The Signs: What's in a name?

I enjoy giving nicknames. I really enjoy giving nicknames. It is part of who I am. It contains equal parts of cataloguing, endearment, and entertainment. Most everyone close to me has a nickname. My children are collectively known as The Dumplings based on an early sonogram of them. Individually, they are Skinny Bear and Mare Bear. My mother is Big Red. I have a saying, "Big Red bowls a 300." My husband is The Big Fuss. And, I like to say, "Here comes the Fuss. Here comes the Fuss." I refer to my friend Danielle as Meow-meow because I like to end my conversations with her with a simple "meow". My other friend Kristy is know as Kristy Korea because she is from Korea. Many other nicknames exist: friends, family, co-workers, and even strangers. Some people have been given numerous nicknames. And, then there's me. I have a some nicknames. My family refers to me as The Botch or Botchie. And, many friends have learned to know me as Militia or Militant.

After high school, I attended a near-by Liberal Arts college. I had taken courses there when I was in high school during summers off. And, I felt comfortable there. I knew where the Whippy Dip was. I had concrete memories of watching the fire department do controlled burns while sitting across on the curb, tripping on acid. I knew some locals and a few current students. However, I landed there because I never bothered to do much else. I had expressed an interest in attending a natural science college in Maine, but got confused with admissions. I looked into a school in Colorado, but got confused with admissions. My high school guidance counselor provided no guidance. However, he said something to me I have carried with me every day all my life since he uttered the statement.

"I will read about you some day-- either for winning the Nobel Peace Prize or for ending up in prison."

I set that apart because it truly expresses how apart I was. I will probably refer to this quote throughout my life. I managed to maintain average grades with absolutely no effort. The teachers either loved me or hated me. The ones I viewed worthy of my respect usually tried to offer me encouragement and extra reading (whether it be physics or Greek tragedies). However, they were often as frustrated as I was. Why wouldn't I try harder? Why was I disruptive? Overall, why couldn't I get my sh*t together? The teachers who didn't like me wouldn't even speak to me when I intentionally shouted "hello" to them in the hallway-- even when we were the ONLY two in the hallway. Oh, well, four wasted years.

With my foot in the door to what I viewed as my next four wasted years, I found myself associating again with the misfits, the punks, the stoners, and the teachers. One day in that first autumn, sitting on the rolling lawns of a crunchy leaf-blown campus after a trip to the cafeteria for some rice, I was called Militant. It stuck.

 I only stayed there for three semesters. I knew from day one I had no intention of pursuing a degree in Fine Arts Painting. But, I had to act like I was doing something... anything. Before I left, I asked my boyfriend at the time (my first true boyfriend), why that name? I didn't get it. I mean, it kinda sounded like Melissa. He explained it spoke to the rigidity in my thinking. My overall commitment and conviction to things I believed were true. My inflexibility. My air of self-righteousness. The "my-way-or-the-highway" persona. The "with-me-or-against-me" mentality. I was shocked. How could I be so misrepresented? I was flexible. I listened to others arguments for a while, until I got tired of listening to them being wrong or poorly informed. I was gentle and caring, when I wasn't agitated that people were preventing me from doing what I wanted to do. I was sad. That sadness faded, but the characteristics remained.

A few years later I would return to college. This time to study neuropsychology with a minor in writing. I befriended a guy I used to sell skateboard parts to back in high school. I now refer to Johnny as Whackjob. My daughters refer to him as Uncle Johnny. We took a symbolic logic class together. I loved that class and I liked John. Almost ten years later, he would introduced me to my husband. He calls me Militia. That I can understand, it sounds like Melissa. It's more clever. It still holds some of the same connotations, but on a more acceptable battlefield. I know John wants me on his side in the Theatre of War. Eventually, I would embrace the name. Using it as a moniker, a tag, and a by-line. It has a better ring to it than simply being known as abrupt and abrasive.

Analog

I have very vivid memories of the first time I chose music to play on/in any type of device. The piece? A hand-me-down vinyl copy of the Beatles' Revolver. At 4yrs old, I played it on my Mickey Mouse portable record player. The case opened to show Mickey's face on the hollowed top. The needle was hidden under a white gloved hand at the end of a plastic molded arm in the shape of a striped seersucker sleeve. Watching the vinyl spin, I played it over and over again. I alternated between that LP and a 7-inch from the animated Hobbit movie that'd "ding" when you were to turn the page. Hours and hours and hours. It was the next step up from turning the key on my aunt's music box all day long. I sat on the same sky blue rug under the cherry desk moving up in the mechanical world. Repeatedly, I lifted the arm up and try to figure out what the needle was reading in the grooves. This is years before I ever heard of Edison and his is wax cones.

Later, in early puberty, I would blow the grooves out on my first copy of Ziggy Stardust and the Spiders from Mars by laying on my bedroom floor while staring at the swirls in the plaster of the ceiling with a mega-huge pair of headphones on-- listening over and over and over again . A diamond tip carving through molded plastic. I still own that particular copy; it is filed next to the second, playable copy. During the progression toward that Bowie LP, I discovered the difference between stereo and mono. I eventually figured how to assess the speeds (whether 78, 45, 33, or 16rpms) needed based on groove size and spacing. I learned the different materials and mechanisms needed to press a record. I read about how bugs makes shellac.

