defeat, or most damningly:

“I do suspect they knew what we could stand to remember: you can’t burn us all.”

They can certainly fucking try. “You can’t burn us all” is not empirically correct, which is why the term “genocide” exists. And there are certainly those on the right who would certainly take it in the form of a challenge.

I don’t say this to alarm. This doesn’t mean we should give up, or live cowering in fear.

But It is important to be cognizant of the choices we make, to consider the rational possibilities, instead of comforting ourselves in aphorism. To not vilify or try to convince people that fighting for a just future courts no danger in the present.

I believe that staying is definitely a more dangerous move than leaving, at this point. But I also decided to stay, willingly, weighing everything and figuring that this is the better path for me. It is not without concern or worry; it is a decision, and a tough one, nonetheless.

I quite often find myself paraphrasing Ira Glass, most famously the host of This American Life, in his depiction of the creative process. Essentially, he argues, those prone to creativity first learn their taste by consuming the art in their desired medium. Writers read voraciously, dancers watch professionals (and those who are just very talented), aspiring auteurs devour every film they can get their hands on.

But, paradoxically, in developing their taste these emerging artists often find that, when they go to create works of their own, just … sucks. Though prodigies they may be, their work often as not carries the qualifier “for your age,” or “for your level.” Their taste outstrips their talent.

And this is where many creators fall into a hole that some of them never escape from. “I know what good looks like, and I can’t achieve it. Therefore, why bother?”

It’s a dangerous trap, and one that can only be escaped from by digging through to the other side.

I find myself coming back to this idea in the era of generative artificial intelligence. I’ve been reading story after story about how it’s destroying thought, or how many people have replaced Jesus (or, worse, all sense of human connection) with ChatGPT. The throughline that rang the truest to me, however, views the problem through the lens of hedonism:

Finally, having cheated all the way through college, letting AI do the work, students can have the feeling of accomplishment walking across the stage at graduation, pretending to be an educated person with skills and knowledge that the machines actually have. Pretending to have earned a degree. If Nozick were right then AI would not lead to an explosion of cheating, because students would want the knowledge and understanding that college aims to provide. But in fact many just want the credential. They are hedonists abjuring the development of the self and the forging of their own souls.

To me, the primary problem with using generative AI to replace communication of most sorts (I will grant exceptions chiefly for content that has no ostensible purpose for existing at all, e.g., marketing and scams) is that it defeats the primary goal of communication. A surface-level view of communication is the transferance of information; this is true inasmuch as it’s required for communication to happen.

But in the same sense that the point of an education is not obtain a degree (it’s merely a credential to prove that you have received an education), the primary function of communication is connection; information transfer is the merely the means through which it is accomplished.

So my worry with AI is not only that it will produce inferior art (it will), but that it will replace the spark of connection that brings purpose to communication. Worse, it’ll dull the impetus to create, that feeling that pushes young artists to trudge through the valley of their current skills to get to the creative parks that come through trial, error and effort. After all, why toil in mediocrity to achieve greatness when you can instantly settle for good enough?

We need structure. We need rules, we need frameworks, we (for the love of God) need grammar. We, in this instance, are writers, and the things I refer to are often the crutches we employ in order to quickly impart whatever it is we're trying to get across.

But there's support a difference between support and constraint. One is there for you to fall back on, allowing you the opportunity to test your wings while still giving you a safe fall. The other informs your actions strictly, restricting your abilities and motion to the point where you've almost lost agency.

Guess which category I'm talking about with regard to journalism.

There's a reason the inverted pyramid exists and has been adopted by the journalism profession as the general template for telling a story: It makes sense for a lot of them. You start out with a very specific idea and then go broad the more you write. It keeps young writers from getting too bogged down in specifics, while also making sure they're not taking the 10,000-foot view on everything.

It's a guideline ... And that's all it should be: a guide. It's not inviolate, and it's by no means the best format for every story out there. Even more so than the idea that each story should be expressed in the best format possible, there are almost zero stories where a strict inverted pyramid is called for.

