A TRAIL OF ROTTEN BIRTHDAYS
My birthday was this past Sunday and, I must say, it wasn’t half bad.
Perhaps some context because, for me, aiming for par is what I want for my birthday.
Two birthdays in a row I’ve spent sick and resting, which has become normalized with every celebration. It’s a huge bummer.
I wrote about this in a Weekly Post-Ed from last March, but I was sick on my birthday last year and had to cancel plans to watch a virtual comedy show hosted by Mike Birbiglia with a friend. I ended up watching it alone, in my office chair with a box of tissues, trying to get better from whatever sickness was (fingers crossed) NOT Covid at that time.
This year faired no differently as, two days before the big day, I began to feel sick again and spent the weekend recovering in much the same way (with even more fingers crossed that it was NOT the new variant of Covid going around). There was no Mike Birbiglia show as a consolation prize, but the consistent theme of birthdays-gone-bad was becoming a yearly spectacle.
When I think about it, this lack of fortune isn’t uncommon for my birthday. Usually, the 27th of March invites all kinds of hardship. I can’t think of a single birthday in which something horrendous didn’t happen: every significant romantic relationship I’ve ever had ended around this time; being sick is the most common trend; I’ve incurred serious sports injuries about this time of year; and I’ve had various altercations involving past workplaces (usually with managers who, like the example ahead, probably wanted to punch me in the face).
Something has always occurred on my birthday, which, I suppose makes it exciting to write about, but I never look forward to experiencing the next one. Upon experiencing a string of grief-striven birthdays (my marriage ended the day after my birthday a few years ago), I went so far as to hide away at the Student Center of my old university campus until the day was nearly over, preventing my family from celebrating or gathering for cake and dinner—that’s how badly I wanted to avoid it. Even now, I seldom tell anyone when my birthday is, and if I’m given a surprise “Happy birthday!” by someone I know, I’m quick to dismiss it like any other compliment in my life—a quick smile, a wavery, “Thank you,” and changing the subject because I’m just as awkward receiving Happy Birthdays as I am compliments.
(A facepalming example: a mother once was said to me about her child I had as a student, “Thanks for drawing Pokémon pictures for him, it meant a lot this year.” My response: a shrug “You do what you can—I think I’m going to find a restroom.” The kid in question was standing next to his mother, cherrishing a Pikachu drawing of mine that he had carefully colored in crayon for me to see, which I never did take a good look at—but hey, I had to QUICKLY find that restroom, apparently.)
The benefit of being sick on your birthday, if you’re someone like me who wants to avoid celebrating it with others, is that family doesn’t want to get sick, so you’re mostly on your own. As I recovered from losing my voice, a knives-in-the-back-of-my-esophagus sore throat, and a haggard cough, I was pleasantly surprised to find this birthday calming and without excitement, and I think I preferred it this way. It wasn’t storybook material but was a contemplative day to think about moving forward. The best part was an intimate conversation I had with my mother over coffee, in which I mentioned some old memories.
Apparently, I had never mentioned them to anyone before.
I told about my freshman year of high school when I had a government teacher who said to me at one point before Christmas, “You have the kind of face I’d like to punch.” My mother was shocked to hear this, and I never thought to share this moment before because, really, I didn’t think it was a big deal. In hindsight, and since I have been employed as an educator for some time now, yes, that’s a seriously damaging thing to say to a kid.
This government teacher made the comment after several months of being frustrated about my vocal stance on the Iraq War back in 2002. I was 15 at the time and had no problem regurgitating my father’s ideas about former President George Bush not being an adequate leader. That’s what young, yuppie Liberals do (as well as Conservatives, I think): spew out the rhetoric of the people they idolize in their youth, in this case my dad. I said in class that President Bush should have put down the book he was reading to children that day in order to attend to the Twin Towers in NYC being crashed into by commercial airliners. My government teacher took offense at that, defending that former President Bush was just as shocked and stymied as anyone in his position would be. I disagreed, which infuriated him. And ever after this teacher took pop-shots at my character (well, he did as all Conservatives would do: identify a political enemy and interrogate them justly). Any time there was a political opinion in class related to Liberals, I, a 15-year-old, was designated spokesperson for the Democratic Party…you know, as all pubescent boys must be to older Conservative government teachers who must win the day.
At one point in the year, the news of my becoming a hockey goalie (I had just started) came out in class and my government teacher wanted me to stand in front of the large whiteboard at the front of the room so he could throw a tennis ball to “test my reactions”. I wasn’t dumb enough to do this because I was certain that he wanted to hurt me, even if by “accident”—something I’m still unsure of why an adult would want to do to this day. I think this teacher is retired now, but I learned in this class that if I shut my mouth, smiled, and appeared pleasant that this would mitigate his aggressions.
