Narative Draft - 1
Lauren Briana Mazzio
Professor Jon Kolko
IDUS 370: Information Architecture
01/18/06
Narrative
I had just graduated college, with a degree in art history. “How are you supposed to get a job with that?” my mother would say day after day. The truth is, even after four years of schooling, I really don’t know what to do with my career. The months after graduation were marked with job attempt after job attempt. I tried all the typical “art-student-jobs,” one at an organic coffee shop, another as a waitress at a sushi restaurant, and how could I leave out my exciting time as a receptionist at a laughably tiny art museum. Despite the amazing promise of all the above (note my extreme use of sarcasm) I decided to bag the career pursuit.
I needed to learn what I hadn’t while I buried in books on “Dada” and the “phenomena of beautiful moments.” Now don’t laugh, this is going to sound cliché. I needed to find myself.
Just like that, I jumped on a plane to France. Maybe I could find myself there. Weeks went by, and I began to tire of hostel-hopping. At that same moment I was staying in Bernard’s basement. Bernard and I had met in a small bar, in a small village, over a small glass of wine. He offered his basement to me in exchange for extra help doing repair work in his bakery.
Bernard was an interesting man with sharp abrasive features. He stood almost a head’s height above me, and swung his lanky limbs passionately as he spoke, yet his bushy unibrow and beak of a nose remained unmoving. Bernard was the town baker, the only one in the village of 200, and was the only resident fluent in English. He welcomed me immediately. The other villager’s were not so willing to socialize with “the stupid American.”
I was not a huge soccer fan, and knew nothing about the sport, but I decided to attend of Bernard’s soccer games. With Bernard’s long arms and massive hands, he was the perfect goalie for the little town’s soccer team. I was surprised to find out that the entire 200 villagers were in attendance. There was a patchwork of blankets framing the balding grass field. Upon the blankets were babies in cloth diapers, parents pointing towards the players and debating as if arguing over the Roe Vs. Wade decision, and the elderly sat in whicker chairs that the kids helped carry to the field. I was the only poor blanketless sap in the crowd. After finding a healthy patch of grass, I sat trying to ignore the glaring eyes I was now growing accustomed. Then, I realized, for the first time, not a single glance was directed towards the “stupid American.” Though I had distanced myself physically from the others (but not enough as to look standoffish) I, for the first time, felt a comradery amongst my new neighbors. We were all together for the love of the sport, and the pride of the town.
I attended every soccer game after that, each time positioning myself closer and closer to the patchwork of blankets, until my own blanket was en masse with the others. I joined the roaring crowd as Matteo passed the ball right between an opposing player’s legs. I jumped and hollered when the team’s star shooter, 17 year-old Nico, rocketed the ball before the goalie had a chance to flinch. I cheered the loudest when Bernard batted the ball away from the goal. It was his signature move. He sometimes he hit it with so much force it would strike the shooter square in the chest.
It was nearing the end of the season, and we were up against our biggest rival, the neighboring village of Bonnieux. Nico had already scored one goal and was dribbling down the field, gaining speed, focusing his war-like passion for another. Back. Forward. But a huge wall of a man from the other team was rushing in for the ball. Nico sent a blind pass to Matteo, but not before little Nico was pummeled by soccer-asoraus. Nico’s face twisted in a silent grimace. There were no words or sounds necessary to see he would need to be taken from the game.
I been stricken with infatuation and admiration for each of the players, and was appalled at what I had witnessed. My gut reaction was to stand up and holler profanities, order the referee to stop the clock and issue a red card. That is exactly what I did. As soon as my outburst was complete, I slapped both hands over my mouth in complete shock. What just flown from my lips? It was the game of soccer, and it was in perfect French. An old man, who always remained silent, stood up from his wicker chair and repeated my sentiments in agreement. Another man stepped towards me and rattled off his speculations that the foul was intentional. I was no longer a passive participant. The town had accepted me.
Later that night, I went out with the men for drinks. Together we raised our glasses to Nico and the team. We drank, we sang, we talked. The men were patient with my broken French, and I was understanding a bit about myself. Exactly what it was that I found in myself that night, I am still not quite sure. All I know is, as I folded my soccer blanket I could not help but smile, and I went to bed with a sense of rejuvenation.
