My Feelings About the BYUSA

So apparently it is that time of year again. You will probably start seeing booths, avoiding overly enthusiastic volunteers, and ignoring Facebook posts about getting involved. Yes, surprisingly the BYUSA is still in existence and it is time to elect a new president. In an effort to not just rant about the uselessness of the BYUSA, I have gone to the respective websites of the candidates and read everything on each of them. It took me five minutes to digest their inspiring plans for change around BYU.

Now I have been quoted as saying that the election of a BYUSA president is about as effective as electing Head Unicorn. In the end your vote makes no real difference, but the unicorns sure feel good about it. I stand by this 100%.

In my three years at this university, I have yet to find that the BYUSA makes any difference in my life. And just so you BYUSA fans know, it has not affected my involvement in the least. I am involved in theatre, working anywhere from one to three productions a semester. I have been involved with clubs, gone to sporting events, helped with orientation, and enjoyed my fair share of free t-shirts (if you hang around the WILK long enough, you can rack up a significant tally). Involvement is not my problem.

But through my involvement I have noticed significant issues that our student "leadership" seems unwilling to address. In fact, it feels a lot like high school elections. At the end of the day, they don't lead anyone and none of their decisions make a whole lot of difference (except for that missing $20,000 a year or so ago. I never followed up to see if they figured out where that had gone).

I would sum up the initiatives of the respective candidates, but that would be too short. So I'll just give you full details. Amberly and Austin want to improve academics by putting a vending machine in the snack zone of the library, they want to organize fun trips that students can go on (like hiking and mountain biking and going to sporting events), and they would like to create an all-arts pass. Brandon and Erika (whose website design is significantly better) want to make the BYUSA the involvement hub of the university, create a comprehensive student calendar, stop predatory towing and booting, fill the Student Advisory Council with capable people (what does this say about their opinion of the current SAC), and increase school spirit with an end of the year event  and the "BYU-ification" of Provo. I will now address these initiatives that are supposed to change our world here at BYU. I'll do it by candidate.

Amberly and Austin

A vending machine? That's how you revolutionize academics at BYU? Last I heard we weren't doing too bad academically. Apparently not having a vending machine wastes valuable study time because people have to go somewhere else to get snacks. Because planning ahead of time is silly.

I've gone on lots of fun adventures, made tons of memories, and made lots of friends without the BYUSA ever telling me to do so. There are over 30,000 students at this university. You want us to all go down and mountain bike in Moab? I can guarantee that at least everyone in the BYUSA will go, and that's all the impact you've ever had in the past. So I say go for it. I like the blatantly irresponsible use of your budget. Gives me something to be proud of.

Now for the All-Arts Pass. I don't disagree on any particular point with this idea. I would love it if the campus as a whole invested in cultural capital. Unfortunately this would require a monumental shift in what we value as a campus. You can tell exactly what a community values by what they subsidize. The government subsidizes farm production because we as Americans like to eat. At the University of Utah and UVU, the administration subsidizes tickets to art events. In fact, at the UofU you also get significantly cheaper tickets to productions at Pioneer Theatre Company, one of the only Equity theatres in the state. At BYU? We get cheaper sports tickets. Sure, the College of Fine Arts does offer student prices on arts tickets. When I only have to pay $20 instead of $24, I am eternally grateful. The problem is you cannot have both an All-Sports Pass and an All-Arts Pass because you cannot spread subsidies that thin or else they don't really lower prices much at all. And I dare you to try to take away money from the multi-million dollar sports program. How much does Bronco make? And we need to subsidize sports? That's a fight for a different day. By the way, the All-Arts Pass already exists. It's called Season Tickets, and lots of older folks buy them.

Brandon and Erika

Nice website. Making the BYUSA the "involvement hub" of the university. Unnecessary. You want to connect with participation and leadership opportunities around campus? There is absolutely nothing stopping you. We already have a Center for Service and Learning. We already have club night. We already have classes that require community service. All of the resources already exist, and they all exist pretty much in the same building. Why do we need them in the safe office? Especially because the other offices would still stay open. I haven't noticed this part of my BYU experience suffer for lack of super-centralization.

