Elbrecht's Corpuscle

Dante’s Inferno

Posted on November 16, 2014 by Elbrecht

[Gustave Doré, The Heresiarchs (1890)]

Now I lay me down to sleep,
I pray the Lord my soul to keep,
If I shall die before I wake,
I pray the Lord my soul to take. Amen.

I am going to Hell. At this point in my life, I’m fairly certain of this fate. Of course, that’s if Hell actually exists.

If it exists, I certainly hope it’s as twisted and tormented as Dante makes it out to be. Because then I’d have some eternal entertainment to go along with my eternal damnation.

For most of my life I thought it was an absolute certainty I’d be going to Heaven. It was a belief grounded in my relatively intact set of morals, which I picked up from a childhood of Christian indoctrination. As in, “thou shalt not kill.”

Even on my worst days, I have definitely never killed anyone. Obviously, this is a solid step in the direction of Heaven for most people. And I took many other steps in that direction for a significant portion of my life. As a child, I even thought it would be cool to be a priest.

Well, things have changed.

I was raised in a Catholic household, went to church every Sunday, believed in God, said my prayers, went to confession, and received communion. Then I went to college, started sleeping in on Sundays, and only made it to church when I was home on vacation. Yet, I still believed in God, that my relatively moral lifestyle was the foundation for a good life, and enjoyed asking God for things of a miraculous nature.

For example, one of my favorite requests went something like, “Dear God, this workout is killing me. Don’t let me die on the elliptical machine.”

Once I started grad school, I started making a real attempt to go to church more regularly, as way of accepting a mature lifestyle, and establishing myself in the community.

When I moved to Boston, I started going to church more regularly, bolstered by the belief that I had found my purpose in life… But that was back in 2004 and the Catholic Church was just beginning to endure the greatest assault it has ever faced. The assault was coming from every angle, even from within. As the accusations of sexual abuse started multiplying and became reality, I was in the midst of the greatest transformation of my life.

I began to have faith in myself.

The same level of faith it takes to believe there is a higher power, someone or something who has pre-destined each of our lives, was the amount of faith I had swept over me and my ability to transform my own life. This level of faith made me begin to question a lot of the certainties I had in my life, not only about religion, but about who I wanted to become, how I could do it, and what it would take.

A lot of things have happened between then and now in my life. Some good. Some bad. But for the most part, the past decade has been a whirlwind of self-discovery. However, my willingness to question what I have believed about religion, God, and faith definitely sits atop my list.

—–

Not that long ago, before I started my medical residency, I was working overnight at the Amazon warehouse in Lexington, KY. Early one morning, around 2AM, a 21-year-old young man was across the conveyor belt from me when he struck up a conversation. I had seen him around before and noticed that during our brief 15 minute breaks he would be reading the Bible. On this night, our chit-chat quickly moved to the most engrossing discussion on religion I have ever experienced.

It didn’t take long for me to recognize this guy had thoroughly delved into the Bible and his knowledge of scripture was as impressive as any Sunday morning sermon I’ve ever heard. But his story, the one that led him to give himself to God, was the final piece of the puzzle in my religious self-discovery.

He told me how he had grown up in a misogynistic home, one where he was taught to do as he wished and pleased, to use sex and drugs to make himself feel good, and to ignore the role of education and morals in his life. He was infinitely atheist, often openly mocking acquaintances and classmates, even friends, who entertained the idea of a higher power.

But at age 19, with his two-year old son, born of a drug-laden sexual tryst, at his side, he gave himself to God.

His girlfriend was pregnant with his next child and he was beginning to feel overwhelmed with the future. He described looking at his son one night, becoming overcome with grief, falling to his knees, and beginning to cry profusely. Then, he felt the hand of God on his shoulder, could hear Him speaking in his ear, and a wave of emotion poured over him.

Moments later, he was irreparably changed. He felt a purpose in his life and a desire to live with a moral certitude. He felt “saved”, as if there was someone else looking out for him and asking him to be a better person. The thought of his eternal salvation came to mind. So he dedicated his free time to his family and his religious education.

