Memories of the Texas State Troopers

I was pulled over in Texas. It was a Thursday night, probably around 10pm, and I was on my way from Albuquerque to Kalamazoo, MI. Yes, I was speeding. I was clocked at 83 in a 75 and that seems about right. (The car has an analog speedometer, so it's hard to be precise even with the cruise control on.) I saw headlights shining on the shoulder, had time to think "huh, that's odd, wonder what's--" and then drive through the headlights and think "oh, crap, I just drove through a speed trap." Sure enough, he pulled out, caught up, and pulled me over. He was very clear from the start that he was going to issue me a warning, but he also wanted me to get out of the car and come with him while he was running my license and plate, which struck me as odd. It turned out he suspected me of running drugs. That might've had something to do with the bag of freshly roasted Hatch green chile in the back seat, but my hunch is it was mostly about a sporty coupe at that time of day on that stretch of Interstate. The officer was never rude or especially threatening to me, but he clearly didn't trust me from the moment he started asking me questions. I suppose it's probably my nervous demeanor, and by the time he was searching my car, another cop had arrived on the scene who even asked if I was "a nervous person?" My response was "not especially, no," although in retrospect I wish I'd said "when I'm pulled over, asked to get out of my car, interrogated about drugs that might be in my possession, asked to stand 20 feet off the freeway in 50° weather wearing nothing more than what was comfortable in a heated car while two cops rifle through my belongings looking for something they're not going to find but which would cost me my freedom if someone thought it would be funny to plan on me? Yeah, I'm a little nervous then." The other thing I wanted to say at the time, but it's probably better I didn't, was "do you encounter a lot of people who aren't nervous in a situation like this one?" This was after I'd been given no less than 4 opportunities to tell the cops about a "small quantity of marijuana" I might have either in the car or on my person. Honestly, officer, if I'd had any, I would've told you right off the bat. I haven't been in possession of even a small quantity of marijuana since before that car was built, before any of the clothes I was wearing were made, so I'm 100% confident I'm not forgetting anything.

Eventually, whether I was nervous or not, no matter how convinced they were that I was lying, they either satisfied themselves that I wasn't carrying any drugs or they got bored and decided to catch another fish in the barrel to see if the drugs were easier to find. It took me a few minutes to get my car put back together enough to carry on with my road trip, I snapped a picture over my shoulder which didn't come out at all, and went on my way. The 2nd cop had already left and the 1st one pulled out faster than I and had caught someone else before I even caught up to him. I set the cruise control to the low side of the 75 line on my speedometer and got out of Texas as quickly and efficiently as I could without taking the chance of meeting one of his colleagues.

So here's the open letter part of this blog. It didn't really occur to me at the time how much old, boring, white-guy privilege I'd just enjoyed. I'm not saying I would've been shot or even handcuffed had I not been an old, boring, white guy (although who knows?), but the interaction would have been different. If I'm perceived as a threat because I'm nervous, it's not a far walk to think someone who is nervous, maybe has a chip on their shoulder because they get pulled over more often than I do, and more accurately fits the "profile" of drug runner, had longer hair, was wearing a cheeky graphic tee and tattered jeans, the smell in the car wasn't roasted chiles but the roach in the ash tray. So far I'm describing myself not that many years ago on a similar road trip. (I don't actually remember smoking marijuana in the car on a long solo road trip, but I'm not going to say it never happened.) Then imagine if I'm not white, that ads something to the equation. Maybe that's more the profile the Texas State Troopers were looking for, maybe it's not, but non-white people are more exposed to being profiled and someone who's been profiled before is more likely to get defensive in that situation. Defensiveness is surely a red flag. My lovely wife also pointed out this is why it's different taking a solo road trip if you're a woman. What? Surely, the cop thinks the woman is less of a threat, right? Less suspicious? Maybe. Maybe not. Doesn't matter. A woman has a totally different feeling being alone on the side of the freeway in the middle of nowhere with a strange man, even if he is wearing a uniform.