I get why it's taught — it's much easier to both instruct/grade according to a strict rubric rather than arbitrarily [and arduously] reading and weighing the subjective value of every piece of writing. But the problem is there's no point where, after the young journalist is instructed in the use of the inverted pyramid, permission is given to leave it behind when necessary.

I'll use for emphasis the story on a federal judge ruling against one of the NSA's data-collection policies, from Reuters. For starters, like most stories nowadays, it's overly long for its ostensible purpose: To inform readers about the specific case. Indeed, all of the actual data from today is imparted before the "Leaks" subheader, which isn't even halfway through the story. The rest of the story comprises reactionary quotes ("Snowden, in a statement sent by journalist Glenn Greenwald, applauded the ruling"), unnecessary (peculiarly editorialized) background ("Judge Leon has issued headline-making rulings before.") and the wire service staple, tangential information recycled from other stories:

A committee of experts appointed by the Obama Administration to review NSA activities is expected to recommend that the spy agency give up collection of masses of metadata and instead require telephone companies to hold onto it so it can be searched. But intelligence officials and the phone companies themselves are said to oppose such a plan.

Now, you might be able to argue that were this in print, it might be necessary to include some of this information to give readers background. But, since the information is being sent across something literally called the "Hyper-Text Transfer Protocol" (where hypertext is defined as a "format in which information related to that on a display can be accessed directly from the display"), there's absolutely no reason for that information to be there on its own.

Maybe — maybe — you could leave the lines about the judge's past rulings and the NSA review if you linked to relevant stories, as that might be of use to the readers. On their own, though, the lines appear to be nothing more than inch-count padding.

At best, journalists only gradually break away when they feel they can get away with it, either on low- or extremely high-profile stories. This, coupled with the mathematical truth that most stories are not situated on either extreme but rather complacently down the middle, means a majority of news comes across in an outdated, unnecessary and (above all) congenitally boring format. It's a trap that young reporters get ensnared in quite easily, and it goes beyond just the structure.

In the AP story, while the structure isn't quite so rigid, it still includes drop-ins like "The collection program was disclosed by former NSA systems analyst Edward Snowden, provoking a heated national and international debate." This sentence underwhelms so utterly as to be entirely pointless. Reading it contributes absolutely nothing to the understanding of the story unless you've already retained a fairly exhaustive knowledge of the context. It's the equivalent of a series tag, a sort of textual cue to let people know, "Oh, this is part of the Snowden story." It doesn't actually impart any information. I'll resort to a David Foster Wallace quote to drive my point home:

I think the smarter thing to say is that in many tight, insular communities — where membership is partly based on intelligence, proficiency, and being able to speak the language of the discipline — pieces of writing become as much or more about presenting one's own qualifications for inclusion in the group than transmission of meaning. ... people feel that unless they can mimic the particular jargon and style of their peers, they won't be taken seriously, and their ideas won't be taken seriously.

In this case it's more style than jargon, but both manifest themselves eminently on a daily (often hourly) basis, online and in print. Even specific words can easily be overused — and, though they accurately depict something, their frequency of use lessens the impact and clarity.

The standard caveat: I'm not saying it's wrong to use the technique. Just don't become beholden to it. Be willing to take risks. Explore and discover the best way for letting people know (Ibid.) the story you're trying to tell. You can use the inverted pyramid, and the intertextual dog whistle, but you should only do so when you must.

With the advent of the popular internet, there are many literary, journalistic and writerly types who lament the reclassifying of writing as "content." I would think the best way to fight that trend is to stop treating your own output as content, and start reconceptualizing it (even in your own mind) as true writing.

Oh! I have the slipped the surly bonds of Earth — Put out my hand and touched the Face of God

"High Flight," John G. Magee Jr.