I never considered the adverse effects that bad teachers had on my life growing up, but they were plentiful. I think episodes like this (and there were many more with others teachers growing up—I must have had a face they wanted to punch, too) explains, largely, why I’m so coy about sharing my opinions about things. Even jokes. I’m still that smiling, pleasant fellow who likes to laugh but seldom contributes anything about his life unless prodded for information. Even amongst my Sunday Night hockey team, a group of guys I meet with and play hockey on a weekly basis for most of the year, I’m confident hardly any of them knows what I do for a living, where I live, or if I’ve ever been married or not. It’s a strange thing to be familiar but so vaguely defined with people you see weekly.
Which is my fault, I’m not so open to share unless asked.
What strange memories to think about on a birthday! But I think there’s a connection between them and my special day: I’ve always viewed birthdays as something meaningful and meant to be celebrated. Except, my experiences with birthdays have always been a series of rotten events that happened to occur around that time. So, too, do I think of the unfortunate dealings with teachers I’ve had.
I mean, those could have been teachable, encouraging moments.
Even though I was opposed politically to this former teacher, it could have been an opportunity to encourage debate and be a better researcher of political ideas (you know, instead of regurgitating everything my father said at the time). Instead, I must have offended this poor man because what I received was the scorn of someone who took my opinion personally, and so the opportunity for encouragement (or whatever teaching moment there could have been: INSERT YOUR OWN HERE) never happened.
It’s much like how I think birthdays could have been enjoyable had it not been for a long history of rotten experiences.
I write this not to ask for sympathy but for understanding of why it has been difficult to vocalize my ambitions and opinions. Frankly, it seems remarkable that I haven’t followed a more self-destructive path in life. I’ve never smoked, never done drugs or hard drinking (hockey notwithstanding), and I’ve fallen into depression so much as grief and loss were attached to it.
And on my 33rd birthday, I spent most of the day planning for how how I can be better. In spite of all of the bad experiences I’ve had on this day, or from unfortunate dealings with teachers, I still think better days are ahead. Birthdays and bad teachers don’t make a person (although, they’d had more than their fair share).
It’s the choices we make despite the experiences we’ve had that make us who we are.
So, even if I have a face that people would like to punch, I think I’ll just go along my way regardless if they punch it or not (which, I hope they don’t—no one likes a punch in face).
I’m still going to blow out the candles and make a wish.
And eat some delicious cake.
(Seriously, I can’t emphasize enough how excellent the cake my parent’s bake always is. It’s the kind that saves birthdays from most everything—even annual sicknesses.)
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KIRBY AND THE FORGOTTEN JOY
I’ve babbled on long enough, but one of the birthday presents I bought for myself this year was a digital copy of Kirby and the Forgotten Land for Nintendo Switch. I’ll be brief:
It’s fantastic!
I’ll always marvel at how Nintendo’s developers manage to make their games look so great (comparatively) on outdated hardware. The cutscenes in Kirby and the Forgotten Land might as well have come from a movie. Not only does everything look polished and vibrant in 1080p, but even the art direction helps bolster the Forgotten Land that Kirby is warped into. Perhaps the most awe-inspiring view (and I literally gasped with awe whenever they came around) were the brief introductory sections to levels like the Factory or a snowy London cityscape. The camera angle points upward, showing incredible detail for these new locales. It truly was a place full of detail and grit that has been slowly adopted into the rather plasticy-graphic past of previous Nintendo franchises (Super Mario games, I’m looking at you).
These games keep looking better and better.
The game itself was a joy, but also tedious in parts, mostly because the structure of the game is very basic: rescue the Waddle-Dees in each level through a serious a story objectives, then fly around the Overworld map to complete “Test Trial” levels that reward you with Rare Stones to use as copy ability upgrades…and that’s about it. Something else added to the formula would have loosened the grind to completing the game, but the sheer joy of the copy abilities, plus the great orchestrated score, and fulfillment of freeing all the captured Waddle-Dees and great characters and vistas made this entry in the series one of the best.
I absolutely recommend playing through the main game. It made a sniffling, coughing face smile and laugh with delight more than anticipated.
And here’s an extra smile for the road!
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- “fiimy (f**k it, i miss you (Live))” by Winnetka Bowling League & Demi Lovato
- “A.M Radio” by The Lumineers
- “pool” by Still Woozy & Remi Wolf
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Wishing everyone as well as you can be. You’re not alone out there,