From the way he described himself prior to this experience, I could tell a completely different man was standing across from me on an early morning in late May. The difference between him and I, though, was that he believed God had changed his life, while I understood that he, and he alone, had made a decision; the decision to no longer be an irresponsible child, trying to raise a child of his own, and to instead become a grown adult.

In my mind, there is no spiritual mystery to maturation.

—-

The understanding of the human body I have acquired during my medical education is an easy scapegoat for my drift away from God and/or religion. But truth be told, my beliefs were changing long before I understood the electrical underpinnings involved in a heartbeat, the diffusion capacity of a pneumocyte in the lung, or the capability of an egg to be fertilized by sperm.

My medical knowledge has played a role, but not as great as it might seem. I have actually entertained the reality that my belief in science, the platform on which medicine is based, is not mutually exclusive from religion. Many people think a true belief in science, or more accurately, the scientific method, prevents one from acknowledging a God. I don’t necessarily believe that is the case.

“Finding Darwin’s God” by Kenneth R. Miller, is one of the most influential and thought-provoking texts I’ve read in the past 10 years. In it, he lays a quite convincing thesis for the co-existence of God and Science. In fact, he argues the “miracle of life” known as creation is not mutually exclusive from the acknowledgement of evolution. He argues it may actually speak to the wonderful power of a creator; one that has set the world in motion, but is allowing it to be self-defined.

Self-defined. Like each and every one of us.

—-

As I laid out my thesis against his belief in God, the young man at Amazon pointed out he had at one time felt exactly the same way. Until the fateful day in his life when he was saved. When God revealed Himself and changed the young man’s understanding of the world and his life.

When the young man expressed it as his destiny, one that had been pre-determined, I pointed out if his God is real and controlling my life, then my life is pre-destined, and I truly have no say in whether I end up in Heaven. Or Hell.

And if that is the case, then I am on a Highway to Hell. Because the God of Christianity requires a belief in Him to be saved. There are no keys to the kingdom of Heaven to those of us who have chosen to place our faith in the belief we have control of our lives; control of who we become and our ability to make it happen through sheer willpower and effort.

Faith is not exclusive to those who have religion in their lives. Some of us have faith there is nothing waiting for us after our hearts stop beating. And that faith allows you to embrace the world, its challenges, its heartbreak, and its rewards more than the holiest of thou.

Of course, I could be wrong. And then I’ll end up in Hell. But rest assured, Dante and I will have a quite a party down there. At the very least, I’ll spend the rest of eternity trying to convince Lucifer to apologize to the Man Upstairs.

Charlie’s Angels

Posted on July 31, 2014 by Elbrecht

After four years of accumulating a lifetime of memories, bar tabs, and academic minutiae, I decided to push it to the limit and spend two more years at my Alma Mater.

No, not as a super senior or Van Wilder-esque playboy. But as a graduate student.

Those two years added to my plethora of ridiculously bone-headed experiences with women, unforgettable nights with friends, and even some real life responsibility as I transitioned from 22-year-old college grad to 24-year-old ready to take on the world. Which I did.

But one of the more memorable stories of those two years in graduate school at Miami University actually occurred because of something that happened my senior year.

I was at a bar with some grad school colleagues when a random guy came up to me and said, “I know you!”

It was early in the night, and as such, I was stone-cold sober. This guy was not. I typically remember when I’ve met someone, a skill that has come in handy over the years. Yet, I had not one iota of recollection for this guy. And I told him so.

But he insisted he knew me, so I glanced at my friends, hoping he would simply wander off in a drunken stupor. As he stood there for a few moments, searching his alcohol-laden mind, I politely informed him he must be mistaken.

Until he came up with the second greatest case of mistaken identity I’ve ever experienced… except in this case, it wasn’t mistaken.

The light bulb popped on in his brain, his pupils dilated to the size of dinner trays at Harris Dining Hall, and he revealed the following: The previous week he had sat down for an interview with the one, the only, Charlie Coles, head basketball coach at Mother Miami.

As a sports reporter for the Miami Student, this guy had behind-closed-doors access to the Miami legend. While seated across from Charlie in his office, asking him about the prospects for the upcoming season, he took a peek at the one picture Coach Coles had propped on his desk.