There is a fifth dimension beyond that which is known to man. It is a dimension as vast as space and as timeless as infinity. It is the middle ground between light and shadow, between science and superstition, and it lies between the pit of man's fears and the summit of his knowledge. This is the dimension of imagination. It is an area which we call the Twilight Zone.

The Twilight Zone, Rod Serling

Space flights didn't use to have apexes. An apex is the top or highest part of something; in reference to flight, it describes the point where the craft is farthest away from the hard, unforgiving ground below. Airliners have an apex of about 40,000 feet over the earth, zipping along until they come to their point of destination, where they touch gently back down on the runway.

Space was different. When you reached the edge of outer space, it made no more sense to refer to your flight in relation to earth than it does to imagine our galaxy as a geocentric one. What is up when there is no gravity? What is down when you can look up and see the earth?

Even in reference to shuttles, which merely orbit the earth, the word "apex" seems inadequate. Using 5.6 million pounds of thrust, the gleaming white planes blasted into and out of the atmosphere riding the back of a rollicking red rocket en route to low orbit, high orbit or even the moon. For eons, man stared out into space (sometimes thinking it was God, other times thinking it filled with vermicious Knids) and wondered. The shuttle stood as the preeminent example of man matching up against nature. Not defeating it, mind you (see Titanic, The, for reasons why one should not think oneself above Mother Nature). But able to meet it on its own terms, to work together to harness the capability of man and prove ourselves not limited by constraints of time, energy or — finally — gravity.

As Discovery whisked away into the sky over Florida this afternoon on its final voyage, it signaled an end. Not an end to space flight, or technological advances, or (metaphorically or literally) even reaching for the stars. It signaled an end to an age of exploration, of adventure. It's an end of an era in which we thought there was still more to find out.

Think about it. I'm not claiming that there aren't still many (innumerable) scientific advances to be made, gadgets to be invented and boundaries to be pushed. But it does seem like the grand experiment, the drive to achieve a symbolic victory for humanity, rather than for country or group, does seem to have reached the end of its line.

Where once Houston and Cape Canaveral stood as the gateways to space, now there are "commercial spaceports" (or at least, very badly thought-out plans for them). We're not sending up publicly-funded vehicles in order to further scientific exploration, we're equipping wide-body 747s with harnesses and padding so the obscenely wealthy can feel the effects of barfing on a multiple-hundreds-of-thousands-of-dollars plane ride, in 30-second intervals.

It's not a symptom, but a side-effect, perhaps, of a society that seems to have turned from once noble — or merely not-shallow — goals. Where once people strove to became famous by displaying a talent or being the best at something, now they strive be famous for ... being famous. The superficiality that has infected our culture is seeping into what formerly were the bastions of rationality and solid principles; look no further than Climate-gate, or the fact that controversy constantly swirls around scientific theories manufactured because of "difference of opinions," or those who insist that the function of government is to lavish money upon the already wealthy at the expense of those who need help the most.

This is, undoubtedly, a rosy-colored view of the causes of history, but it's a clear-eyed look at the effects. Man untethered himself from the earth at Kitty Hawk, Man turned a weapon of unimaginable destruction at Nagasaki into a source of energy. And man wrenched himself free from terra firma and set himself down on another celestial body, for no other reason than he could.

I do not intend for this to be a eulogy for our collective exploratory nature, though it very well may serve as such. We seem to be set on a track that takes us further and further away from collective achievement and points squarely in the direction of personal accomplishment. This is not a plea to save the space program or pour more money into NASA. I don't know the feasibility of building new shuttles; I don't know the future. Nor, at this moment, do I particularly care to contemplate it.

Instead, I sat outside after work last night and looked up at the stars, just imagining what it was like. I sat watching the liftoff on the biggest TV I could find, trying to comprehend what it means to have multiple times the force of gravity strain to keep your body on the earth, but through the collective intelligence of generations rip yourself away.

