You Are Here

You are here.

But you don’t want to be here. 

Your mind is elsewhere.

The future, the hopes, the fantasies couple with dread that you are here and you don’t want to be here. You want to be in the distant time where your brain guarantees that it will be better. You are here but you can be there. It’s an obsession and you feel like you’ll never get there. You stop, drown in your sorrows and feel no sense of purpose. You push away your reality searching and seeking anything. You are here and everything you want is elsewhere. You got here by giving up everything, making the necessary sacrifices until you were left dry and thirsting for anything to give you a sense of bliss.

She shut the tablet and grabbed her duffel bag, several smaller bags and her pillow. You are here, she thought to herself. Hoping she had everything she needed, she walked out the door.

~

https://www.pinterest.com/pin/379357968596679214/

The radio rattled on as the pickup meandered down a dusty highway. She kept throwing sideways glances at him; he caught her from the corner of his eye. She smacked the button on the dashboard silencing the loud commercial.

“Let’s play a game,” she said clutching the notebook she’d been scribbling in.

“Okay,” he said. “What game?”

She tells him once on a road trip to a rodeo in South Dakota—or was it North Dakota?—her friend played a game where every time they passed a specific sign, they had to compliment each other. On this route, there were signs every few miles advertising an attraction.

“Since there aren’t really signs like that,” she said looking around the barren, unmarked landscape. “we’ll just take turns saying nice things.”

He smiled shaking his head ever so slightly. She wrote at the top of a page in her notebook, “10 Things I Like About You.” Turning a page, she wrote, “10 Things You Like About Me.” She put the date in the top right corner like the scrupulous writer she was. She looked up at him.

“You first,” he said.

“I thought of the game.”

Pause.

“I like your laugh,” she said. It was something she knew he was self-conscious of. He used to be embarrassed when she made him laugh; he’d cover it up and never let a full hearty laugh out.

“I like your smile,” he said. She tried not to smile.
Each bump and jostle of the road drown in the background and the places they cruised by might as well not have existed.

“I like your butt in those jeans,” she said.

“Hmm,” he murmured. “I like the way you accept me the way I am.”

The landscape started to change. There were more hills and trees. The grass held shades of autumn.

“How much longer?” she asked.

“Oh, not too long.”

“Okay, let’s do things we hate about each other.”

Again, she titled two different pages.

“I hate how you won’t listen to my music,” he said.

“I try!” she retorted.

“You’re getting better,” he acknowledged.

She looks out the window. A large property with a beautiful home, a barn and lots of pasture. They make eye contact, the knowing look that says someday.

“It’s only ‘cause,” she says returning to the conversation, “My brother used to listen to that kind of music and he would get so angry and frustrated. I just associate it with that.”

He nodded.

“Your turn.”

Without hesitation, she said, “I hate your driving.”

“I hate your side seat driving,” he responded.

She wrote “side seat” in quotations refraining from saying she hates that he said it that way.

They pull up to a house with a car port. Leaves from a tall expansive tree crunch beneath our feet.

“This is my future daughter-in-law,” her future father-in-law said wrapping an arm around her.

“Hi,” she says to the first of many people she’ll meet for the first time.

~

A long-distance relationship is like balancing two lives in two different places.

Places.

In "Harry Potter," Hermione could be in two places at once. Sometimes I want to be in two places. Sometimes I really am. I am in Nebraska going to school. Sometimes I want to be home in Colorado and sometimes I want to be in Oklahoma with my cat and fiancé. Sometimes I’m talking to my fiancé so much when we aren’t in the same geographical location that I feel although I am physically in Hastings, I am mentally somewhere else. It’s like leading two different lives, which is silly because I hardly handle the life I was given.

Home. It’s one of my favorite places. The first place I left; the first place I returned. The scenery was something I took for granted. I didn’t know anything but the mountains, vast forests, blue skies. It took leaving for me to appreciate what I woke up to each day. 

She looked up from her tablet, her hands poised above the keyboard. She leaned back in the chair with a sigh. Her coffee was cold; her brain running on fumes.

~

“We’re praying,” someone said.

Everyone stood in a large circle. She grabbed his hand and he grabbed his grandpa’s next to him. His grandpa saw her and quickly switched spots with him.

“I want to hold a pretty girl’s hand,” he said in a raspy voice. She smiled and obliged. They bowed their heads as the prayer began.

Just like that there was movement to the kitchen, a pot luck style of filling your flimsy paper plate with as much as you can.

After eating they went back outside. The sun was shining and it was warm out. He stood by her as she sat on the tailgate of her pickup. They had a cooler of beer. The contents of it they had to drink inconspicuously.

“We’re starting games! Get in here,” a woman said peeking out the door.

“Noooo,” she groaned. She meant to keep that internal, but her dread pushed outward. “Do I have to? Can we just hide?”

He only nodded in sly confirmation. He poured a beer and they walked towards the park. The family gathering was taking place at a church so there was plenty of room to spread out. It was only a matter of minutes before his mother called out to them, commanding them inside. Everyone was on teams. The noise ricocheted off the walls, bouncing off her ears and making her head pound with it.

“You can take my place,” a brother’s wife said. “Or you can hold the baby.”

“I’ll hold the baby,” she said. The baby was reaching for her watch as it caught the light. As soon as he was in her arms, he nuzzled his head against her neck and dozed off. She tried hiding but the mother found her and insisted it was her turn to play; she needed to feed the baby. Her stomach dropped when she saw plates of whip cream on the tables.