A student calendar. Well, it already sort of exists. If you go the BYU homepage, it has a week at a time of all the noteworthy events coming up on campus. If you want even more, it's all easily accessible. The Academic calendar, the BYUarts calendar, the Sports Calendar. They're all right there. And don't get me started on the BYU app. Back in my day I didn't need an app to go to school. I still don't.

Predatory towing and booting. I'm against it. I think that it should be addressed. The website gives a good definition and suggests the BYUSA leadership work with the mayor to get something done about it. My main concern is that it says that we can get more information about the issue by visiting the mayor's blog. So the mayor is already aware of this problem? The mayor already recognizes it as a problem? The mayor has commented on it? And your BYUSA involvement in the issue does what exactly?

I accept that you want to fill the Student Advisory Council with capable and effective people. I didn't know there was one. I guess that shows how much the SAC has changed my life. Maybe if we eliminated the BYUSA and gave the SAC some real power there would be incentive for it to be effective and capable. Except then you'd have to drop the A. If you have power to do things you are no longer advising anyone. Like a congress. A student congress. With power to put things before the administration. Like a democracy. No, that wouldn't work. We are at BYU after all.

And finally I address the concepts of school spirit and BYU-ifying Provo. Personally, I tolerate Provo the way it is. I go to BYU, I enjoy my time there, but if I don't want to then I don't have to deal with it when I go to Smith's. I am wary of the term "BYU-ify" and what it entails. And school spirit, honestly it'd be easier if we had awesome sports teams. Not that we should only cheer for good teams. But if our football team knew that it was playing football, well shoot dang, I'd support them. Again I reiterate the point that there are over 30,000 students on this campus with a wide array of priorities and involvement, with different backgrounds and different futures. And yet we seem to want to homogenize instead of unify. I'm not saying don't organize tailgates before a big football game. I'm saying that we have a fundamental misinterpretation of what the word unity means (if you don't believe me, sit in the WILK and count the number of hairstyles that men wear. I got three last time). And don't we already organize tailgates and stuff like that? Do you just want to do more of that? Okay. Oh, and there is an End-of-Year event. It's call graduation.

Matt Fife

That heading is just to let you know that I'm moving on.

Out of all the problems and concerns that BYU faces, I cannot believe that our student "leadership" chooses these things to focus on. It's the Mormon thing to do (and I'm talking culture, not the LDS faith). There is something rotten in the state of Denmark, so let's throw some parties and install a couple vending machines. Let's make perky and pretty campaign slogans and websites and videos and act like there aren't any real problems. Let's make sure that we all look good to each other, regardless of what we actually think or do. It's about appearances, and that's what this whole race is. In the end, it will be a popularity contest.

What issues are you talking about, Matt? Well, have you ever noticed how diversity is neither present nor encouraged at our university? You have two types of students - those that are reluctant to look beyond their own perspective, and those that are so open-minded that it is ludicrous (I am reminded of a letter to the editor of the Universe complaining about how all the cross-walk men are white). There are things we refuse to talk about like the LGBT community on campus, divorcees (I read an article in the Universe that pretty much said that divorcees at BYU live in constant trepidation that someone will find out they are divorced. What does that say about our cultures?), cultural and ethnic diversity (well, lack thereof), religious intolerance, and problems with the honor code that we all sign and say that we support.

If a student is LDS and decides to follow a different religious path, he or she is no longer welcome at BYU and their ecclesiastical endorsement is revoked. If you are not LDS and are at BYU, most of the time you are experiencing invasive instead of embrasive missionary work. Racial prejudice and stereotyping are quietly rampant in our university community, as well as stereotyping and prejudice regarding sexual orientation. I find several of the sections of the honor code are not honorable at all, and significant chunks of the dress and grooming policy have nothing to do with personal or community honor in the least. Why on earth have we let facial hair be a defining characteristic of the university?

