About (20) years ago, give or take, I was standing in a
ditch tying rebar. It was 30° F with a
35 mph breeze out of the north. On this snow and rain and ice mixing Mississippi afternoon, somewhere in Pontotoc County,
ankle deep in slush, the thought crossed my mind that maybe this isn’t where I
want to be for the rest of the show. I
was in my early 20s and most of my high school friends were either finishing
college or preparing for yet another child to be born – neither seemed like a
viable option to me at the time. But
that’s what people did there. You either
get married straight out of high school (or even IN high school), bang out a
bunch of kids and mark time until the big fade.
Or you go to college first and then do the things I just mentioned. It has only been in the last few weeks that I
have fully realized how stunting emotionally and artistically and financially and culturally
growing up in Mississippi
was for me. It’s not that it is an
inherently bad place to be or be from but it wasn’t my place. No offense intended magnolias.
At any rate, I made up my mind that afternoon what I had to
do. So I did it. Because I was such an outstanding student in high school I went to the local community
college at night after work to get the math I never had. I actually thought about the art I was making
so I could put it in a portfolio. I made
the calls and got the letters of rec. At
(26) I became a freshman. I killed it
too. Maybe because I was old and / or focused, but either way I
killed it. One night after (36) + hours
in the studio, my buddies made me a walker out of cardboard and I was okay with
it because I was facing forward.
I missed holidays and concerts and birthdays and everything
else that architecture students miss.
It’s what we did (do). It’s a
badge of honor to do (48) straight and pass out in your jury. Architecture
school is probably the worst possible method of preparing students for the
world of architecture by the way. It’s
not reality. And it’s taught by those
who don’t have the sack to operate in reality.
There are exceptions to this rule and
I learned a lot from those guys: Fazio, Berk, Lewis, Monson. Maybe it was because of my age, but I was
able to see through the bullshit that even those I respected were selling
me. They saw through my bullshit too and
a tentative mutual respect took root.
And to repay that acknowledgement I haven’t spoken to a single one of
them since I graduated. I take what’s
mine, but that’s not totally on me.
The field of architecture has the highest rates of divorce,
alcoholism, suicide and chronic depression of any of the major
professions. I knew that going in but
thought it was a good idea anyway. Looking
back on it now, I really didn’t have a choice.
This is what and who I was meant to be. When I was a kid I would trace
the floor plans my father brought home from his work. I would study them at night with a flash
light under the covers of my bed. I’ve
always seen this world differently – when my friends were drawing race cars I
was drawing longitudinal sections through coal mines or critiquing the framing
structure of the Western Sizzler. It’s
what I do. I had a dream even then. I didn’t know it at the time but I would grow
to understand it.
Taking these tests was a trial unto itself. The full week prior I would be nauseous. Until I received the results I was more
so. I steered my truck downtown (8)
times for these clusters and every time I got there about a thousand hours
early. I’ve seen the sun rise over
downtown Atlanta
enough. As fate would have it, there was
a big neon sign that permeated my every thought in those hours before taking
that long walk into the testing center.
That walk was a torture no one should know. The drivel that passes for art in public buildings
astonishes me.
I can assure you that the irony of taking Architecture exams in
a building that is light years away from what Architecture should be was not
lost on me. Nevertheless, I always saw
(see) this neon sign. It was (is) always
lit. There is no question that I’ve long
since turned my back on organized religion but the events of the last several months have
made me question that construct. If you
know, then you know that the ARE is (7) tests long. I failed test (7) and as I stepped out of the
truck to walk into face (8) I stopped and looked up one last time. I don’t pray – I don’t believe in it. I looked up and said a prayer that day – so
be it.
I grew up in a small town where different was identified with a quickness and emblazoned upon your
rep even faster. It was branded and
emphasized to the point that you soon realized that different was wrong. I was
repeatedly told explicitly and implicitly that I would never amount to shit –
teachers, coaches, congregants. The
divide that perception created between me and my hometown is immense and un-navigable – unforgiveable really. And
though it may seem so, I’m not bitter.
If you weren’t down – it’s your loss.
That said the list of people I’ve pushed away in pursuit of
this little dream of mine is longer than I care to admit. I have attempted this week to let you know
individually how much it meant to me that you were in my corner all those years but there is
no way you could understand what I was saying.
Suffice to say that this isn’t just mine – I share it with a ton of
people who I can never share it with
and that sucks. I made it. I kept my eyes on the prize for all of these years and no matter what I had to compromise
to get here I did. I've been so singularly focused on this one thing for so long that the achievement of said thing has created a vacuum that I'm not yet sure how to fill.
Now what? I got my
number. I’m legit. I’m a licensed architect, finally. In the next few weeks I will get that number
tattooed on my body – no one can ever take that from me. I'm as proud of this accomplishment as I have ever been of anything. It’s the one thing that I know I can’t lose
(unless of course I drop a building on somebody or whatever). How many failed
relationships did it cost? How many
friendships fell by the wayside? How can
I ever repay the people who helped me get here?
And where the hell is here anyway?
I’ve been licensed for less than a week and I’m already bored with
it. That’s a helluva pill to swallow on
a thing you’ve chased for (20) years but that’s that.
My dogs don’t give a shit that I’m a licensed
architect. Belle still wants her ball
incessantly thrown and Maynard still wants to be left alone on the bed (unless
the thunder precipitates some additional snuggle time). I still have laundry to finish and I owe
myself an explanation for that ridiculous shower curtain I bought earlier today. Tomorrow will still be Monday and I will
still have dipshit clients to deal with.
I will still have the yard to keep next Saturday and my garden to tend
and my eternal list of home improvements to face.
Maybe this is my life.
Maybe I’m okay with that.
I know who I am and from whence I came and I will never
forget that – I just don’t know what to obsess about now. I will never forget that day in that ditch
and I will never forget the lessons that taught me. I will never forget the way my father subtlety
taught me to chase my dream even though it’s not exactly what he wanted. I will never forget my mom’s undying belief
in me.
But now what am I supposed to do? Whatever IT
is: IT is never enough is it?
Maybe I’ll figure it out tomorrow.
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