“Come on!” everyone seemed to yell.

Hesitantly, she stood next to him.

“You can’t use your hands. There’s a letter on each plate. You have to find all five to spell a word,” a voice said.

She pulled her hair back eyeing the plate. Then stuck her face in it. But she could not find a letter. The rest of the team had already found theirs. She stopped, looked around, and paused before continuing. Another team already won. Her future mother-in-law patted her on the back.

“You’re a trooper,” she said.

~

“Now what are we doing?” she asked for what felt like the hundredth time.

“Going to Papa and Nana’s,” he said. “My dad’s parents.”

“How long of a drive?”

“Two hours.”

She plugged her phone in and played the end of the podcast they hadn’t finished earlier. She was fidgeting and after stopping at Starbucks, the caffeine only made it worse.

“Let’s ask each other questions,” she said. The highway was extremely dark now.

“What kind of questions?”

“I don’t know,” she said. “I saw some good ones on Facebook.”

The screen lit up her face as she scrolled.

“Okay,” she said. “It says, ‘Without prompting, ask your significant other these questions and write exactly what they say.’ Okay. What’s my favorite food?”

He thought about it for a while. “I’m not sure actually. Steak?”

“I’m not sure either. . . depends on my mood. Yours is definitely steak,” she said. “What makes you proud of me?”

“Your writing. You write so well, and you’re just so smart.”

He turned the cruise off as his brother slowed down in front of him.

“I wish he would just pick a speed,” he muttered. “What are you proud of me for?”

She glanced at him. “How adaptable you are, especially at your job. They can throw anything at you and you can handle it.”

“Mmpf,” he grunted.

They grew tired although it was only eight o’ clock. He followed the pickup in front of them onto the exit ramp. But his brother continued back on the highway.

“What is he doing?” he said aloud as he turned right.

“Is this the right way?”

“Yes,” he said. A little later he said, “I guess it’s just a little longer.”

He turned off on a side road and drove into some trees. He pulled into a grassy area by some campers and parked. An older gentleman walked towards them with a flashlight. He went to hug him but when his grandpa saw her, he pushed him aside.

“I’d rather hug this pretty little thing,” he said. “How are ya?”

“Good,” she smiled.

They followed him toward the house. There was a garage full of junk. A fridge stood open; it’s doors filled with non-perishable items.

The home was warm, filled with family and shelves of knickknacks, a large kitchen, cook books filling the cupboards. A crock pot of white chili. The men say in the living room. A father and a son reminiscing of old hunting stories.

~

The morning was brisk. Frost covered the grass and a light fog floated around the trees. It was completely silent. Inside the house cinnamon rolls were baking in the oven, coffee brewing in the pot. Everyone was slowly waking up, even the kids.

“I’m going to Atwoods today to get some bullets,” he was telling his father.

“Yeah, I’ll go with,” his father had said.

They went, the two of them, a brother, father, and grandpa to town. Grandpa drove with sharp turns, unexpected braking and random swerving. Expecting it to be busy on this Black Friday, they were pleasantly surprised. The spent almost an hour perusing the sales at the country store. Camouflage, camping gear, home decorations, clothing.

“If we stand here long enough, I’m going to buy a pair of boots,” the brother said to her.

“I know right. Fifty bucks off?” she said.

Eventually all of them found their way to the front, and they made their way back to the house. Someone else drove on the way back, sparing all of the necks whip lash.

At the house, the rest of the family started showing up. More introductions for her.

“This is my betrothed,” he said.

“Hi,” she said shaking their hands.

“I didn’t know you were engaged,” one woman said.

“It’s still early,” she said. “We’ll talk after Thanksgiving.”

The woman laughed. “I think you’ve found your match,” she said smiling up at him.

I wasn’t joking, she thought to herself.

They stood in another circle of prayer.

“Does anyone want to say grace?” Nana asked.

“My dad does,” a boy chimed in.

Everyone laughed and his father stared down his boy from the other side of the circle. She stood in his arms as the prayer ended and everyone ushered into the kitchen. This was her place.

You are here.

Snapshots of Inspirations

When I was little my mom told me there were forest fairies in our backyard. I got a small plastic aquarium that used to have a hermit crab in it and made a home for them. I put honey water in a little dish every day and waited to catch one. I became obsessed, and my imagination grew so vivid that I could swear to this day I saw one. My mom planted a butterfly bush outside my bedroom window and she said that like the butterflies, the fairies were attracted to the bush as well. My dad placed a flat boulder next to it for me to sit on. I’d curl up like a cat in the sun and lie there.

https://www.pinterest.com/pin/314829830173700045/

I grew up on Green Acres Lane and every time I talk about it the theme song to the late 1960’s TV Land show “Green Acres” plays on a loop in my head.  “Greeeen Acres is the place to be! Faaaarm livin’ is the life for me!” It’s okay if you don’t know that reference; if you can’t imagine it, place a city slicker on a tractor singing like a hillbilly, voice cracking and everything. I only know because of a house warming gift. A family friend bought us a candy dispensing house that sang the song. The quirky background music played the tune to my life. We rarely watched TV, but when we indulged ourselves during breakfast on Saturday mornings, we always flipped to TV Land. “Bonanza” and “Little House on the Prairie” and “I Love Lucy” played. I’m not sure if those were all actually on the same channel, Hallmark was really the only other channel Mom let us watch. Grandpa always watched “Dr. Quinn, Medicine Woman” and “Walker, Texas Ranger.” I’m not sure where the trend of “Name, comma occupation” for TV show titles disappeared to.