Wasn't it Joseph Smith who talked about teaching correct principles and letting others govern themselves? I'd like that. So why doesn't our BYUSA "leadership" think more about supporting and instilling correct principles in the student body? Why do we need more vending machines? Why do we need friendship trips into southern Utah? Why do we need to BYU-ify Provo instead of the other way around? Why do we waste our time redoing and rehashing what has already been done and hashed because we are too afraid to tackle big problems? Why is asking questions at BYU such a non-kosher thing? Wait, am I allowed to ask a question about asking questions?

I'm not entirely sure. We should probably ask the candidates.

The Amazing Tio

Yesterday I met my niece, Lisi. She is a bundle of joy and quite the delight. And, I'm pretty sure I am her favorite. At least her favorite Uncle Matt (more commonly known as Tio). Now, I don't know what it is about me that causes such great joy. Perhaps it is my charm. Perhaps it is my ability to bounce my knees almost constantly. Perhaps it was my offer of a variety of foods that she cannot eat (something about not having teeth). Or, it was my magical ability to produce wookie noises and pigeon coos that won her over.  Watch the video. 

She is a bit capricious, throwing herself back violently to obtain attention as she begins to cry, followed almost immediately by giggling.

Unfortunately I do not have the video of her giggling as I tore up the box I had saved for her arrival (I believe Katie has it). But there you have it. I have a super-cute niece that loves me for my wonderful and unpredictable talents.

Lunar Thoughts

The Moon. The final frontier. The last harbor of discovery. The great eye of nighttime. The original waterbender. The sky-mother. The paragon woman (ever changing, ever unchangeable).

Call her what you want, but she's up there, right now, hanging out around earth, the uncool friend of the cool kid at the party [which is humorous because I imagine the surface of the moon is frigid (I did say paragon woman, didn't I? Kidding, only kidding), what with no atmosphere and all].

Why has the moon fascinated man for so long (Paragon woman?) with so few answers. As far as we know the moon really is made of cheese. Some of you may say, "But Matt, we've been to the moon. It's made out of rocks." I reply simply, "Have you tasted moon rock? Maybe it is hard cheese. Or maybe moon people like rocks in their cheese, and we just took an ignorant moon sample." And if you try to say that I'm being silly, I can only assume that you don't believe in Sasquatch's existence either, and we have nothing more to discuss.

And yes, there are indubitably moon people. Who else has been mining the moon surface? Mining?! Yes. You didn't think those deep craters and pits occurred naturally, did you? What's that you say? They're from asteroids hitting it? That's preposterous. I have never seen an asteroid hit the moon. Your hypothesis has just been proven not true.

And so, when I look up at the moon, be it waxing gibbous or waning crescent, I am filled with wonder. I was told once, and I have yet to prove it, that we see the same face of the moon every night. The rotation and revolution of the moon match up so perfectly that it is always facing us. We never get a profile view, and it definitely never turns its back on us (which someone should tell it is the second strongest acting position if done with a purpose). And yet somehow the light it generates changes over the course of a 28 day period.

Some would call this moon magic, and I would be inclined to agree if I did not know the truth. Science! The moon people have a migrating city. What we see as moonlight is simply the lights from their megalopolis which slowly migrates across the moon's face. Now how the city moves is moon magic, and their cloaking devices are also powered by moon magic. You can naysay all you want, but you've never been there. I have. And I read about it on the internet in the future on a guy's blog. You can't lie on the internet.

You need evidence of moon magic? Tides. In your face. Residual moon magic, but moon magic nonetheless. You need more evidence? When you see the moon during the day, it's sort of dull and gray, but once nighttime hits, they turn the lights on up there. Moon magic. You still want more moon magic? Werewolves. Enough said.