Professor Jon Kolko
IDUS 370: Information Architecture
01/18/06
Narrative
I had just graduated college, with a degree in art history. “How are you supposed to get a job with that?” my mother would say day after day. The truth is, even after four years of schooling, I really don’t know what to do with my career. The months after graduation were marked with job attempt after job attempt. I tried all the typical “art-student-jobs,” one at an organic coffee shop, another as a waitress at a sushi restaurant, and how could I leave out my exciting time as a receptionist at a laughably tiny art museum. Despite the amazing promise of all the above (note my extreme use of sarcasm) I decided to bag the career pursuit.
I needed to learn what I hadn’t while I buried in books on “Dada” and the “phenomena of beautiful moments.” Now don’t laugh, this is going to sound cliché. I needed to find myself.
Just like that, I jumped on a plane to France. Maybe I could find myself there. Weeks went by, and I began to tire of hostel-hopping. At that same moment I was staying in Bernard’s basement. Bernard and I had met in a small bar, in a small village, over a small glass of wine. He offered his basement to me in exchange for extra help doing repair work in his bakery.
Bernard was an interesting man with sharp abrasive features. He stood almost a head’s height above me, and swung his lanky limbs passionately as he spoke, yet his bushy unibrow and beak of a nose remained unmoving. Bernard was the town baker, the only one in the village of 200, and was the only resident fluent in English. He welcomed me immediately. The other villager’s were not so willing to socialize with “the stupid American.”
I was not a huge soccer fan, and knew nothing about the sport, but I decided to attend of Bernard’s soccer games. With Bernard’s long arms and massive hands, he was the perfect goalie for the little town’s soccer team. I was surprised to find out that the entire 200 villagers were in attendance. There was a patchwork of blankets framing the balding grass field. Upon the blankets were babies in cloth diapers, parents pointing towards the players and debating as if arguing over the Roe Vs. Wade decision, and the elderly sat in whicker chairs that the kids helped carry to the field. I was the only poor blanketless sap in the crowd. After finding a healthy patch of grass, I sat trying to ignore the glaring eyes I was now growing accustomed. Then, I realized, for the first time, not a single glance was directed towards the “stupid American.” Though I had distanced myself physically from the others (but not enough as to look standoffish) I, for the first time, felt a comradery amongst my new neighbors. We were all together for the love of the sport, and the pride of the town.
I attended every soccer game after that, each time positioning myself closer and closer to the patchwork of blankets, until my own blanket was en masse with the others. I joined the roaring crowd as Matteo passed the ball right between an opposing player’s legs. I jumped and hollered when the team’s star shooter, 17 year-old Nico, rocketed the ball before the goalie had a chance to flinch. I cheered the loudest when Bernard batted the ball away from the goal. It was his signature move. He sometimes he hit it with so much force it would strike the shooter square in the chest.
It was nearing the end of the season, and we were up against our biggest rival, the neighboring village of Bonnieux. Nico had already scored one goal and was dribbling down the field, gaining speed, focusing his war-like passion for another. Back. Forward. But a huge wall of a man from the other team was rushing in for the ball. Nico sent a blind pass to Matteo, but not before little Nico was pummeled by soccer-asoraus. Nico’s face twisted in a silent grimace. There were no words or sounds necessary to see he would need to be taken from the game.
I been stricken with infatuation and admiration for each of the players, and was appalled at what I had witnessed. My gut reaction was to stand up and holler profanities, order the referee to stop the clock and issue a red card. That is exactly what I did. As soon as my outburst was complete, I slapped both hands over my mouth in complete shock. What just flown from my lips? It was the game of soccer, and it was in perfect French. An old man, who always remained silent, stood up from his wicker chair and repeated my sentiments in agreement. Another man stepped towards me and rattled off his speculations that the foul was intentional. I was no longer a passive participant. The town had accepted me.
Later that night, I went out with the men for drinks. Together we raised our glasses to Nico and the team. We drank, we sang, we talked. The men were patient with my broken French, and I was understanding a bit about myself. Exactly what it was that I found in myself that night, I am still not quite sure. All I know is, as I folded my soccer blanket I could not help but smile, and I went to bed with a sense of rejuvenation.
posted by Lauren Briana at 11:38 PM
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