https://www.pinterest.com/pin/179229260147241399/

With many horses, 20 acres of land, an arena and a barn, Green Acres Lane really was the place to be. My family went to rodeos every weekend and Cowboy Church on Sundays. Sometimes we left the Christmas lights up all year; we only locked the doors when we heard about a break-in near our area. My best friend and I would walk along the fence by Burgess Road waving and making honking motions towards passing cars, counting how many we got in return. We never wore shoes and were always outside. I remember many times when my dad would have a fit of rage, I’d hide in the forest plotting my escape. I’d run away someday. I’d ride away on my favorite horse, Jose. I never did, of course. I was bright eyed with big ideas that I never acted on. I’d plan them out and write stories about girls much braver than I running away from home and making it on their own, just their horse and themselves. I started writing bigger stories about girls going to bigger cities, for college, for jobs, for a bigger, better life. I started plotting my own journey, saving money and googling places new to me.

Infatuations.

I always liked this word. The sound of it. The meaning. What does it mean to be infatuated with something or someone? To be infatuated. I liked the word so much better before I looked up the definition. I always imagined infatuation as a long-term thing, like a love for a person. But nothing is really long term.

My planning jarred to a halt when my grandpa died my junior year of high school. I vowed not to leave and to spend more time with my family. The heart ache convinced me I could never spend enough time with my relatives. The revelation of death persuaded me to believe that any of us could die at any moment, and it would have been worse if I was unable to be there in their last moments. My older brother was away at school, and he didn’t have a chance to fully accept it and say goodbye. But senior year I was ready to leave; I wouldn’t go far but I needed breathing room. I drove the six hours to Hastings, Nebraska.

~

We built a tree house, us kids and dad. Well, mostly dad. All three of us would sit up there working on art projects. We’d have our French toast with syrup and peanut butter for breakfast out there. We’d invite friends over and pretend it was our own humble abode. My older brother had a friend over once and we were playing with the hose under the tree house making small lakes and rivers. Trying to contain the water in places as it ran down hill.

            “Dam it!” his friend kept saying. I giggle uncontrollably as I usually did around my brother’s friends.

            Taylor was mad and telling him to stop saying that in front of me. I encouraged him as though I thought it charming and humorous.

            We hung our artwork on the walls of the tree house and read books on the floor. I wrote in my journals, my mind running wild. There were many insects and spiders. But there were always spiders where I was. Slowly, the tree house was abandoned. I don’t know what point we thought we outgrew it, because to this day I would still enjoy sitting in that tree house. But now it has what I consider a spider infestation, and the last time I was in there I saw not one but two black widow spiders.

            For whatever reason, my room always had the most spiders. Perhaps I noticed them more than the rest of my family, like the large black pregnant spider in my bed. But I learned how to squish my own spiders because by the time I’d run to the kitchen to find my dad and run back in hysteria to show the proof, the ugly creature would be gone. And I would sleep somewhere else for a few nights, unsettled by the thought of a spider sleeping in my bed. I received no pity as well in those psychologically scarring moments of my childhood and my dad showed no hustle following me to the horror scene.

Living in Oklahoma for the summer, where the bugs are much greater in number and size, I religiously sprayed the house with bug repellent but to no avail. Spiders inhabited every space they could, spiders that looked exotic and poisonous. One day while I was cooking in the kitchen and Toby was messing with the TV, I heard a small squeak and I looked up. Toby stood with broom in hand jabbing at something on the floor.

            “What?” I asked.

            “Spider,” he said, eyes wide. I realized now the squeak came from him.

            I moved closer to see a monster of a spider, the size of the palm of my hand. I tried taking a photo of it but couldn’t get close enough. Wouldn’t get close enough.

            The first night I slept in our house in Hastings senior year, a bat flew out in the middle of the night swooping down and flying in chaotic circles. Nobody believed me, and I wished it was a dream. The next evening it came upstairs. I’ve never seen three girls move quicker. The shrill shrieking was terrible. If my fiancé wasn’t there we probably would have lit a match, slammed the door, and never looked back. Eventually he shooed the damn thing out, and we crossed our fingers there wouldn’t be any more. I love animals. I’ve always surrounded myself with them, cats, horses, dogs, hermit crabs. Now I have no animals near me. No horse to feed every morning and evening; no cat to cuddle with at night. It’s rather lonely. Animals were my muse. I wrote about horses from the perspective of the horse. I envied their freedom I imagined in the open range. But it seems now I’m mostly surrounded by the ugliest of creatures.

~

            People called me a giggle box because instead of talking I would laugh. I was a silent child but a giggling one. Teachers spent their time trying to help me to find “my voice.” I used my voice on paper. I’d write stories. My little brother was a talker and he’d make up stories for days. He would tell jokes he made up too that weren’t funny and didn’t make sense, but the whole family would bust out in laughter. I was the opposite. I wrote stories that I didn’t want anyone to read. I wrote in my diary. I had so many journals; I’d beg Mom to buy a new one before I’d finished the first. I was the child that received extra homework, not as punishment, but because I was too good at it. My third grade teacher emailed my dad extra difficult spelling word for me to learn. I won every spelling bee from first grade to seventh grade, except for one. I don’t remember what year it was, but I was simply tired of people remarking about how likely it was I’d win again. I didn’t know it was such a big deal to some; I was simply spelling words correctly when they called the next person in line. That year I lost on purpose. A boy who was not very good at spelling was the last person standing with me, so I purposely spelled my word wrong. But then he spelled that word wrong, too, and it was my turn again, and I spelled that word wrong too wanting to hit him in the back of the head if he messed up again. But I think he won. I’m not sure; I’d have to go through my spelling bee plaques.