Unfortunately that's about all I have time for, and that pretty much sums up my thoughts about the moon. A beautiful and yet terrible queen (of the moon people). Tune in soon for my discussion of how lightning is an expression of celestial rage. And a discussion of the relative merits of American pyromantic furculomancy.

Utter Lunacy

Sometimes I wonder how other people think. Then I start thinking about all the thoughts that other people have. This leads to more pondering and the realization that everyone has an existence in which I am not the focal point. I then lay plans to become the focal point of more lives.

It's weird to think about how everyone else has a life in which you play a minor role, or no role at all. Their existence is so isolated from yours that you probably have almost no impact on it. However, thinking about this only boggles my mind because I can't figure out why people don't find me more fascinating. Let's be honest: I find myself extremely interesting, and I have to live with me all the time. Those of you that get a couple hours a week or less should find me infinitely more fascinating because you only catch glimpses of my genius and aren't around me enough to get tired of it.

I met a man on an airplane once. His name was Zach. Zach Smith. He was a rapping prospector from the middle of Idaho. He prospected on land, and had apparently done well for himself. I heard his whole life story, his marital problems, the dissolution of his marriage, his attempts to help folks, his rapping career, his medical issues, his bipolarity, his zen outlook on life, and how he was now going home to Florida because his grandmother was on her deathbed. 

When I sat down he said, "Ah man, I hope you're not the type of guy that doesn't talk during the flight, because I can find another seat if you are." I am, in fact, the type of guy that doesn't talk during flights. But I made an exception, and because of this Zach Smith and I got to play roles in each others' lives. Crazy, crazy roles. In fact, there was a time during the flight when I tried to figure out how fast the flight attendants could get there if things went out of control. I bet I could have taken him, but he could have easily gotten the jump on me in close quarters. It never came to that (thanks to my artful steering).

The funny thing is, I remember his name. I remember his story. I remember his philosophy and his genius. And I remember it all because he was 100% Zach Smith, and he honestly did not care who or what saw it. He is the type of man who will never understand dishonest people because he has never hidden who he is. I cannot say the same for me. In fact, I would be surprised if he remembered me (he did most of the talking). I am quite comfortable not being me.

In fact, I'm so comfortable not being me that the persona I have constructed painstakingly over the last decade is ironclad. The closest it comes to cracking is when I am playing Just Dance and I'm in the dancing zone. The look of intense concentration. The sharpness of movement. The refusal to accept anything less than my best. All things I mostly don't express in normal life.

My mother once said that all of her children were intense about certain things. She didn't tell me what I'm intense about. She just said, "You have your things." And it's true. I have my things.

I have always been even-keeled (except that one rocky patch). Steady. Over the years I have added prideful, braggy, self-assured, laid-back, phenomenal, handsome, sultry, and several other adjectives. But most of them are just pieces, fragments that I weave into a mostly convincing whole. A projection. A hologram. Robotic, cold-hearted, distant, aloof.

But in reality, I'm none of those things. I think the word I would use to describe the inner me is passion. I seem hard to reach, but I'm constantly reaching. I'm so in the thick of things that I'm up to my knees in the mud. I can tell you details about your life that you don't remember telling me. I pay constant attention to everyone and everything around me. I forget names simply because it's easier to say I'm bad with names than to explain how I already know you're from Such-and-such a place and that you are majoring in theoretical astrobiology because I overheard the conversation you had with Steve (and don't ask how I know his name) three weeks ago as I was leaving the class next-door. I watch how you carry yourself and extrapolate what must be causing you stress in your life, where you're holding your tension and how you can let it go. 

I don't just read books or listen to music or watch TV. I am a consumer in the truest sense of the world. I chew it, swallow it, digest it, and let the nutrients integrate with my cellular structure. I can tell you the plot of every book I've ever read, exactly what I thought about it, what lessons I learned from it, and why you should read it and exactly why I think you'd enjoy it. Same with movies, TV shows, albums, plays, etc. Even if I half paid attention to it. Asking me my favorite of anything is ridiculous. Unless it's my favorite Mac and Cheese. That would be my mother's.