Those who went before us soared so majestically they rendered the word we use to mean the highest altitude, apex, meaningless. How far up are we now meant to go? I can only hope that we, as a generation, as a society, as a species, follow their example: Don't worry about how high we can make it. Think instead in terms of how to redefine what it means to fly altogether.

Once six o’clock — my tenth hour of work — rolled around, I figured it was okay to take a call. It wasn't as if work was particularly difficult, being my first day and all, or even that I was busy. The last hour and half or so had been spent waiting on someone else to finish up. Until that point, I felt somewhat uncomfortable taking a personal call on the job. Now? Probably in the clear.

Around noon, I had checked Facebook and saw a note from an old high school friend who I hadn't spoken to in years. Under the subject heading, "Hey...", the rather cryptic message read, "You should call me today. It's important. Anytime after 1:00. My number is (###) ###-####."

With the office to myself, I decided to give him a call. I really couldn't fathom the reason he wanted me to call; I assumed there was some sort of party being planned, or some celebration in the offing.

When he picked up, the first thing he asked me was if I had heard about Rachel. I wasn't quite sure what he meant. We were the same age, having attended the same school from kindergarten right up through college. We were both in band, we had a number of activities and classes that overlapped, and I was fairly certain I had seen her at a barbecue two days before graduating college, about three months prior.

"No," I replied honestly. I hadn't really heard anything beyond the vagaries absorbed through Facebook. Things like extracurricular activities, internships and the like. When I heard who the call was in reference to, I kind of assumed she had done something major. Maybe she won some national award? Unsure as to why this required informing me, I really wasn’t sure what to expect. I certainly wasn’t ready to hear the news.

"Dead?..." I stammered. "How? What happened?" My mind raced through any number of scenarios: car crashes, plane crashes, muggings ...

"She killed herself."

"Oh."

Several seconds passed in silence.

"Wow."

"Yeah."

...

"Damn."

"Yeah."

He related how our band director heard the news, then instructed old students in the area to get ahold of those who might not have heard. Apparently, there was to be a memorial service held on Friday or Saturday. Would I be able to make it?

It was Tuesday. Literally my first week, my first day on the job. I hadn’t even filled out my W-4 yet. I had just finished getting my new apartment ready, and hadn’t even gotten my furniture out of storage. I was sleeping on an air mattress on the floor of my living room. Not to mention I now lived in another state, an additional 90 miles on top of the 250 miles I put between me and my hometown during college.

“If it’s on Saturday, I’ll absolutely be there. I probably can’t if it’s on Friday.”

We caught up a bit, then, about where our lives had taken us after high school, but I wasn’t paying a whole lot of attention. My mind just kept repeating what he had said, over and over. Finally, after wishing each other well, we hung up.

Rachel and I had our share of run-ins over the years. It wasn’t adversarial or anything like that. But from a very young age, both of us were culled from the herd as “smart kids.” Smart kids, in a school district like ours, were expected to do a lot. We were both taken out of classes for the “gifted” program in elementary school, sat next to each other in the “honors” classes in middle school, and frequented the same courses a year ahead of when we were supposed to in high school.

Smart kids aren’t the ones who wind up dead before they hit 30 – at least, not without a good reason. We can be victims of violent crime, sure. But it’s the other people in high school, the ones who don’t go anywhere, they’re the ones you read about in the newspaper. The obituary section is for the kid who never cared, who never tried; he’s the one who was caught stalking and trying to rape a teenager not a year and half after he graduated high school.

Not us.

I recalled a recognition luncheon, for a scholarship we both received. I hadn’t seen her there, but apparently my father ran into her father at some point, and they spoke. My dad told me that Rachel and her sister had apparently talked about me quite a bit. We were always at the head of the class, and whenever I would get a higher score on a test, they would return home and complain about it. I had never known this, but I always felt a certain sense of rivalry with them—and I lost just as often as I won.

I really didn’t know what to do at that point. I just stood in my office and stared at the Starbucks across the street. Standing 350 miles away from where everything was happening, where I felt I should be, I definitely felt lost.