~

            The first time I had a gulp of liquor, I was at home and this was during my new obsession of Flamin’ Hot Cheetos. I’m not sure if anyone actually likes the flavor or if it was the joy of self-inflicted pain, in any case, my mouth was on fire. My dad and brothers have a habit of filling up large glasses of ice water and leaving them on the counter. I rarely filled up my own glass because I was always taking theirs. So, my mouth on fire I marched to the counter and grabbed the large glass of water and threw it back. The burning sensation in my throat out matched the one in my mouth. I was sputtering for air, surely the vein on my forehead was bulging and ran to the bathroom. To this day, I still do not understand why anyone would drink (what I now believe to be) straight vodka. Positively not after a mouth full of Flamin’ Hot Cheetos.  

            There’s really no point in these stories, except the fact that they still have lingering influence in my life. These are stories that I recall; they shaped my writing. Many stories I conjured in my mind came to life while sitting by that butterfly bush. The first time I saw a forest fairy is engrained in my mind, and that was the beginning of an imagination that still tells stories today. I still have “Green Acres” theme song stuck in my head since writing this, I still have a lot of spiders in my room, and I’m really good at spelling and laughing at myself. These are the moments of inspiration for my love of words and writing.

English Majors: It's What We Want

English majors have a bad rap. We're virtually taught to be poor and thrown out into the world assumed that we can only be teachers. False. My English major is everything I want. And it is a lot more than people think. 
I'm pursuing what I love, and it has opened so many doors for me. No, I do not want to be a teacher; I want to be an editor, a writer, an intellectual, a critic, and a traveler. My English major gives me these options and coupled with my Spanish and Publishing major, the world is wide open! 
There is nothing wrong with being a teacher; they're the people that do the most for this world and receive the least credit. I salute them, and I have an utmost respect for them. Teachers are the ones who got me to where I am today: I owe it all to them. 
But let me tell you what I can do with my English major: Anything I want. 
I can travel. I can teach English in Spain. I can edit articles for the local newspaper. I can submit short stories to popular publishers. I can write a novel. I can read The New Yorker and Wired, and learn about anything I want. I can be a writer; I can be an editor; I can be an intellectual. I have the skills to do just about anything, skills that are valuable in a company. 
I started taking a Web Communications class this year, and the class is not what you would think it is, unless you were like me and had really no notion of what a class with that title could entail. The professor spoke in terms a layman like me did not understand (what are deliverables), assigned 60 pages of reading, and told us there was a large project due at the end of the semester of producing an online presence for a real company. I shrugged and said, "That's nothing for an English major." 
The professor and the students in this class looked upon me as unprepared and oblivious to this class. On day one. And as much as I mirrored those looks, I knew I had what it takes. Sure, the first reading I actually had to active engage myself and look up terms and take notes and do such things that I've managed to skip since freshman year, but I get it. I think critically; I think outside of the box.
Second day of class, the professor notices my Star Wars mug and jeers, "Hannah's a closet nerd!!"
I said, "Oh, there's nothing in the closet about it." Apparently, I gave him the perfect segue to his next discussion: being open to new concepts and the ever-changing world. 
I may not know all the web design terminology, or what deliverables are, but I surely can find out. I can be as up-to-date as anybody because I love information and I love searching for it. Reading is easy. Research is easy. Best of all: It's my passion. 
So here's to the doors opened to me, doors of travel, opportunity, and novelty. 
Lastly, here's to all the English majors. Keep on keeping on. 

Being a Country Girl in a City World: 4 Ways to Stay True to You

As an English major, I am passionate about writing. I obsess over errors I find in texts, and I love reading. Books are my passion. But the balancing act between work, school, and internships is difficult. To top things off, rodeo is also a passion of mine, a passion that is time consuming and requires a lot of money. This article explores the balance between to very contrary loves and how a country girl is supposed to make it in a city world. 
"For me, I had the duality of two oppositional interests—rodeo and horses; books and writing. The former fills my waking hours, my evenings, and weekends with manure scooping, hay tossing, and horse riding. The latter draws up images of New York City..."


http://www.whiskeyriff.com/2016/06/13/being-a-country-girl-in-a-city-world-4-ways-to-stay-true-to-you/

11 Signs You Attended Hastings College

Hastings College provides a unique experience for students. Not only do they have a wide variety of classes, they have a rodeo team, and many campus events including Mr. and Mrs. Bronco and Boars Head. The professors are personable and give one-on-one experience with all of their students. 

From drinking warm beer and cheap vodka, students in Nebraska get creative when it comes to entertaining themselves in the flat lands and cornfields. 

"Upon graduation, the government sends you a reminder that you owe at least your firstborn’s life in debt.

While I spoke of students earning a lot of scholarships, few received full rides. After four years, any amount of tuition adds up, leaving grads with a surmounting amount of debt to the government."
Read more here: 

https://www.theodysseyonline.com/signs-attended-hastings-college

Dreaming of the NFR

In a world where gender roles are changing, tensions arise between those that welcome the change and those that don't. A magazine article discussing the aspirations of a female roper to make the top 15 in team roping was shunned by male team ropers. In the rodeo world, men and women have the opportunity to compete side by side, yet a woman has not made it to the National Finals Rodeo in an event other than barrel racing. This fact has never been an issue until someone stated that women absolutely not make it to the NFR. Why? In my opinion, a statement like that is unnecessary. 

