Lactose intolerance and me

Believe it or not, this and the previous entry are linked, somehow.

I never officially got a diagnosis of lactose intolerance. But growing up with my mother and my older aunts, discussions about stomach ailments were legion. Digestive digressions. Medical terms half-remembered, out of context, but ominously inflected. "Heliobacteria." "Ulcer." "Sigmoidoscopy." Self-reported ratings of upper vs lower GI examinations. (Evidently the lower is more challenging, though the geography still escapes me. Is it counterintuitive, in the way that the definitions of Lower and Upper Egypt were? Is the analogy of the river correct? What precisely is the source and what is the delta in this strained metaphor?)

So I did grow up with some paranoia and perhaps even hypochondria regarding things stomach-related. These seemed to be borne out by a tendency to fart intensely at school. Rare was the audible, public trumpet, though I sweat now, dear Reader, when I think about that terrible afternoon in the high school library when I was suddenly surprised by a loud one, leaving me hovering two inches above the unforgiving wooden chair, my face the only answer needed by the thirty faces turning with a united question.

Less publicly, but no less to my shame, was first period sophomore year. World History Honors, first period. I sat near the front, and the damnable infernal chairs were made of hard plastic and metal. No cushions. I tried valiantly to preserve my classmates from what seemed like roomfuls of foul fumes, especially as these represented the brightest and, in many cases, most attractive members of my graduating class.

If they ever let on, they never told me. I feel especially sorry for Julie. I think you sat behind me, either directly or one chair back. So if you ever wondered

IT WAS I

I was the flatulent fiend
I was the malefactor of mists
I was the Boyd bombardier
I was the doubled-over, thrice-damned doofus
I was the gastard
I was the shart attack
I was the World War I recreationist

If you didn't get an A in that class, I was probably the reason.

I don't know how I connected my challenges to the milk I was drinking in the morning (accompanying a reasonably priced and nutritionally questionable school breakfast). But at some point, before graduation, I did, and didn't look back. What lay behind, other than shame, smells, and stains?

So yes, if you are facing the perils of lactose intolerance, I empathize. Like the smog of 1970s Los Angeles, it colored my experiences in high school, its social and psychological scars lingering like a brown dog, at once familiar and repugnant. This was pre-Lactaid (or at least pre- my understanding of medical options). Consider yourself blessed that opportunities abound, not only for probiotic remedies, but also cow milk substitutes.

There may come a day when public and unremitting flatulence is no longer a source of shame, and perhaps even a source of some energy. But today is not that day. Learn from my mistakes, educate yourself, and do your best to live a normal, healthy life.

Why Mr. Weaver was both the best and the worst physics teacher ever

Given all the physics education stories I've told, I'm surprised I haven't written about this before. Granted, it was a while ago (pre-9/11), so my memories (and associated emotions) aren't nearly as strong. But it's worth writing, so non-Rosemead High School students get a taste of where I was coming from upon entering Harvey Mudd College.

In 1999, Mr. Weaver was a late-50s man who, by his own admission, was a burned-out mechanical engineer that had somehow ended up in teaching. I don't know if he started teaching right after college, or if he had been a practicing engineer until the aerospace layoffs of the 1970s or 1980s.

He bore a disturbing resemblance to Hannibal Lecter. Appearance-wise, not so much; he had a full head of hair, always parted to the left, and was less physically imposing than Lecter. But he did have these blueish-gray eyes, at once piercing and vacant. More than his appearance, his soft, vague, enervated tones made one think of Dr. Lecter.

It's not just me and my unhealthy fascination with serial killers, real or fictional. The Lecter-esque quality has been confirmed by multiple classmates. His language was not nearly as eloquent or energetic as Lecter, but was filled with these vague, straight-faced quirks of speech.

Anyway, this was how AP Physics B shook out. The first day, Mr. Weaver stood in front of class and gave a brief lecture about general things about this class. I honestly don't remember what he talked about, but some of it went over my head. I think he sprinkled a bit of statistics in there, and I would not take that [excellent] class until next year with -- and I'm not joking -- Mrs. Flaws.