In it, Charlie was flanked by four random dudes, three to his right, one to his left, looking like a group of five buddies sharing some ice-cold brews.

I was one of those dudes.

One picture. On Charlie’s desk. And I was in it.

I believe my response to this random guy’s revelation was: “You have got to be ******* kidding me.”

—-

When I was a senior at Miami, probably a year before the aforementioned encounter with Captain McDrunk occurred, two of my housemates and I enrolled in Basketball Theory [see #3 in the link]. It was taught in a small auditorium at Millett Hall, by one of Miami’s all-time greats, Charles Leroy Coles.

My housemates Wacky Matt and Rustang joined me in the lecture hall, along with several other Miami fans who were hoping to get some insight into the crazy character roaming Miami’s sidelines.

It also happened that Charlie made the freshman basketball players attend this bi-weekly 8AM lecture, so we got a closer look at some of the guys we would hopefully be cheering on during the season.

I had been attending Miami basketball games, sitting on the metal bleachers along the sideline, since I was a freshman. And every game, there were numerous moments where if you took your eye off the action, and glanced over at Charlie, you would see him contorting his face into a wide-eyed “I can’t believe I just saw that”, a slack-jawed “that was the most terrible play in basketball history”, or stone-faced “I would still be able to start for this team.”

So when it was suggested we all take Basketball Theory, it sounded like the most brilliant idea of our college career. Of course, Juice, our other roommate, was too busy taking Weightlifting, or maybe it was Quantum Engineering for the 22nd Century, to join us. (He was taking one of those classes, I swear.)

Standing behind a lectern at Millett Hall, Coach Coles would call out attendance at the beginning of every class. The class was around forty students, so it would naturally take 2 or 3 minutes to get through everyone. But Charlie was not natural. In any way.

Calling roll would take 5 or 6 minutes because every time he would struggle to pronounce someone’s name. Now I know what you are thinking… “That seems natural. I’m sure there were some strange names or something.” But you are wrong.

He would struggle to pronounce the names of his players. He would call out, “Nate Van der… Nate Van… der… Nate, Van, Der, Sluis?” And then he would become animated as if he was on the sidelines and say, “Oh! Nate! Yeah, Nate! There you are big fella!“, pointing at the 7-foot tall Redhead sitting directly in front of him.

Now either Charlie played me for a fool each time he did that… and he did it with either Nate, Tim, or one of the other freshman every morning… or he really wasn’t sure who the hell his players were based on their names. Honestly, I’m still torn to this day as to which it was.

—-

Early in the semester, my housemates and I attended the Miami-Michigan football game in Ann Arbor. Somehow Miami had secured a sacrificial spot at the feet of a College Football Dynasty, with but a glimmer of hope that a red-shirt freshman would emerge to lead the Redhawks to victory.

Unfortunately, Miami got walloped by Michigan… but the highlight of the experience for my roommates and I occurred two hours before kickoff… when we were roaming around the tailgating and spotted the Miami Alumni Hospitality tent.

Like any brash 21 year olds, we thought our Alumni status was all but secured… I mean, for god’s sake, we were taking Basketball Theory, and in Juice’s case, Weightlifting… (oops, I guess it wasn’t Quantum Engineering for the 22nd Century)… surely we would finish our undergraduate tenure at Miami in strong GPA fashion.

So we strolled up to the tent and spotted some ice-cold brew dogs in a cooler and went in for the kill. But there he was, a Miami legend, throwing back one of his own.

Despite my somewhat impeccable memory, I can’t recall which of us approached Coach Coles, but he seemed to genuinely recognize us and said in his Ohio-hill twang, “Hi there boys.”

If he were any other man, I would be certain he realized three of us were in the lone class he was teaching that semester, or that all of us bled Miami Red at a multitude of basketball games.

[Rusty and I even attended a game against Dayton where Miami had only 9 points with six minutes to go. Brutal. God-damn Brutal. Worst game I ever saw. No joke. Thank god for Brian Edwards, who scored 7 points in 4 minutes to prevent the lowest scoring Division I performance by any team since the shot-clock was invented.]