"Growing up, all rodeo competitors, including women, dream of making it to the NFR to compete under those Las Vegas lights and win the buckle proving they're the best."

Who's to say a woman can't?

Check out the rest of my article here. 

Tammy Meeske Fine Art
tammymeeske.com

The Lessons Rodeo Taught Me

Patience

The long, sometimes drab drives taught me the patience to sit for hours, along with the talent of entertaining myself while driving for hours.

Growing up in rodeo, a lot of people train their own horses. I learned how to barrel race and pole bend with my horse. Neither of us had any experience and we taught each other in our own way until we started winning. But that is one of the hardest parts, working with a horse. It's also the most rewarding. For some people, it comes natural, but as a little girl learning by doing is quite the process. Not only that, but a horse has so much personality. 

A horse has off days and on days just like we do. Days they don't want to work and days they have too much energy to contain. Relying on a living creature that weighs 1,000 pounds is a scary thing. Getting bucked off, trampled, and stepped on comes with the territory.

Read more here.

https://www.theodysseyonline.com/glimpse-of-the-rodeo-road

You Can Bump ‘Em

Dirt flew across the paneled fence, splattering the faces of onlookers. Cowboy hats ducked slightly and the announcer cackled into the microphone, “That was quite the show, my friends.” Minutes later the bull trotted proudly out of the arena, after much effort of the pick-up men.

She sat on her horse in the corner outside of the arena: out of sight, out of mind. Her arms were crossed, hiding her anxiety. Barrel racing was next. She knew once she picked up the reins her mare would start up, like an engine of a motorcycle purring in anticipation, and she would have to contain her. The excitement, the nervousness—it never died away. Three cans were set up. The cowboys scooted them and twisted them to the perfection of a barrel racer’s pleasure. She was last hole, the bottom of the rake. ‘Saving the best for last,’ she told herself. She let out a long breath. Her mare matched her with a loud blow. She patted her neck careful not to disturb the reins. That was how sensitive her mare was, how in-tune they were as an ensemble. Stepping off, she tightened the cinches, another indication that the race was nearing. Anticipation.

The announcer spoke her name in a long drawling voice; she was next.

She picked up the reins, the mare started prancing and breathing quickly, pulling her head against the reins, explosive but gentle. She pointed her towards the alley, the long path to a short pattern. Instantly, the mare picked her head up, pushing against the reins, begging to be let loose. Closer they inched to the gate as the previous horse left the arena. The anticipation building as they saw the first barrel. She kept her eye on it before giving the mare the cue that it was all hers; it was the mare’s turn to take control.

Trust. A major part of barrel racing. Trust that as they ran full speed towards the barrel, the mare would, in her right lead, hunker down grazing my toe in a perfect semi-circle around the girth of the barrel. Trust that we would find each barrel and getting as close as possible—“You can bump ‘em, you can kick ‘em, just don’t knock em over!”—we would make the pattern home, clocking our fast time. 

The Craft of Beer Drinking

https://www.pinterest.com/pin/546976317215005985/

This article features stereotypes of craft beer drinkers and tips for those of us that like to drink, but know nothing about craft beer. 
"Craft beer in the United States has become just that, quite the craft. While wine has always maintained an aura of sophistication and snobbery, beer has slowly differentiated into varieties that stray from the piss-water-to-extreme-piss-water scale, the beers that you shotgun because life is too short to spend time sipping warm, light beer. Breweries crept up all over the United States, scattering across the state of Colorado with a whopping 230 craft breweries.

In 1982, Boulder, CO held 20 different brewing companies with a selection of 35 beers for the first Great American Beer Festival. Craft breweries cropped up in corn-fed Nebraska ranging from Thunderhead Brewery in Kearney to Zipline Brewing in Lincoln. Not to mention our very own Hastings, Nebraska is starting up First Street Brewing Company. In 2008, Smithsonian Magazine stated that “the best beers in the world today are being made in the US.”

So maybe you’re not the Tyrion Lannister of craft beer drinkers. Maybe you’re more of a Jon Snow: you drink, but you know nothing. Well, you're not the only one, but don't let it keep you from trying something a little different from your Coors Light."

https://www.theodysseyonline.com/the-craft-of-beer-drinking

Sarcasm: The True Art of Humor

That quiet girl that sits in the front of the class and barely participates in discussion or group activities might not be as shy as she appears, but suffers from over-active-sarcasm and lives in constant fear that she will offend someone when she opens her mouth. The possibility that her humor won’t be funny to classmates or professors causes her to glance downward as she stifles a giggle in the middle of a lecture, making her appear extremely reserved. The fact that not everybody understands sarcasm suggests a boundary that separates those who understand sarcasm and those who do not. Scrolling through articles, Psychology Today, study after study, research paper after research paper, I found to my dismay many negative articles on my favorite form of communication, sarcasm. My defense mode kicked in, motivating me to write this. I wondered is sarcasm all bad? Next, I grabbed “The Official Dictionary of Sarcasm” by James Napoli, Executive Vice President of the National Sarcasm Society (yes, there is a sarcasm society). This is a guide for all your sarcastic needs; as Napoli states on the back cover, “not that you give a crap” (Napoli). Upon reading this, I felt reassured that sarcasm is humorous—but what exactly is sarcasm? Sarcasm exists strongly in the English language, making a mark in our daily conversations; creating series of sitcoms, stand-up comedy, and humor columns in the New Yorker; establishing forums on the internet, memes on Facebook, and hashtags on Twitter—almost creating an entirely new language. Yet, not a universal one. So why is sarcasm difficult to understand and why does it have such a bad rap?