A few historical markers in my life revolve around LP acquisitions. The first time I received my own LP at Christmas, ChangesOneBowie. And, the first time I used my own money to purchase an LP, Roxy Music's Stranded. I didn't even know you could read the spine of a jacket to find an artist's name. I can probably still remember when I bought each record in my collection as well as what I was doing when I first listened to its tracks. Each one, each time are all significant to me.

Around the time of the Mickey Mouse turntable, I figured out (with a bit of help) how to thread tape through a reel to reel deck. My father would set up the RCA and 1/4" jacks, telling me about input and output. I flipped through stacks of cardboard boxes with various names and dates written on them. I watched the heads engage and read the tapes. Recording LPs by the Kinks, the Rolling Stones, and the Beatles usually coincided with other little busy work projects like magnetizing metal objects with a battery. Soon, I would realize tapes and magnetics would work hand in hand. And, a little over five years later, I would discover how to recorded my own data from new PCs on to cassette tapes.

I also remember the first time I inserted a cassette tape into a player. I picked the Beatles' Abbey Road. I can still sing through every song, probably in order from that recording. If you haven't figured it out yet, I liked the Beatles. Mostly, because my father liked the Beatles. We would ride around in his cherry red El Camino on weekends, driving through the country side and finding bridges to stand on. We'd listen to the music on his new cassette player, very hi-tech for the times. We rarely talked. A couple years later, I received my own first cassette from my uncle along with a pair of tiger-eye earrings. The Best of Blondie christened my first "boom box". This piece of equipment would engage me in my love for radio-- especially AM radio. I would sit in front of it, slowly turning the dials back and forth while trying to find stations and messages from other cities. I still take great joy in trying to tune in AM stations. It relaxes me. And, listening to CD sets of secret codes transmitted over airwaves is just good old fashion fun.

I later went on to purchase the same recording of Best of Blondie vinyl. Always back to vinyl. I like the sound, the sheen, the way it reflects light, the jackets, the liner notes. I never truly trusted tapes after something mysterious occurred in my bedroom during my freshman year of high school that caused all my cassette tapes to click intermittently regardless of what devices I played it on. However, like many children of the late Seventies and Eighties, I fondly recall various mix tapes made for me by others.

I am still having problems embracing CDs. I do own some... ok, alot. And, the idea of MP3 downloads is sort of silly to me. Like paying for water. But, I am slowly reconciling myself to that.

Soon, I will document my first interactions with instruments and amplifiers. I am sure you all want to know what brand my first tube amp was, right? And, film. That might be next. Knowing the title of the first silent movie I ever saw, where I saw it, with whom, and at what age will give you great insight into my soul.

The signs: T.Nougat

As I have previous mentioned, since my diagnosis, I have been seeing signs that presented themselves throughout my life. Certain classic behaviors. I will refer to them as signs. When some of these things bubble up, I will share them if I can. Some I will later write more about, like stimming and documented behaviorial issues (all in note form now). These are just drops in the bucket. And, the bucket has a whole [sic].

Back in the mid-90's, I was in a band called T.Nougat (a mix between sweet gooey candy and the influential band T.Rex). We played bars, radio stations, and colleges. Yes, we rocked Bennington College hard! It was the first time I felt truly engaged playing music with others. And, having the other two members being a long-time friend/roommate and the other a live-in boyfriend, we shared a "cerebral intimacy" as we stated in our press pack. We shared a lot of free time together in and out of the practice space in the basement (see previous Spontaneous Combustion entry). We played out about once a month for quite a while. We befriended other bands. We had fun making studio recordings, DAT tapes, and four tracks. But, live was where the greatest communication took place and lifelong bonds continued to form. We sang songs about ponies, clowns at carnivals, female cops, cute Polish girls (using polish on their toes), books, hats, and TLC (tiny love chunks). And, we did a few covers like Can, The Stooges, Elton John, and Gang of Four.

Yet every night as the show crept closer, the higher my anxiety would rocket. Sometimes, I'd get physically sick. Sometimes, I'd go stand outside in the cold. But, I was always ready and on time. Once I took the stage, it would start. The slow rocking back and forth, from one foot to the other. I would stand with my back to the audience, sometimes with my eyes closed... and rock. I would look at Joe the drummer and then Jason the guitarist in a repeated cycle when my eyes were open. And, steady with the rhythm-- rock. It wasn't the classic stadium antics of "rocking out". It was just rocking. A close friend of mine would draw this to my attention one day. I retorted, "It's like autistic rocking... it makes me feel better." This was almost 15yrs before my diagnosis.

I still rock back and forth sometimes. Usually, you'll see me up against a wall in a crowded room, rocking from the tips of my toes to my heels. Waving my hands in grand gestures while looking at the ceiling like the words I am saying ar written there. But, I am comfortable with this now. If you see me do this, it usually means I am relaxed with whomever I am speaking to. However, if you see me squeezing my thumbs tightly in my fists with my eyes moving back and forth (left to right, left to right) then you know I am uncomfortable. You know, I would prefer to leave the situation and go rock in the corner... with or without a bass guitar strapped on.