T w e n t y S i d e d

Third grade. The teacher is explaining adjectives. She offers an example sentence and invites us to add one or more adjectives to it: “The corn is cooking on the grill.”

I zone back in from whatever daydream world I’ve been exploring. This actually sounds a bit interesting. There is a lot of room for adjectives in there. I uncharacteristically raise my hand, “The delicious golden corn is cooked quickly on the scorching hot iron grill?”

She looks at me in stunned silence. I guess she was expecting, “The yummy corn is cooking,” or somesuch. “That’s better than the example they give in the book.” she tells me, referring to the teacher’s guide in her hand. She is genuinely shocked.

When it’s clear she’s not going to give me any more sentences to decorate, I go back to daydreaming. She hands out worksheets later. These have more of the same sort of work, but completing it would mean half an hour of cramp-inducing writing, and who needs that? If she wants more adjectives she can just ask me and I’ll give her all she wants, but I’m not wasting time filling out paperwork.

Some of the kids make fun of the way I’m dressed. I’m wearing brown slacks and green dress socks. This subject comes up again and again in their teasing.

Continue reading ⟩⟩ “Autoblography Part 6: Happy Halloween”

Shamus Young is a programmer, an author, and nearly a composer. He works on this site full time. If you'd like to support him, you can do so via Patreon or PayPal.

It’s 1979, and I’m in second grade. School is much the same as last year, so let’s talk about home life instead.

My family: Patrick, Mom, THE AMAZING SPIDER-MAN, and me. We still talk about her haircut to this day. Oh, seventies, you dismal crime against aesthetics.

Mom has to get up early, take us to the babysitter, then drive an hour to work. After work she drives an hour to get home, picks us up, and cooks dinner while we watch Mr. Rogers, Sesame Street, or The Electric Company on our 14″ Black-and-White television. She might save time if we had a microwave, but who can afford exotic cutting-edge things like that? Microwaves are for rich people. Besides, some people say they might accidentally bombard your face with radiation and melt your skin or give you cancer or something.

Never heard of The Electric Company? I’m talking about this show:

Continue reading ⟩⟩ “Autoblography Part 5: Flower Child”

Shamus Young is a programmer, an author, and nearly a composer. He works on this site full time. If you'd like to support him, you can do so via Patreon or PayPal.

1978. First grade. My teacher is pretty, but I really hate this school stuff. I stand outside my classroom and watch those huge people file into the room with the metal 6 on the door. Grade SIX? That’s FIVE years away. I can’t imagine such an expanse of time. I will never be that old.

Our Christmas presents that year were the SHOGUN WARRIORS. (Check out this 1978 commercial. I don’t remember it at all, but I’ll bet I saw it a hundred times.) On the left is Pat, who got the Shogun that launches a big plastic fist. I got the one that shoots missiles out of his hand. When I say ‘missiles’, I’m not talking about a blinky light, or a sound effect, or a bit of missile-shaped foam. I’m talking about real, pointy bits of plastic that can be aimed at the eyeballs of children for fun and excitement. Good times.

I hate writing. I enjoy composing the words themselves, but I hate the act of writing them down with a pencil. It’s very slow and uncomfortable.

I’m still going to special classes. “Special Ed[ucation]” they call it. Apparently, they are worried about my ability. I do not care at all. I do like being in special ed, though. The kids here are various types of misfits, so I don’t stick out quite as badly. There is a mix of ages and grades, and I feel less like a cog and more like an individual when I’m here.

I still make a lot of letters backwards, so I’m in here for help with “reading”. Although, I can read just fine. I just can’t remember which way letters need to face, and either way looks correct.

Continue reading ⟩⟩ “Autoblography Part 4: I Hate Paperwork”

Shamus Young is a programmer, an author, and nearly a composer. He works on this site full time. If you'd like to support him, you can do so via Patreon or PayPal.

It's the first day of kindergarten, and I am terrified. September 1977. That green thing is a name tag, which someone has fastened to my shoulder instead of the front of my shirt. It rubs against me and pokes me in the face all day, but I never try to move it. I mean, I guess it’s supposed to be on my shoulder for a reason, right?

Yes, those pants are ridiculous, even by the fashion-deficient standards of the day. This actually becomes important later.

Being born at the end of August, I am very near the age cut-off date for starting school. I could either have began school in 1976 and been the youngest kid, or wait until 1977 and been the oldest. Mom looked at my social skills and concluded that I needed another year. And so I begin my school career at age six. Even with the slight age advantage, I am still unprepared and unable to relate to the other kids.

As I enter the classroom, I see jumping balls for the first time. You know, these things:

I am transfixed by them. There are only three of them available, and we're only allowed to play with them for a few minutes at the beginning of the day. By the time I arrive at school, other kids are already using them. I’ll usually stand there by the play area, hoping someone will just… I don’t know… offer me one? Or something. I don’t know how this works. What are the rules? Everyone else seems to know how to get a turn.

Do I ask? Maybe I should ask.

Continue reading ⟩⟩ “Autoblography Part 3: Welcome to Kindergarten”

Shamus Young is a programmer, an author, and nearly a composer. He works on this site full time. If you'd like to support him, you can do so via Patreon or PayPal.

When I was a baby, I was a climber. I was slow to walk, eager to climb. I walked by holding onto things long after most kids were comfortable walking freely. I would hand-hold around the edge of a room rather than walk through the big open space in the middle. On the other hand, I was climbing stuff way before it would even be considered normal or reasonable.

I hated my crib. Before I was able to walk, I learned how to pull myself up and (apparently) do some sort of chin-up and get myself over the railing. I would then fall four feet onto the floor below. Mom would hear the thud, then me crying. She’d come up, comfort me, wait for me to nod off, put me back in my crib, and go back downstairs.

Two minutes later: THUD. Whhaaaaaaaa!

Continue reading ⟩⟩ “Autoblography Part 2: Preschool”

Shamus Young is a programmer, an author, and nearly a composer. He works on this site full time. If you'd like to support him, you can do so via Patreon or PayPal.

Jim, to everyone who knew him.

Six months before I was born, he suffered a stroke that very nearly killed him. Cerebral hemorrhage. He was 29 years old. He collapsed and was rushed to the hospital. A couple of days later he woke up. The good news was that there was no obvious brain damage. The bad news was that all that blood had formed a clot in his brain that would kill him sooner or later if it wasn't removed.

Continue reading ⟩⟩ “Autoblography Part 1: James Young”

Shamus Young is a programmer, an author, and nearly a composer. He works on this site full time. If you'd like to support him, you can do so via Patreon or PayPal.