So much is made by the "all lives matter" crowd of how the suspect should behave. If only these young black men would just go along with being questioned, searched, detained, they'd still be alive. When was the last time you were pulled over? What were the circumstances? Did you remember everything about staying calm, calling the officer "sir," not being nervous, or at least not showing it? I reminded myself as I was slowing down and pulling off the road, and I still blew it. I forgot to call the officer "sir" until he started asking about drugs in the car, and I'm sure that made me seem even more nervous than if I hadn't suddenly started calling him "sir." There should be a presumption of innocence in these encounters, on both sides. I don't know about cop training, but I do know the legal system is designed to presume a suspect is innocent even as they're being arrested and booked. I know enough about human nature to know there's no way cops make that presumption, even if they are trained to. I also know enough about human nature to know I distrusted those cops. I literally watched a Washtenaw County Sherrif drop a firecracker as he was bending down to pick it up saying "oh, look at this? I thought you guys said you didn't have any fireworks?" I've been pulled over in a car full of teenage boys because of a "visual obstruction" (graduation tassel on the rearview mirror). These are not major abuses of power, but they play into me being nervous when a cop is searching my car for evidence of a felony.

The cop who pulled me over did everything right in terms of trying to make me comfortable: he told me before he asked me out of the car he was going to issue a warning (not a ticket), when he did bring up drugs he made it clear (repeatedly) that what he suspected I was most likely to be carrying would not be a big deal, he never treated me like a criminal or someone he was afraid of (until he had me stand so far off the highway.... I'm still not sure I understand that one--it felt like either intimidation or to get me out of sight of the dashboard camera). But they both treated me like they didn't trust me. They asked me the same questions over and over to check for inconsistencies. They played good cop bad cop with me (mildly, but still, I recognize the game). They questioned my story with incredulity. ("Your college reunion, eh? Do you remember what month you graduated in? Why is your reunion in October?")

I wouldn't be surprised if this was a stop the officer barely remembers because it went so smoothly. If they do remember one thing about it, I'm sure it's the bag of Hatch. Why a cop from the state next to New Mexico had never seen that before is a mystery to me, but maybe this is their first autumn on the job. They were both pretty young.

I'll tell you what happened on the return trip, though, the unintended consequence of this routine traffic stop. I made it a point to gas up, caffeine up, and bathroom break it up enough in Oklahoma and close enough to the border so that I wouldn't have to stop on my way through the panhandle of Texas. I pinned that cruise control to 75MPH and made my way through Texas without spending a dime in their economy. I've driven through Texas on I-40 at least a half dozen times in my life and I'm certain that's the first time I didn't spend any money there.

ponderings on hearing loss from a professional sound guy, chapter 2: the drama

DISCLAIMER:

Most importantly, let me assure you the reader now that my hearing is not currently compromised in any way.

I'm not going to post this at the same time I'm writing it. Another thing, I'm not experiencing permanent hearing loss. Yet. But I am getting to an age and in the business I'm in, every time my ears get plugged with wax I start thinking "is this it?" The whole idea in writing it is to document my experiences of my hearing as I go through little hiccups as I have recently. Being a professional sound guy, I'm concerned about damaging my career by even talking about it, which is why I don't publish as I write, have written and will continue to write some of these ponderings with paper and pen to transcribe later.

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ponderings on hearing loss from a professional sound guy
chapter 2: the drama

I can't remember the last time I could hear properly. It feels like months, probably been weeks, maybe even days. I know it's getting bad when I seek professional help to clean the wax out. I don't really trust other people with my ears. I've had a few bad experiences, but nothing really dangerous. The worst was an audiologist who used a metal scoop to dig out wax. Sure, she used water, too, and even water mostly, but the metal scoop was another go-to tool in her arsenal and it hurt. Worse than the use of metal, though, was her complete lack of compassion over the pain and fear I was experiencing.