But this was not any man. This was Coach Charles Leroy Coles. Miami Legend. All-around superstar human being. And quite possibly, the most likely guy to not remember any of us. Or so it seemed.

With Coors Lights in our hands, and Charlie with his trademark smile, we had someone snap a quick picture.

The five of us. Forever immortalized. On that fine day.

With the semester winding down, and Rustang, Wacky Matt, and I toiling over our final projects for Basketball Theory, (and Juice designing a work-out routine to make John Basedow blush), photos from the fateful Fall day were developed.

And therein, was the photo.

Rusty thought it would be a classy move to sign a copy of the picture, “Good luck in the 2001-2002 season! – Oxford Circus”, and hand deliver it to Charlie on the last day as we were turning in our final projects.

—-

As it began to sink into my head that Coach Coles had chosen to place only one picture on his desk, one in which I happened to be in, I believe Captain McDrunk could see the light bulb going off in my brain.

A huge smile came across my face.

Captain McDrunk outstretched his hand, so I grasped it in my own. And after a firm embrace, we parted ways.

In this one guy’s mind, I was a legend.

But the true legend in that picture was Charles Leroy Coles. A Miami Man. A Miami Legend. Love and Honor.

Sportsworld

Posted on May 19, 2014 by Elbrecht

—–

My father was sitting beside me the first time I had a naked woman in my lap. I was 16.

We were supposed to be going to Sportsworld, one of my favorite places to go during what I thought was my relatively normal childhood. My father informed my step-mother we were going to use the batting cages, ride the go-carts, and play some skeeball on a Saturday night; turns out one of my father’s favorite places to go during what I thought was my relatively normal childhood was Jezebel’s.

Both Sportsworld and Jezebel’s were on the outskirts of the ever-expanding city limits, but they were in completely opposite directions from my father’s home. After driving a mile in the “wrong” direction, it dawned on me Sportsworld was no longer our final destination. I simply sat in the passenger’s seat as Sportsworld got further and further away.

When we arrived, my father calmly told the bouncer, “This is my son. He’s 21.” The bouncer only glanced at me. By the age of 16, I had already been mistaken for a grown man several times, but typically it was while wearing slacks, a button-down shirt, and tie; not while wearing mybaseball cap, glasses, and cargo shorts.

—–

The bouncer waved me through; identification was unnecessary. Ending up at Jezebel’s that evening, rather than Sportsworld, was simply another example in a long list of why I had learned to distrust my father.

As a concept, distrust had been carefully weaved into our relationship several years prior. At the age of 7, my father entered my bedroom, put his hand on my shoulder and told me he was leaving our family. He was blunt and unapologetic, laying the blame at someone else’s feet and talking to me as if I could possibly understand his rationale; I did not.

—-

—–

The TV was on in the background and my eyes darted from the screen to his face as he relayed how he would not be there in the morning. As he lifted his hand from my shoulder and exited the room, his words were searing into my brain.

Somehow, I slept soundly that evening, but when I awoke the next morning, he was there. It was as if the previous night had been a dream. I wondered if I had misunderstood what he said; the weight of his hand on my shoulder had been so heavy. And so real. My 7-year-old brain wondered what changed. Only years later would I identify the feeling I had when I saw him the next morning as trust being smashed like a mandolin with a sledgehammer.

—–

Distrust was brewing. Eventually, he did leave. Seven years later. And the morning when I awoke and he wasn’t there, I knew why. He hadn’t come into my room the night before and repeated his reasoning to me. And I didn’t need him to. I still remembered his words, the weight of his hand on my shoulder, from when I was a child. If he had come to me again, I would have waved him through, as calmly and coolly as the bouncer at Jezebel’s.

—–

As I was being directed to a table near the main stage by my father, nearly six months had elapsed since I had moved away from my hometown of Wichita. My mother had decided to leave the place I had always known as home, forcing a decision to be made individually by each of her children as to where we would live. At 15, my options were limited.

I could stay and live with my father and my new step-mother or pack-up my life, leave my friends, and embark down a path of no return. The concept of trust, having germinated from an unrecognized emotion, which I had been unable to identify at the age of 7, was fully functional by this time.