My fingers played with my phone. I had to call someone, find someone I could share the news with. Problem was, I didn’t really keep in touch with anyone from high school. I kept in regular contact with two people: one I worked with, Dale, and one I went to school with, Mallory. Dale lived 15 miles away from my hometown; and besides, he was a guy—not the sort of person you talk to about these things. Mallory moved around a lot as a kid, only settling in Arlington her sophomore year. She didn’t really have the same connection with everyone, and talked to even fewer of them than I did.

I called Mallory.

I told her the news rather abruptly, and she was understandably shocked. She was probably more worried about me, as I kept stuttering, rushing through my sentences and trailing off. I felt bad about just dumping it on her without pretense, but how do you prepare someone for that sort of thing? “Hey, so you know how Michael Jackson died? Well, you’re never gonna believe this, but …”

There didn’t seem to be an appropriate segue.

We talked about how strange it was, how Rachel was the last person you’d ever expect to do something like that. I didn’t know much about her situation. I knew she had graduated and landed a pretty swank internship over the summer. I assumed she was still with the company, or looking for something else to do. Having just extricated myself from the pits of unemployment, I knew how difficult such a process could be, but it didn’t seem that overwhelming.

We talked for about 45 minutes, and she graciously told me I could crash at her place on Friday night if there was going to be a service on Saturday. She made me promise to keep in touch with her during the week, and we said good-bye.

I left work about half an hour later and walked to my apartment. I checked the mail, took off my shoes, sat down in front of my computer, and generally went about my business.

But in the back of my mind, thoughts were still festering. They strayed from the somber to the downright petty. I felt curiosity about what caused her to do it. Sadness and grief for Rachel’s family, who I didn’t know particularly well but had run into over the years. I particularly sympathized for Rachel’s twin sister—I couldn’t fathom how she felt. I wondered what was going to happen if I went to the funeral, and how I could possibly afford another trip to the Westside—considering I hadn’t gotten paid and had just finished buying everything for my new apartment.

As I struggled to force myself to fall asleep, my main focus was on the line of questioning Mallory kept up during our conversation.

“Why are you going to the service?” she asked. It wasn’t demanding, she honestly didn’t know why I would drive the six-plus hours just to attend a service for someone who I wasn’t very close to.

I started to speak, but hesitated. Truth be told, my reaction had been more gut instinct than anything else. No long-term planning guided my decision. I just said I would go.

“I feel a sense of obligation,” I finally decided upon.

“Obligation? Why would you be obligated to go to a funeral? It’s not like anyone’s going to look down on you for not making the trip,” she replied with infuriating logic.

“It’s not an obligation to them,” I answered. “It’s not for the people who are going to attend, it’s not even for the family… It’s for her. When you go to school with someone for that long, when you’re around them that much… You just have to, you know?”

She gave what can only be described as a verbal nod of assent, clearly unconvinced.

“What’s your earliest memory?” I asked.

“I don’t know. Probably something with my family, when I was a real little kid. Why?” she responded.

“I guess it kind of explains why I’m going,” I said. “My earliest memory, the very first thing I can remember, involves Rachel.”

“ It was in second grade, and she was wearing her glasses to school for the very first time. I can see her clearly, sitting there in Mrs. Webb’s class, and she is just bawling because she’s afraid she’s going to be teased.”

I fell silent for a moment.

“That’s why I feel obligated to go. My very first memory includes her. A lot of my high school memories from band include her. I even remember in middle school honors, we held weekly competitions where the winner would get to move either their or someone else’s seat, and one week I moved her. I don’t remember why, I don’t even remember where … but I know it was her.”

“Okay,” Mallory said after a pause. “That kinda makes sense.”

“Yeah,” I said. Not really, I thought.

They planned the service to be held in the performing arts center at the high school. This was actually going to be my first trip back to my hometown in at least three years, and the first time since the month after graduation I was going to see a sizable number of people I knew.