So I usually get to this point where I'm on the verge of panic, my mind running around and spinning on the dangers of permanent hearing loss. I'm sure I'm going deaf, positive this is the time it's not just wax, that I'm really loosing it for good. It's only after a day or two of that kind of panic that I call the doctor's office for a lavage. (Pro tip: skip the audiologist and find a good MA who does ear lavage.) I had that lavage yesterday and I still can't hear out of either ear. I mean, I can hear, just not very well. I figure I'm loosing about 20-30dB above 1kHz. That's pretty serious. The standard reply (even from a good MA who is good at ear lavage) is "sometimes it takes a little while for your hearing to come back. And that's a standard response because it's true. My ears suffer trauma just like any other part of my body, and sometimes it takes a little while to really feel relief of symptoms after trauma. Still and all, there's always a really great moment in a good lavage for me. An a-ha moment. It's like that moment when you're swimming and the water drains out of your ear. A sort of crackly aural sunrise. A beautiful feeling of getting back what was feared to be lost. I never had that feeling on this lavage, but I took the MA's word for it: she could see my ear drums and it might just be water and would clear soon. It didn't.

So a few days later, here I am, back in the doctor's office. My regular doc (actually a CNP, but what the heck, she's a healer, so I'm good with "doc") is listening to my paranoid ramblings very patiently. You see, I've been "researching" my condition. You know, the kind of research where you sit up late at night staring at a computer screen (or your phone) and decide you must certainly have cancer. (In my case, it's vestibular cancer.) Finally, after listening to my panic, she patiently gets up with her ear-looker (what's that thing called?) and takes a look. My right ear is totally clogged with wax again. The other one has a massive infection on the ear drum that wasn't showing a few days ago. Undoubtedly the fluid was already behind the ear drum, and that's why it sounded like I still had wax in front of the ear drum. What none of us understands is why I haven't felt any pain, but no matter, antibiotics are prescribed, prescription is filled (after a bit of shopping around to find out who takes my insurance because I evidently I haven't filled a prescription in awhile, or maybe I just never noticed how much they cost), and the course is begun.

Oh, and the right ear gets another lavage, and this was the best part of the appointment, because I did get that beautiful aural sunrise I love so much. It's almost worth letting the wax build up now and then just for that beautiful feeling of hearing again. The world was so loud, and sounds that usually bother me (most notably traffic) were gloriously and beautifully and overwhelmingly loud.

ponderings on hearing loss from a professional sound guy, chapter 1: ancient history

DISCLAIMER:

Most importantly, let me assure you the reader now that my hearing is not currently compromised in any way.

For professional reasons, I'm not going to post any chapters in this series at the same time I'm writing them, and some portions are written long after the fact. Another thing, I am not experiencing permanent hearing loss. Yet. But I am getting to an age and in the business I'm in, every time my ears get plugged with wax I start thinking "is this it?" The whole idea in writing it is to document my experiences of my hearing as I go through those "is this it?" moments, as I have recently. Being a professional sound guy, I'm concerned about damaging my career by even talking about it, which is why I don't publish as I write, have written and will continue to write some of these ponderings with paper and pen to transcribe later.

---------------------------
ponderings on hearing loss from a professional sound guy
chapter 1: ancient history

I've had a long relationship with my ears. When I was young, I was young (ob) and did foolish things young people do. For one thing, I didn't know I was going into a career using my ears. For another, I was young and stupid and bulletproof. Or so I thought. There were rock concerts, of course. There were clubs. A little bit later there was mixing live rock and roll without any regard for my ears. There were messages such as this one: Delicate Butterfly of a Man Wears Earplugs at Hardcore Show. I was a punk. And unlike my punk sensibilities of today, I was a conforming punk. I was not going to be the only "delicate butterfly of a man" wearing earplugs. Or standing farther away from the speakers than my friends. That was not happening. Kids, don't listen to shit like this. It's bullshit to imply that taking care of your hearing is somehow not punk or not manly or not cool. Being able to hear well for as long as possible is punk and manly and cool. Ear plugs are a drag, no doubt. I still don't like to wear them. There are some that are better than others, both in comfort and in the quality of the listening experience through them. I don't have any endorsement here, but if you don't like one, try another one. Protect your hearing, though. That feeling the morning after a concert when the world sounds flat is not normal and it's not healthy.