The word sarcasm comes from the Greek word sarkezein which literally translates as “to tear flesh” (“Sarcasm”). When we are sarcastic, we are not literally tearing the recipient’s flesh, yet like sarcasm itself, metaphorically, in many ways we are. The snarling comments often injure one like tearing of flesh. “Sticks and stones may break my bones but words will never hurt me,” is a false adage indicating that words have no effect on us at all. This simply is not true. Based on the way in which our self-esteem levels fluctuate depending on approval from others, we depend on words to communicate the things that encourage us, help us differentiate right from wrong, and criticize us. Sarcasm is a statement of one positive meant to mean a negative opposite. Sarcasm sometimes forms as criticism or a compliment. Pazzanese, a Harvard staff writer, suggested that the “mental gymnastics” involved in the interpretation of sarcasm leads smart-alecks to believe they are intellectually better than the straight-forward. I myself have come to use the term sarcasm generously to refer to all inappropriate humor.

In my opinion, there is a difference between saying something cruel or cynical and laughing about it, and using abstract communication to express one thing by saying another. The line is blurred between sarcasm and passive aggression, between sarcasm and facetiousness. Sarcasm is a type of both, but in its purest self it is not either of these. It’s easier to examine what sarcasm is not, to better understand what sarcasm is. My friend recently started talking to a guy that asked for her number at her work. Naturally, my first question is: “When’s the wedding?” I say this to see her squirm uncomfortably. I’m pointing to an arbitrary concept that isn’t realistic—they aren’t getting married anytime soon, the idea of engagement isn’t in the picture. Its humor and we can laugh about it. I know exactly how that feels—its patronizing, but it’s funny. Plenty of people ask my boyfriend and I, “Am I invited to the wedding?” insinuating and pressuring us into uncomfortable rebuttals and lame come backs. But there is a line. Some people truly are hurtful when it comes to communicating their feelings about my relationship and they defend it by saying they were being ‘sarcastic’ or ‘facetious’. It’s exhausting and the humor is lost. “Did you get permission to go to the rodeo this weekend?” my boyfriend’s guy friend nudges him, speaking loud enough for me to hear. The message I get is that I’m controlling. I’m the stereotype of the manipulative, bossy significant other, a stereotype I resent. So what is the difference between the sarcastic and the facetious?

http://sarcasmsociety.com/

The Latin inscribed beneath the society’s tile translates to “This was a waste of time”—and I couldn’t agree more after I made the effort of creating a new tab and typing it into Google translate.

Facetious originated from the Latin word facetus, meaning witty (“Facetious”). Merriam Webster says the word is “used to describe speech that is meant to be funny but that is usually regarded as annoying, silly, or not proper” (“Facetious”). Sarcasm is defined as “the use of words that mean the opposite of what you want to say, especially in order to insult someone, to show irritation or to be funny” (“Sarcasm”). The confusion between these two has resulted in the broadening of the usage of the word sarcasm. We generalize it and overuse. We think all inappropriate humor is sarcastic. We define personalities by either being sarcastic or not having a sense of humor, as if it’s one or the other. Sarcasm navigates deeper than surface level humor in our psychology; it functions as our coping mechanisms, sometimes through passive aggression. In some ways I even confuse sarcasm with inside jokes. I always thought that sarcasm was a sort of specialized, unique form of expressing information that only few people will get. But that is the exact definition of an inside joke: “a joke that is understood only by people with special knowledge about something” (“Inside joke”). The differences between these types of humor is crucial in understanding the uniqueness of sarcasm.

The negative aspects of sarcasm are abundant, especially psychologically. Have you ever had a compliment about your outfit in the form of a snide comment, leaving you wondering if it was actually a compliment or a form of subtle bullying? Sarcasm can leave people immune to compliments, making them think that when someone says something nice, it’s a joke. When someone is rude, they laugh it off, because that too might be sarcasm, but how can they truly ever know?  “You can’t take a joke anymore,” my friend said. To which I wanted to respond, “I can’t take your passive-aggression anymore.” Our relationship is summarized by snide quips and mean remarks, accentuated with a laugh and smirk. You have to be thick skinned to hang out with us, but why? Why must we poke at each other, especially when it isn’t funny anymore? The not-so subtle counterparts are the passive-aggression that blare through the sarcastic comments. Criticism tries to hide in sarcasm, but it is difficult for it to squeeze its big furry butt behind the narrow tree of humor.

At times we hide behind sarcasm to insinuate things of deeper and problematic meaning. Instead of straightforwardly saying that we don’t like something the other person did, maybe it was something they said or did to us, maybe they forgot to take out the trash after repeated requests or called you that name you specifically told them not to call you. I am not a white girl, I swear—as I order my Venti Extra Whip Strawberry Vanilla Frappuccino.