During the next 180 or so days of instruction, there wasn't a single lecture. Not a one. He'd assign homework by writing it on the board. But, if memory serves, he wouldn't address the class as a whole again (barring, say, a fire drill).

So all of my introduction to physics was self-taught. I was helped along by the competitive pressures (some would say harassment) of a precocious Vietnamese student who was probably two or three years ahead of the rest of us in both math and science. (Contrary to expectations, he didn't major in physics -- he went the med school route, which I believe has been more financially and personally profitable than a physics trajectory, anyway. Huy, if you're reading this, you're welcome.)

We did have labs, and to his credit, Mr. Weaver did show us how to use the air track and other equipment. But only if we cared enough to ask.

Needless to say, without management, classroom management fell apart. The seniors were the first casualty -- a lot of them stopped doing homework. Seniors and juniors would use the class (after lunch) as a second lunch hour, sitting cross-legged on the tables in circles to eat. After telling one of my students the story of this class, he asked, "Wasn't he worried about getting caught by the principal?" The answer had to be no, which I suppose demonstrated the systemic nature of the problem. My personal experience indicates that there was more attention paid to the slipping of the word "necrophilia" into the school newspaper, or illicit trips to the In-n-Out burger during classroom hours, than to physics instruction.

So yeah, almost no one cared. I remember doing a lab in which I was doing error analysis while the rest of the group was watching American Pie. I do remember generating some messed up system of error analysis; this is also the class where I taught myself Excel.

He did grade the homework and labs submitted, and did give tests.

Around second semester, some of the seniors started to realize that they were failing this course, and that an F in this (and other) courses could jeopardize their admission to various colleges. "Ruh roh!" (I think that's a direct quote from Mr. Weaver.) I don't know if he pity-passed anyone, but it was mildly amusing to see someone try to muscle through E&M and optics, having paid zero attention to any of the preceding physics.

Also, at some point, he dyed his hair brown. He then disappeared for a couple weeks. When he came back, we learned he had married a Japanese woman. Weird.

Yes, he was the worst physics teacher I'd ever known. He wasn't hostile; he wasn't ignorant. He was simply a non-factor. He demonstrated all the fucks he didn't give before the meme existed.

I don't know if people in those classes hated physics. It could be argued that they are actually more positive about physics than average precisely because it was less instructional, and more food-centered.

So my preparation for physics going into Harvey Mudd College was, well, less than adequate. And it probably did contribute to the disconnect between what I thought physics was and what it actually was.

But maybe he was a secret genius, and a master teacher. Maybe he knew that no one could get through a physics degree without a great deal of self-motivation. And I, being tested by the crucible of a nearly worthless teacher, learned to learn on my own, and passed this life test of self-learning.

Or maybe he was a useless piece of crap protected by seniority, union rules, a relatively inactive parent pool, and the fact that he didn't commit any actual crimes while teaching.

So to all of you who had legendary teachers that set you on the path to learning, I applaud you and celebrate your good fortune or the blessings of a good zip code. But for the rest of you, please don't use a bad teacher as an excuse for poor knowledge or hatred of a subject. Our wisdom and understanding are shaped by our experiences. But we do have agency of our own, and sometimes discover different and important things about ourselves when forced onto more lonely, less familiar paths.

Pervy high school teachers

Ok, Tom, you asked for it.

High school was a weird time. You have to deal with your own raging hormones. And, occasionally, teachers would give you a window into what your life will be like if you don't get them under control.

Take Mr. Mayne, for instance. He was the driver's ed teacher at Rosemead, and probably taught some other things. Being a moron, I followed the standard advice for summer school and took driver's ed (known as Safety at the school) in addition to health and sex ed.

Mr. Mayne looked like an aging greaser. He had the heavily-slicked hair, the John Wayne swagger, and, if I recall, a leather jacket. (That last bit might just be my faulty memory making him conform more to type.)

Mr. Mayne would have us read and copy sections of the driver's ed book in complete silence. That's all I did, all summer. I suppose I learned something from it, and not just that yellow fluid coming out of the car is a Bad Thing.

Mr. Mayne also had a reputation - it was said he would be fond of putting girls with short skirts in the front of the class. I don't know if this is true. But I do know what I heard that summer.