There were other stupid things I did. The one which occasionally comes back to haunt me is a particularly misguided skin-diving incident. I was in high school. My family was on vacation in the British Virgin Islands on a sailboat. (Yeah, I know, poor me, right?) I noticed a wreck in about 100' of water on the charts and read about it in the guide book, and I wanted to see it. We were anchored a few hundred yards away, so I snorkeled out to the spot, as best I could, and looked. No way I could see through 100' of water--at least not on that day, not in that bay. So I dove down a bit, and still couldn't see anything. So I took a huge breath and dove down as far as I could go. I still hadn't seen anything (maybe I was in the wrong spot?) when my left ear screamed at me in pain. No one had ever taught me, and I'd never bothered to learn, that I needed to equalize the pressure in my ears when diving deeper than a swimming pool. Oh, that hurt. It hurt a lot. I immediately turned back to the surface and forgot completely about the wreck, snorkeled back to the boat and tried to ignore the pain, hoping it would feel better soon. It didn't. The next morning I had a whopper of an ear infection, the most painful one I ever remember (although I did have one more on my honeymoon that came close; more on that later, I'm sure), and we were getting on an airplane that day, or maybe the day after. Needless to say, it was a pretty painful flight, and I went on antibiotics as soon as possible, which cleared up that pain and emboldened me to think I hadn't done any permanent damage.

Still to this day, I have no evidence of permanent damage, I've had plenty of experiences to indicate there was more to that injury than one infection. The first time I remember feeling that one come back to haunt me was shortly after moving onto a houseboat. I was 28 years old, living in Portland, OR, working as a sound guy. (Minor digression here: living on a houseboat is awesome. I highly recommend it for everyone at least once in their lives, especially when you're young, single and/or childless. If you have this opportunity and all of those conditions apply to you, take the opportunity and thank me later. If you're not single nor childless, the calculation might be a little more complicated than that, but give it some serious thought.) I'd been living on the houseboat for a few weeks and had water skied at least a dozen times in the Wilamette river when my balance started to feel funky. I didn't think much of it because I was living on a houseboat and thought it was simply a case of "sea legs." When I went (temporarily) deaf in my left ear, though, I went to see my doctor. He diagnosed me as having a viral infection in my inner ear which would clear up on it's own. He figured I'd fallen hard on the left side and gotten some river water pushed through my ear drum in the process. It did clear up, and I figured he'd nailed it, but it's also pretty likely I fell at least as hard on the right side and never had an infection on that side.

So that's the history. At the time of the houseboat, I was working in the sound business, and I wasn't unconcerned about going deaf, even though it was temporary. I was still pretty young and stupid and bulletproof. I lost my stereo image for a week or so, but I could still hear fine out of my right ear, so I worked with my head slightly turned and trusted meters and instinct for any stereo imaging concerns. Life went on, my ear went back to normal, and my career as a professional sound guy marched forwards....