Once, my boyfriend wore a hideous striped sweater that he simply could not pull off. The whole night, through drinks, dinner and the movie after, I made backhanded remarks about how I was sure Steve from Blue’s Clues was missing his sweater. I held my hand up to the side of my face in the shape of a phone, “Bill Cosby called; he wants his shirt back.” I thought it was subtle, but based on the glares I got it was not. Later he asked, “Seriously, is this sweater that bad?”

            “No,” I said. “No, not at all. No. Of course not. It’s great. It’s great!”

            “One more ‘great’ and I’ll believe you,” he said.

            “It’s great,” I said smiling. “How’d you find Sheldon Cooper’s wardrobe?”

Okay, that last one was a stretch—I mean, Sheldon from The Big Bang Theory wears some pretty strange shirts right? This is a mild example of criticism in the form of sarcasm, so we’ll take it a step further. However, the only sarcastic comment in this exchange was when I said, “It’s great.” Because I truly meant the opposite.

A problem I have encountered personally as a result of sarcasm is the inability to communicate effectively because sometimes people don’t know if I actually mean the opposite of what I’m saying. How can this be resolved? I’ve been so wounded that somebody compliments me and I take it the wrong way, I take it as the opposite. Being able to understand sarcasm and see the possible opposite of every statement comes with problems.

“You clean up good!” a well-meaning husband says to his wife.

“What is that supposed to mean?” she retorts.

The compliment turns offensive when she assumes he means she doesn’t always look good, that it is only at this point in time that she has achieved beauty. Then why is sarcasm so fun?

 “Sarcasm is the lowest form of wit, but the highest form of intelligence,” stated Oscar Wilde (Huang, Gino, and Galinsky). A well-known quote by a well-known author.  Science suggests that this is true. “The prefrontal lobe is known to be involved in pragmatic language processes and complex social cognition. The ventromedial section is linked to personality and social behavior” (Adam). Any sort of loss in these areas makes it impossible for a person to understand and interpret irony and sarcasm. “First the language center in the brain's left hemisphere interprets the literal meaning of words. Next, the frontal lobes and right hemisphere process the speaker's intention and check for contradictions between the literal meaning and the social and emotional context. Finally, the right ventromedial prefrontal cortex—our sarcasm meter—makes a decision based on our social and emotional knowledge of the situation” (Adam). Irony is a major component to sarcasm, a term that we often heard in our high school English class regarding the short story we read. I usually thought it referred to something that wasn’t logical, yet it is the statement of one thing to mean the opposite. Now, the amount of effort it takes to follow this sort of communication makes it easy to see why some people won’t be able to understand it.

According to a study, “both sarcasm expressers and recipients reported more conflict but also demonstrated enhanced creativity” (Huang, Gino, and Galinsky) Sure, sarcasm stipulates plenty of problems: passive-aggression, criticism. But where is everybody’s sense of humor? The study by Francesca Gino of Harvard Business School, Adam Galinsky, Professor of Business at Columbia Business School, and Li Huang of INSEAD, the European business school examines this. They state that sarcasm “can facilitate creativity by increasing abstract thinking” (Huang, Gino, and Galinsky). Attending a Liberal Arts college, abstract thinking is the premise of the curriculum. I value this. Sarcasm as a method of communication leads to potential problems: misunderstanding, confusion, and hurt feelings. Yet, even in the workplace, sarcasm can be beneficial when mutual trust exists between the two parties. The expresser of sarcasm views it as “more amusing and less aggressive” than the recipient (Huang, Gino, and Galinsky). The same goes for the observer. It makes sense that the recipient, at whose expense the joke is directed, perceives more aggression. Sarcasm functions at the expense of the recipient who in turn experiences and benefits from no form of creativity, like the observer and expresser. However, the true humor and fun in sarcasm is the ability to respond, quickly and ingeniously, firing back a response. I enjoy people who not only understand sarcasm, but effectively show their wit by responding with sarcasm. An exchange like this can happen spontaneously, say on a plane, two strangers joking at the expense of the flight crew, sharing an instant mutual trust that did not exist before.

A key factor in successful sarcasm for communication is interpersonal trust. “That helps reduce the relational cost of sarcasm for both parties but still allow organizations to take advantage of its creative benefits” (Huang, Gino, and Galinsky). “A literal positive meaning to communicate a negative message” (Huang, Gino, and Galinsky). A boss says to an employee sitting lazily at his desk, “Don’t work too hard!” (Huang, Gino, and Galinsky) Literally, it is a kind message from the boss warning the worker not to strain himself. Sarcastically, it is a snide way to tell the employee that he needs to pick up the pace. The verbal irony of sarcasm relies on pitch inversion, utterance elongation, and nasalization (Krueger). Is the boss sincerely concerned the worker will put in so much effort that he will pass out from exertion, or is he criticizing how little energy and enthusiasm he sees from the employee? Context and tone of voice makes this clearer, but how many ways could this be misinterpreted?

Sending sarcasm through written word such as email is rarely effective unless the recipient reads the message in their head exactly how you would have said it. This is problematic. One cannot know for sure how something will be interpreted—tone is a major component in sarcasm. A How I Met Your Mother episode showed this. It’s Halloween, Robin is dating a new guy. Over email she in her mind, jokingly said they should dress up as Hansel and Gretel. A knock at the door revealed a Hansel in full costume; Robin was going as herself.

            “Where is your costume, Gretel?” he asks.

            “You thought I was—oh, I was just kidding. I gotta stop making jokes in emails. It’s so hard to convey tone,” Robin said.