In another of many firsts, it was the first time I had seen the performing arts center, as it was built a year or two after I graduated. When I walked in the front doors, the first two people I saw were signing the guest book. One was my best friend throughout most of high school, with whom I had a falling-out with during junior year. The other was a mutual female friend.

I actually didn’t recognize him. I thought I knew who he was, but enough doubt remained in my mind to prevent initiating conversation for fear of being mistaken. It turned out not to matter, as the girl embraced me as soon as she saw me, calling me by a nickname I hadn’t heard in four and a half years.

As I made my way into the theater (and yes, it felt very strange walking into a theater for a memorial service), I saw grown-up versions of the kids I had known. Some of them were instantly recognizable, though only in two cases had they not aged a day. Others might as well have been ethereal phantoms from the 19th century, for all the familiar they seemed.

The crowd only half-filled the auditorium, with a clear physical delineation between those who knew her, and those who knew of her. I sat with the latter group, farther away from the stage.

Whether for good or bad, this was not the first memorial service I attended for a high school classmate who committed suicide. A boy involved in my youth group had done the same thing during my freshman year, so I felt oddly prepared for the service.

The service part was a bit strange, at least to me. I had never attended a Catholic memorial service, so I was a little overwhelmed by the iconography and rituals. Other than that, it seemed a normal (if such things can have a “normal”) memorial. The priest—for whatever reason—told us Rachel had been studying for her master’s at UW, and simply become overwhelmed by the pressures of life.

I was definitely not expecting the stories that came when they opened up the mic to the audience to share memories. The family went first, describing intimate moments most of us in the crowd were not privy to, but enjoyed for the love and warmth contained in the stories.

Then her kindergarten teacher stood up, describing how — even from that young age — she was bright, caring, and full of life. I was mildly surprised by this, as the woman who stood up was my kindergarten teacher as well. Apparently, our stories had been more intertwined than I thought.

Following that, a number of people affiliated with the college we both attended stood up and spoke of their remembrances. She had been a counselor who gave freshman tours, and a boy from her group related how personable she was. Another—who wasn’t even in her group—confirmed this. Members of the various student organizations she was involved in also spoke out, praising in her in the kindest possible terms.

By no means was I surprised that people would remember her in such a way, as it jibed perfectly with my own memories. What seemed strange about the whole thing was simply how much of her life had taken place after high school. A vast majority of the people in the audience knew her from her years in Arlington, yet there we were, hearing stories regarding things we never even thought about. Even I, who spent an additional four years at the same college, two of those at the student newspaper, didn’t know about them. Sure, some of the events sounded familiar — I knew what the tour group was, I knew the various organizations — but it still felt like hearing stories about a stranger.

As I imagine is the case with everyone, I had defined her in relationship to my own life. I don’t think this a terribly foreign concept. It’s a bit like playing peek-a-boo with a small child — once something’s gone out of their vision, they forget about it. In the same way, as people pass in and out of our lives, we are able to write their background stories only insofar as we know them. If you haven’t seen someone for a year, you can still pick up a friendship. But there are so many things, so many experiences they lived through, that you’ll never be able to truly comprehend. You’re left, instead, with a partial portrait — and I would imagine not a great many of them are ever completed.

Following the service, I reunited with a number of my favorite teachers and people from high school. A group of us hung out for a few hours, just as we used to. Then, just as I had driven back into my past, it was time to strike out again for the present.

Rachel still pops up in my thoughts every so often, though not nearly as much now as when it first happened. I’ll see a death notice while reading the news online, and that will get me thinking. Or her profile will pop in the “Mutual Friends” list when I’m randomly surfing Faceboook—that’s jarring, but not nearly as bad as the “you should reconnect” notifications that scared the absolute hell out of me.