The Landscape of Fatherhood

A friend of mine on the facebook (one I've actually met IRW) posted this blog about being a mommy writer and it's great. There were three things that really struck me about it:

1. It's about dads, too. 
2. It's about all creative endeavors, not just writing. 
3. It also applies to reading. 

I'm a dad. Obviously. So I don't have some of the same biological explanations that moms do for how having a child has changed me. Women carry the cells of their babies for the rest of their lives, and vice versa. As far as I know, other than the genetic material I supplied to get that process started, I don't have the same kind of physical connection with my son, but there's still an undeniable connection. I don't feel his cry in my body the way my wife does, but I still feel it. His presence in this world has made an enormous difference in the landscape of my inner self. I've also grown closer to his mommy, my wife. I've loved her deeply since the day we met (as with so many men, it took me awhile to figure this out, but I really do believe it was there from the start), but something changed when she starting making our son from scratch inside her belly. Again, as is sadly typical of men, it took me awhile to figure this out, to honor it, to trust it, but it's been there for almost 9 years now. While the author of the aforementioned blog writes she "once held fast to the feminist narrative that having children wouldn’t define" her, I totally understand what she means. The masculine narrative that having children won't change us seems ancient and instinctive; it's similar to the tired old yarn that being in a relationship won't change us. Neither of these notions serves us. We are denying a reality we can't change. Being in a relationship changes us, whether that relationship is a new friend, a co-worker, a lover, a spouse, or a child. To quote a pastor speaking to the newcomers every week in her congregations, "we are different when you are here." Furthermore, we are different after we've met you. No one can stand in the same river twice, and humanity is a river with a very powerful flow. 

So, yeah, being a dad has changed me. No doubt. And who I am goes very directly into everything I create. It's somehow comforting to think my creative voice somehow transcends this, but there's really nothing comfortable about my creative voice; never has been, and (hopefully) never will be. I've grown out of the youthful, romantic notion that I have to suffer for my art, but that doesn't mean I'm every truly comfortable when I'm in a creative state. The best work I've ever done in my life, starting from a young age, are when I'm not sure whether it's good or not. It's a constant struggle. That's why I push myself to do and try new things, to write when I'm more comfortable working with sound, to work differently within the medium I am (relatively) comfortable in, why I shy away from using templates for the final mix on a project (which is, for me, the most creative part).... 

One of the great changes I've noticed is that my attention span has changed. It's not that it's gotten shorter or longer, it's that my brain has gotten used to interruptions. These can be literal interruptions, as this morning when I was trying to finish reading the blog post and my son was literally standing on my office chair behind me and tickling my neck with his (or my) hair. The more surprising ones, though, are when I'm at work, in a dark room, far from the literal distractions of fatherhood, and I find myself deep in thought about my wife or my son or our dog. The landscape of fatherhood follows me everywhere I go. And it's a good view. 

semi-annual writing push

It's time once again for my semi-annual (or perhaps it's annual, maybe even bi-annual or less frequent than that) push to write more. Of course, as always, this urge, this pressing urge to express myself in writing, comes when I don't have time for it. Especially not today. Or this week, really. But here it is and here I am, getting in a few lines while the eggs cook on the stove, hardly the right way to write. But when have I ever done things the right way? I suppose I have, I suppose there is a "do it right" voice in my head, and that's why I feel as though I should wait and write when I can sit down in 'the writing chair' (as a friend who is a bona fide, published writer, calls it) for 8 hours a day and just write. Well, I am in a writing chair, and at a keyboard, not my stoopid phone, so that's something, right? And if the eggs get burnt, I'm the one who has to eat them, so here I am, consciousness streaming away, vomiting my words out onto this blog where probably no one will read them.

So this guy is walking down the street, sees a perfectly good tennis ball on the curb, so he picks it up and puts it in his pocket. A few blocks later, he runs into a woman he knows and they stop to chat. He notices she keeps starting at the tennis ball in his pocket and he self-consciously says "oh, it's just I've got a tennis ball." She says "that must really hurt. I had tennis elbow once and it was really painful."

I love tennis balls pic.twitter.com/DpC43wFhTn

— Life on Earth (@planetepics) February 13, 2016

I could use this dude's services....

There are times when we get so busy at Hear Kitty Studios that someone inevitably jokes we should clone ourselves. I think I've finally found the guy who can help us:

I just wish he'd put his phone number on the tailgate....