Subsequently, when my father got married to a woman I had only met twice, I was completely aware that I did not trust him. He had not even bothered to invite us to the wedding, a civil ceremony in another state.

He simply relayed it as a fact one morning while dropping my brother and I off at school. This certainly factored in my decision as to whether I should stay in Wichita or embark to parts unknown; it made the decision to leave that much easier.

—–

Thus, my father must have viewed my six-week stay in Wichita during the summer of 1996 as a bit of a homecoming, but also as a chance to recover something he had lost; Me.

Driving the go-carts and playing video games seemed to me like a reasonable way to spend a Saturday night. But my father thought watching naked women grind on his son was a better idea. And perhaps a way to win me back. In the blink of an eye, I went straight from green-as-can-be to strip club veteran. By the time we left, I had put a dollar bill in places only possible if a woman weren’t wearing any clothes.

I suppose it was his own version of “The Birds and the Bees” speech.

—–

I roughly translated it as: “Have money. Women will get naked. And sit in your lap.”

Not too much in there about birds or bees. When I was living in nYc a couple years ago, a woman I was dating asked about my parents and my father in particular. Over the course of my sharing, the story of my night at Jezebel’s with dear ‘ol dad cropped up. It probably wasn’t the best example of his parenting, but it was a close approximation.

I believe her response was, “Holy shit.”

Alas, it wouldn’t be the last time he would suggest we visit Jezebel’s together. But by the next time he offered I was a grown adult, and didn’t feel like it fit with the holiday spirit after spending the morning feeding the less fortunate. When he suggested we go back to “Sportsworld”, I politely declined, despite his pleas.

As we pulled into the driveway on that humid summer night in 1996, fresh off a once-in-a-lifetime Dad and Son outing to the strip club, my father looked at me with his sheepish grin: “Remember, if she asks, we were at Sportsworld.” Naked women snatching up dollar bills is not exactly what I expected from my night. When we left his house I was prepared to a re-enact Death Race 2000 on the go-cart track, not witness fully-nude Flash Dance on the Main Stage.

—–

Then again, I had already learned all I needed to know about trust from this man.

Veritas

Posted on May 12, 2014 by Elbrecht

During a heated text message exchange back in March, a college roommate of mine took umbrage with me cheering on Harvard in a basketball game. But this wasn’t just any other basketball game. It was the 2nd round of the NCAA tournament known as March Madness. The Ivy League champions, having defeated a more well-respected and well-known opponent in the 1st round, were in the midst of a furious comeback against a perennial title contender, the Spartans of Michigan State.

Alas, the brains of Harvard succumbed to the muscle of MSU in a game for the ages. The Harvard Crimson, a band of super intellectual b-ballers made a name for themselves with that showing, along with their back-to-back-to-back NCAA tournament appearances. Veritas.

Veritas is Latin for “Truth” and appears on Harvard’s coat of arms. Thus, I typically refer to Harvard as simply, Veritas. And I think I’m allowed to refer to Harvard as Veritas. After all, I went to school there.

No, seriously. I did. I went to Veritas. Not in a Matt Damon in “Good Will Hunting” attends MIT type of way; I wasn’t cleaning the bathrooms and scribbling unintelligible theorems on blackboards.

I actually attended Harvard. Excuse me, Veritas.

From 2006 to 2008 I attended Veritas as a part-time student in order to complete my pre-medicine requirements.

My association with the most world-renowned academic institution is a bit convoluted thought… I must clarify that I attended the University, not “The College.”

The University includes “The College”, the medical school, the law school, the divinity school, the Kennedy school of government, and various other entities that do not fall under the umbrella of the undergraduate education.

I attended the Extension School, an entity designed for working stiffs who want to take Harvard-level courses in a variety of academic areas. The courses meet in the evenings and on weekends so students can torture themselves at work all day and then try to pass Organic Chemistry by attending lectures two times a week for 4 hours apiece. I get heart palpitations and a migraine simply recalling those days.