Robin stated that they should dress up for Halloween, but meaning the opposite. We need a font for sarcasm. The phrase “good one” is an interchangeable term of endearment or criticism. Someone makes a half-court basketball shot and a buddy high fives him saying, “Good one!” My friend cracks a joke and I roll my eyes saying, “Good one..” What’s the difference between these two? Context and tone. I can almost bet that you read the latter with a scoffing tone with the voice residing in your head.

From an outsider’s point of view, my discussions with friends, especially my roommate, may sound cruel and mean, rather unnecessary. But that is how our relationships function, how we keep conversations lighthearted, and crack a smile when it seems impossible. Gino states, “To create or decode sarcasm, both the expressers and recipients of sarcasm need to overcome the contradiction between the literal and actual meanings of the sarcastic expressions. This is a process that activates and is facilitated by abstraction, which in turn promotes creative thinking,” (Pazzanese). Sarcasm requires a sort of “mental gymnastics,” a factor that makes it more fun and entertaining (Pazzanese).

The concept that sarcasm requires creative and abstract thinking, shows how complex it is—especially used through written word. The internet has captured a form of humor that is not quite sarcasm, but humor that requires a sort of previous shared knowledge. The internet increased accessibility to many things, but the aspect that is not accessible to everyone is the understanding of the humor discourse. This humor has resulted in an internet sensation of memes. From football players being ridiculed, actors being quoted out of context to criticizing presidential candidates, we use these memes, sometimes in the form of moving GIFs to entertain and express ourselves. Matthew McConaughey’s phrase “Alright, alright, alright” circulates the internet. One Tumblr user commented on the phenomenon of internet humor. The user under the name of marelie states, “I really love our generation’s joke trend of like, very calm but incredibly inflated hyperbole. Like nobody says “oh she’s pretty” anymore we say “I would willingly let her murder me” and everyone is just like “lol same” (Marelie). The language used on the internet is unique and continually evolving. The way we communicate has become more concise and efficient. She continues. “I think “same” is also great and “me,” I love when somebody reblogs a picture of like, a lizard, and just says “me” and we all know exactly what they mean. The current online Humor Discourse is remarkable because we trade exclusively in metaphors and implications and nobody ever, ever says anything outright and yet everybody understands each other perfectly” (Marelie). A one word statement is enough to establish meaning, proving how much understanding and “mental gymnastics” we use in order to create humor (Pazzanese).

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The many layers behind this meme require prior knowledge of McConaughey’s Lincoln car commercial—satirized by Ellen Degeneres—and knowledge of the origin of his catch phrase “Alright, alright, alright”—the movie “Dazed and Confused.” But this is a characteristic of an inside joke—not sarcasm.

Pondering why we use sarcasm, I examined my own life and the instances that sarcasm is most prevalent. It’s a coping mechanism. It is a way for me to express my thoughts inadvertently. It’s a method for my brain to process complicated, uncomfortable things in a humorous way. It’s the comic relief to my life.  Last night my friend said, “Now I have to live at home with my parents.” My roommate says, “Who wouldn’t want to do that!” And in that moment I realized what sarcasm really is. Because I can literally think of many people who would not want to live with their parents. Sarcasm happened so rarely that the entire night we were simply being facetious—making inappropriate jokes, insulting jabs, and sexual innuendos. And that’s when my appreciation for sarcasm spiked. Crafting sarcasm, one must be analytical, one must say the opposite of what they mean in a way that presents itself as humorous. Sarcasm requires a lot of thinking and it’s only funny if the thinking is done rapidly. Interactions with sarcasm are unique—there are drawbacks to it, evident in my life when I can’t seem to handle my problems, much less a joke—but there are benefits that outweigh this in a trusting environment. Sarcasm potentially tears relationships apart, but it also does the opposite. So the quiet girl in the front of the class may be more complicated than she looks, her mind races with sarcastic responses and inappropriate jokes, her brain on overload at all times. That blank stare she directs at the blackboard results from a numbing abundance of humor, sometimes she’s facetious and she has her inside jokes, but sometimes, when she formulates the perfect response, she is sarcastic. Sarcasm: the true art form of humor.

Works Cited

Adam, David. "Highest Functions of Brain Produce Lowest Form of Wit." The Guardian. Guardian News and Media, 23 May 2005. Web. 09 Mar. 2016.

"Facetious." Merriam-Webster. Merriam-Webster. Web. 17 Mar. 2016.

Huang, Li, F. Gino, and Adam D. Galinsky. "The Highest Form of Intelligence: Sarcasm Increases Creativity for Both Expressers and Recipients." Organizational Behavior and Human Decision Processes 131 (2015): 162–177. Web. 17 Mar. 2016.

“Inside joke.” Merriam-Webster. Merriam-Webster. Web. 17 Mar. 2016.

Krueger, Joachim. "Sarcasm Bites." Psychology Today. Sussex Publishers, 11 Apr. 2015. Web. 17 Mar. 2016.

Marelie. "I really love our generation’s joke trend..." We are Born with the Dead. 2015, Tumblr.

Napoli, James. The Official Dictionary of Sarcasm: A Lexicon for Those of Us Who Are Better and Smarter than the Rest of You. New York, NY: Sterling Innovation, 2010. Print.

Pazzanese, Christina. "Go Ahead, Be Sarcastic." Harvard Gazette. The President and Fellows of Harvard College, 24 July 2015. Web. 09. Mar. 2016.

"Sarcasm." Merriam-Webster. Merriam-Webster. Web. 17 Mar. 2016.