But I project my robo-hologram because people are much more comfortable being bludgeoned than they are cut. So I gently bash my way into people's hearts instead of stabbing my way there. My projection is a club, uncouth and unimpressive. I am a sword, advanced, sharp, quick, focused, driven, full of fire and fury. And grandiose. Because let's face it, that part of the projection is real. All of the projection is real. It's just that the robo-hologram is the parts of real I'm okay with you seeing. Maybe I (or we) should be a little bit more like Zach. Always on. Always honest. Always himself.

Mmmm, Bacon

Yeah, unless you are Kameron and actually read my blog, you have no idea that I just updated this post. Except that now you do. I've updated from a first draft to the last draft that I will ever write of this poem.

On a side note, I hate peer editing. With one group one day you get feedback like, "Don't change anything, it's amazing." And then the next day with a different group you get feedback like, "Change everything, this is horrendous." For the same work. I also hate when the professor sits down and takes over the peer edit group. Professors are not peers, no matter how much they want to be. If a professor wants to give feedback, then by all means give it, but not in a peer edit session.

On another side note

Bacon is King

By Matthew Fife

The Bacon Baron rules the breakfast lands

With feasting, singing ringing in his halls.

His greasiosity coats hearts and hands

He eyes the world developing his plans,

A passion grips his mind, no one can stall

The Bacon Baron’s plot to rule the lands.

With fierce determination he expands,

A side no more but center of it all

As salads, pastas – Salt! – fall to his hands.

He crosses borders into witches’ sands

Not slowing down, his rise means others fall

To give the Baron greater rule of lands.

No food escapes the burning of his brand,

Desserts like baconuts hold men enthralled

Accepting fate delivered from his hands.

Once pow’rful hearts were free of fatty bands,

Upon our cushioned thrones we sit and sprawl

While crowning Bacon king in all our lands.

The fate of all the food lies in his hands.

Essays: Not My Favorite Things to Write

The following is an essay I wrote for my creative writing class. If you want you could assume that it's 100% true. If you really wanted to. If you read it and would prefer for it not to be true, you could assume that it's 100% not. I try to be accommodating. 

Grown Men Don't Cry

By Sir Matthew R. Fife

“It’s okay, he doesn’t have any feelings. Isn’t that right, Matt?” Brooke said.

            I sat there, trying to figure out how to respond. A million thoughts ran through my mind. I felt my face getting hot at the statement and all the previous comments said to belittle me. I knew what she wanted. An outburst. Something to show that what she had said had gotten to me.

            But I refused. To retaliate would show weakness, it would show that I cared what they thought. As the warm tears built in my eyes I fought them back with everything I had.

            With my emotions firmly in hand I replied, “That’s right.”

            There was a time in my life when an outburst would have been second nature. Tears came as naturally to me as eating or breathing. At the drop of a hat I would break down as if the end of the world had come, finding me unprepared. But I stopped.

            I don’t remember if there was a particular thought or moment when I decided that it was time to stay reserved. Growing up I kept to myself, spending hours on end with books, my only friends. No one wanted to hand out with a crybaby. By the time I was a young man I had put my childhood completely behind me, and with it my tearful ways.

            From then on it was a self-reinforcing cycle. Because I appeared in complete control and even-keeled, people would rely on me, seeking strength and comfort. The more people relied on me, the stronger and steadier I needed to be for them, and the more they would rely on me. No matter what I did I couldn’t break free, so I shackled my emotions more and more, becoming the absolute master of them, bending them to my will.

            So it wasn’t that I didn’t have emotions. Instead, I had controlled them so tightly and so completely that the more expressive and irrational of them had ceased to rebel. They plodded from day to day, eyes to the ground, broken and defeated. Sometimes when I wondered if they were still there they would bubble up, trying to force their way to the surface, and I would have to struggle against them to force them back into the corners of my soul to which they had been banished.