[Note: the Coat of Arms for the Extension School displays two bushels of wheat and a burning lamp. The two bushels of wheat represent the original cost of attendance of the Extension School’s precursor, the Lowell Institute. The burning lamp signified the “learning by night” philosophy of the School. Let me tell you, I paid by credit card due to my inability to harvest wheat and I studied by overhead lamp; as you may know, fire codes have been updated since the early 20th century.]

While I completed my coursework at Veritas, I mingled with many undergraduates in the Science Center and around campus. During those instances, I never heard anyone refer to themselves as a student of “The College.” I even dated a graduate of “The College” while I was living in nYc. She never once referred to it as “The College”, only as Harvard.

Yet, during my return visits to Boston and Cambridge over the past several years, my attendance at Veritas has arisen in casual conversation. On these occasions, I have been asked if I attended “The College” or the University.

It seems that the undergraduates at Harvard have become even more snooty in the past half-decade.

One such incident occurred while I was volunteering overnight at a homeless shelter in Cambridge. This particular shelter was run by Veritas undergrad students, which in and of itself, I thought was pretty cool.

Before our shift started, we went around in a circle and discussed how we came to be volunteering that night. Each of the undergrads pointed out that they attended “The College” when introducing themselves. I made sure to indicate I had gone to the Extension School.

Obviously, I wouldn’t want them to think I’d scored a 1600 on my SAT’s… Oh, it’s out of 2400 now? Thank you for informing me dearest student of “The College.” Go to hell.

Though I wasn’t trying to impress any of these scions of intelligence, I made sure to slip in the fact that I was about to begin my third year of medical school. It didn’t faze them.

Oh, you aren’t impressed because you go to “The College” and will be starting your own NGO in Zamibia when you graduate? Have fun! Watch out for Malaria!

During the aforementioned text exchange, my former roommate made sure to point out that I had graduated from Miami University, commonly referred to as “The Harvard of the Midwest“, not the actual Harvard University. It was for this reason that he insisted I could not claim allegiance to Veritas.

[Note: The administration at Miami liked pushing the idea of “The Harvard of the Midwest” during my undergraduate years. They often cited the ivy-laden brick buildings on campus and the focus on undergraduate education as a reason to make such a comparison. Let me set the record straight: Miami is no Veritas. It would be accurate to say there are super intelligent people at Miami who are on par with students attending Harvard. However, the sheer number of people on Harvard’s campus of incredible intelligence transforms it into a verifiable cesspool of academic excellence. Miami could never match the transformative properties inherent in such a place. Though, I must say, Love and Honor.]

Other than his undergraduate and graduate degrees from Miami, this roommate also received his MBA from Boston College, so he tried rebuffing my intense interest in the basketball game by reminding me he actually has a degree from a Boston-based university. I quickly pointed out that Boston College didn’t make the NCAA tournament and has been slaughtered by Veritas the last two times they played. In. Your. Face.

I was steadfast in my allegiance to Veritas, despite his repeatedly insisting I have no such claim.

My allegiance goes further than burning the midnight oil at the Science Center; I watched Jeremy Lin carve a hole into the heart of the Cornell defense before anyone outside of Cambridge had ever heard of “Linsanity.” I made scathing and disparaging social media remarks when Tommy Amaker was hired to be the Veritas head coach in 2007 and summarily dismissed half of his senior class a week before school started because he didn’t think they were good enough to play for him.

And I have routinely attended their games when I return to Cambridge, cheering them on despite Amaker’s questionable recruiting. I even watched them get diced to pieces by a rabid Columbia team in nYc in the winter of 2013; Veritas would go on to win the Ivy League Championship as well as their first March Madness game, just as this year’s 2014 team did.

So I feel justified in claiming allegiance to Veritas for a myriad of reasons. I’m certainly more aligned with Veritas than any number of people who claim another university or college they never attended, but wear a hoodie, sweatshirt or baseball cap on which the schools logo is emblazoned. Though, for the record, I do own a Veritas baseball cap and crimson t-shirt with “Harvard” across the chest.

But I think I’m allowed to wear such things. I did go to Veritas. I mean, Harvard. No, I really did.