But the strangest effect of all of this has to do with a song I hadn’t listened to in years. After getting my whole apartment set up, I went through and re-filled my iPod with a random assortment of music. While at work one day, about a week after the service, Vitamin C’s “Graduation (Friends Forever)” started to play. Even though the song was released in 2000, it nonetheless managed to ingrain itself as “the song” for every class from 2000-2005.

The opening lyrics go, “And so we talked all night about the rest of our lives/Where we're gonna be when we turn 25/I keep thinking times will never change/Keep on thinking things will always be the same/But when we leave this year we won't be coming back.”

The song doesn’t have the most beautiful melody. The lyrics are not terribly inspired. But for whatever reason, when I heard those words, I flat-out lost it.

I hurried to the bathroom, tears in my eyes, and haven’t been able to listen to the song since. I’m not sure I can. It’s the line, “Where we’re gonna be when we turn 25,” that gets me. When I hear it, I’m reminded of the simple but obvious fact that she’s not going to turn 25. The thought that, statistically, there will be probably others in my class who won’t turn 25 — maybe even me.

The second is stranger, though this time it has nothing to do with ephemeral pop culture. While it still holds true that I generally define the people I've known in terms of their entry into my consciousness, I also find myself spending greater amounts of times actively seeking them out. Where I previously just let those people go until they organically sprang back into my life (which, being 200+ miles away from most of them, didn't happen often), I now go out of my way to at least think about them, check up on Facebook and see what they're doing. Even though I do not see them any more often than before, their lives seem so much more relevant to me now, and thus their link more tangible.

I cannot, unfortunately, repeat the clichéd idea of the dead live on in the hearts of the living. I believe this sentiment denigrates the sanctity of death, shielding us from its permanence and functioning as an emotional crutch that allows denial and repression to linger on and strangle those left behind. Dead people have, in every respect, passed on. That does not, however, mean they did not have an impact while they were alive. What I will take away from Rachel are two things: the way in which my interactions with her shaped me (for the better, in every case I can think of), and the ability to pierce what previously seemed an impenetrable veil between the present and the past. I find myself much better able to comprehend others in their own right, rather than the imperfect refraction I saw when gazing through my personal perceptual prism.

Even though "Graduation" is skipped when I hit shuffle and barred from my iPod playlist, every time I hear it — or even when I’m reminded of it — I think about her, and what the entire experience meant to me. And once I'm ready and capable of hearing it without losing control, I hope it will signify a profound shift in my reaching out toward those friends who might once have fallen by the wayside.

At 4:27 p.m., Pullman shuts down. Classes are canceled, businesses will close and all eyes will be on the boys in red as they take on the boys in baby blue. Families will huddle around their televisions, office workers will huddle around their computer screens and thousands will stream into Beasley Coliseum to cheer on the Cougs with one voice.

At 4:27 p.m. in Seattle, a businessman in a sharply pressed suit will instruct his secretary he's leaving early, pick up the Cougar hat he's worn every day for the past 20 years from the coat rack and head on down to the nearest sports bar (he is a Cougar, after all). Once he walks in the door his eyes will be greeted with a sea of crimson, but he'll walk right over to the first purple coat he sees and sit down next to him. Their only exchange will be mutual nods, but it doesn't matter: Everyone's rooting for the same team today.

At 5:27 p.m. in Phoenix, at 6:27 p.m. in Kansas and at 7:27 p.m. in New York City, Cougars will come out of the woodwork. Proudly displaying their crimson and gray, they'll be keeping a sharp eye out all day long for fellow Cougs, and at the appointed hour they will gather 'round CBS to watch a truly historic Cougar sports moment unfold.

At this point, it almost doesn't even matter the Tar Heels are 3:1 odds to win the whole thing. Washington State, by contrast, is at 45:1.

But really, I think everyone's pretty satisfied to get here. Anything after this is almost gratis. Look how far this team has come: 12-15 in 2004, 11-16 in 2005 to 26-8 the last two years, with a shot at win #27. Not to mention senior center Robbie Cowgill's tie in the ASWSU election for District 7 senator. At this point, Glenn Johnson should probably watch his back; if Tony Bennett (or even Taylor Rochestie for that matter) ever gets it in his mind to run for mayor, I think he'd have a decent shot.