We were working, and Mr. Mayne strolled out into the hallway. After a few moments, we heard a girl shout, "Mr. Mayne, stop touching my tits!"

He strolled in with a huge shit-eating grin.

Now, I don't know if he actually did touch her tits. She could've just said it to try to get him into trouble. It all happened outside the room.

But that grin and swagger creeped me out.

Oh, and yes, other teachers lost their jobs for sleeping with students, while others were smart enough to not lose their jobs. Sigh - high school.

The homecoming dance

There's an incredibly heartwarming story about a town rallying around Whitney Kropp, an unpopular sophomore girl who was nominated to her homecoming court as a prank. It reminds me of an event that happened to me in high school. I have to stress that I was the "victim" of kindness instead of cruelty, and while less monumental than Whitney's story, it does highlight the quality of people in the Class of 2001 from Rosemead High School.

Long ago, in the year 2000, I was nominated to the homecoming court senior year as a result of a conspiracy. The smart, attractive, and popular women my year basically decided it would be nice to have someone not popular for football or chiseled good looks (my words, not theirs). I missed the announcement due to sickness, so the ASB and Senior class presidents visited me at home, where I was embarrassed that my room smelled like I hadn't showered in a while (which, given the flu, it's possible I hadn't). Kinda embarrassing, especially since these two were gorgeous and charismatic as only Thai women can be.

So, I got fitted for a free rented tux (the first and only time I've worn one) and posed for pictures with the guys at the dance, all of whom were genuinely good guys. For instance, I'd known Jorge since grade school. He was always the kindest person, and the single best double-dodge player to have ever played at Shuey Elementary. Update: Apparently I didn't know the guys on court that well, but they were nice. Old age has caused me to substitute someone better-known to me. If it's this bad at 29, I don't know what it'll be like in whatever numbers come after that one.

I'm the Asian one. Also, check out my awesome scanning/photo editing skills.

I was told that all the guys were bringing their moms to the dance, and I complied. However, I, being the social and anxious moron that I was, didn't even think to bring a real date as well.

It dawned on me at some point early in the dance. Yeah, it's a little weird to show up with your mom as your date, even if all the other guys are doing it, and then to realize they're all dancing with people born during Reagan's presidency while you are attempting to cha-cha to house music with your mother.

I think my exact words at that point were, "This sucks. Let's leave."

Now that I think about it, this was one of two dances I attended in high school. There was a Sadie Hawkins' (or Backwards, or whatever the hell you damn kids call it nowadays) dance where I helped my date serve churros the entire night. Again, socially awkward.

All this to say, I, too, had a Cinderella story, thanks to people at RHS. But I'm also proof that a frog in a tux is still a frog. There's still time - maybe instead of trying for a Masters in Engineering/JD/MD, I should go to finishing school.

Then, maybe I'd be king, and not just a prince. Damn you David Flores! Floreeeeeeeeeeeeeees!

To an English Teacher, Getting Pwn'd

I just watched my high school English teacher on Wipeout, a show that has achieved success for one reason: schadenfreude.

Photo stolen from his FB page, posted by one of his many adoring students.

For some reason, I thought about a poem, and then proceeded to butcher it*, in order to commemorate this great event, and a great man.


The time Michael Jackson changed his race
We expelled you from the schooling place
Quayle gaffed and time went by
At home we dreamed of SDI.

To-day, to school all slackers come,
Shoulder-high we bring books home,
And set before you, graded down,
Essays turned in late, as you frown.

Smart dad, to scramble through mud spray
From wheels where platforms do not stay,
And distant though the field grows,
You just can't beat them cheating hos.

Eyes the foam pad impacts shut
Stop signs have your face done cut
And laughter sounds no worse than cheers
After you stop for a couple beers.

Now you will swell after the rout
Of lads that wore cartilage out
Those whom gear and piston outran
And shame died long before this man.

So set, before the blisters fade,
The stink foot on the desk of shade.
And hold to the English class up
The aged, wrecked rotator cuff.

And round that dizzy, beaten head
Will flock to gaze students unread
And find a grouchy Rosemead dude:
"Damnit, kids, the paper's due!"

*With apologies to A.E. Housman, all of my English teachers, and the American people