At this point, you can say only one thing to Weaver, Cowgill and Low: You did it. You've turned around a WSU program, long the laughingstock of the league, and brought it back to respectability. The Sweet 16 establishes the team as one of the truly elite in the nation. You don't owe anything to the university, the fans, or indeed anyone but yourselves. Just know the hearts, minds and throats of thousands of Cougar fans all around the world will be following the ecstasy and misery that can only come from an NCAA tourney game.

A special note to Aron Baynes: It's time now. It's time to shed the immature, pouting game you've lapsed into for the past two seasons. Every time we see flashes of brilliance from you, it's made all the worse when you revert back to hack-and-slash ticky-tack fouls. More than any other player on the court, you will decide this game. If everyone's clicking but you, the Cougars cannot win. If you play the same stingy defense, do the fundamental things (boxing out, rebounding) and limit your fouls the way you have in the first two games, you will decide the outcome of this game. Hell, if you can do that, next year the feared center everyone worries about won't be Tyler Hansborough or someone named Lopez; they'll be worried about Aron Baynes.

There's really nothing much left to say. For two hours, Cougar fans will experience something I would doubt many of them (everyone younger than 67) will be familiar with. They'll cheer with every 3-pointer and grimace with actual physical pain at every failed defensive stop, right alongside the players in Charlotte. But when it's all said and done, regardless of the outcome, WSU and yes the entire state of Washington, will stand proud, united.

Go Cougs.

It's always odd, walking the streets at night when everyone's away. Without exception, by the end of the weekend before a break Pullman empties and I am left to fend for myself among the other rejects and townies. 2 a.m. is a sufficiently creepy time in and of itself. Now, it's literally quiet enough to hear the buzzing of the electric lights in their faux-Victorian lampposts.

As I pad down the silent streets, a truly eerie sense surrounds me. On any normal night I'd be met by a motley assortment of groups and individuals in various stages of drunkenness. These encounters are always touchy, as inebriated Cougars range the full emotion gamut from happy to out-and-out vituperation.

This night is different. Though not quite empty, College Hill is for the most part devoid of humanity (in a literal sense as opposed to the usual metaphorical sense), making for an unusually uninterrupted walk. Somewhere around one of the new apartment complexes, I stumbled across a couple.

The male, anxious and most likely horny, is furiously attempting to work the lock on the door to his house, where presumably he will enjoin the female in relations - this is his plan at least. By contrast, the female is either stalling or unwilling to go inside, and is instead twirling around on the sidewalk singing various selections from The Wizard of Oz, if somewhat brokenly.

As I inch closer, she spies and points at me, saying "this girl knows what I'm talking about!" It's unclear whether she's saying it for the male's benefit, mine or merely her own. She begins to sing again, and (somewhat enjoying silliness) I join her, though softly. She laughs, but I'm not entirely sure she even noticed.

She walks over to me, arm outstretched. "Do you want to be my scarecrow?" she asks with a smile that has just the faintest hint of sadness. She has to repeat it twice before I actually understand what she said. Looking into those dovish (albeit drunk) blue eyes, I don't really feel as if I have a choice.

"Of course," I reply, taking her arm. We skip off down the street, singing "Because, because, because, because .... because of the wonderful things he does," laughing the whole way.

When we've gone about half a block, she collapses into giggles and pulls her arm away. After regaining her composure, she walks back over to me with a much happier smile on her face. She thanks me, and I attempt to shake her hand. She does so, then reconsiders and gives me a hug.

"You're the best scarecrow ever," she concludes.

I shall probably never see her again, and the minimal impression she made on me is probably even less than the impression I made on her, at least on a personal level.

But then again, that's not really the point, is it?