            I knew that they were part of me, but I did not think them important. Not then, at least.

            I was seventeen. My phone rang. On the other end of the line my girlfriend was sobbing, asking me to come over, to comfort her. To fulfill my assigned role. So I answered the call.

            When I arrived she threw herself into my arms, pulling me inside. Barney, the dog that was as old as she was, had finally reached the end. Due to an enormous amount of health problems ranging from tumors to blindness and everything in between, they had decided that there was no more need for further suffering. Barney was being put down that day.

            As I knelt on the ground beside him, one arm around my girlfriend, the other stroking Barney’s shaggy hair, the tears welled up from nowhere. The hot drops of sorrow overflowed onto my cheeks and dripped down the tip of my nose. I made no noise, simply crying silently next to my sobbing girlfriend.

            When the time came to load Barney into the back of the van to take him to the veterinarian, I pulled my tears back and stood firm, a pillar of strength to which my girlfriend clutched. The time for tears had passed, and the time to comfort others had come.

            Several months later my phone rang again. On the other end my girlfriend did not cry this time, but still requested that I come over. I thought nothing of it. She had just returned from a weeklong trip to Michigan and clearly wanted to see me.

            I first noticed that no one else was home when I stepped through the front door. Not normal, but not without precedent. I was greeted exuberantly by Gracie, her other dog that had just months before lost its best friend. Dogs have always found my company rather pleasant. I scratch heads very well.

            After disengaging me from Gracie, my girlfriend led me upstairs to her room, a place I had never gone nor wanted to go. It was the attic bedroom, a little tight, but cozy. It was a room filled with color, unlike the rest of her house. Most of the houses in the neighborhood all looked the same, leaving something to be desired in terms of aesthetic value, but this room was unlike anything else. It was comfortable.

            We sat on the edge of the bed as she told me she wanted to talk. She felt like our relationship had isolated her, keeping her from making friends. She also felt like that was my fault. I did not list off the friends that she did have regardless of dating me, though I desperately wanted to. IF my recollection still serves me like it should, she mentioned some other failings of mine before finally getting to the point. Our eight-month relationship had reached its end.

            By this point she was crying. Maybe the shock prevented it, maybe all the barriers I had erected inside my heart and mind helped, but no matter how much I wanted to, I could not cry. I had spent a significant amount of time with this girl, being more emotionally invested that I had ever been before. I just sat there, staring at the wall in front of me. I wouldn’t even look at her. She sat there beside me, facing me, silently pleading with me to react. Mustering up everything I could I managed to alter my breathing, put my head down, and squeeze out a tear or two from my unnaturally dry eyes.

            I remember saying sorry, but I’m still not sure what I was sorry about. Possibly the end of the relationship, for being smothering in her mind, or for not being able to react like she wanted me to.

            Somewhere, deep down, I know that I can still cry. I don’t know how it happens, or even why. Why should the end of the life of a dog that I had barely known affect me more than the end of one of the first significant romantic relationships of my life? I have never cried at the end of a relationship or the death of a loved one. When things break and end, I move on. Even when I sometimes wish I could unbreak what I’ve broken, when tears could be the salve that the wound desperately craves, when I want to mourn with those that mourn, I still cannot let the tears come to my eyes.

I’ve seen a lot of people cry in my lifetime of giving comfort and being an available shoulder and a pair of strong arms. I’ve lifted and strengthened and listened and helped and hugged. But emotional connection gets harder and harder with every passing moment. Somewhere in the back of my mind is a prison full of emotions begging to be fully released to run wild and free. But I am the listener, not the speaker. In my mind needing others would somehow weaken my ability to be needed.

Someone once said that grown men don’t cry. But maybe that should change. I can think of no reason why in order to be a real man one must be only emotionally receptive and never expressive. I can think of no reason why crying should be a sign of weakness. I can think of no reason why a grown man should be exactly like I am. Yet the prison doors remain barred. The chains remain strong and firmly in place. Somewhere in that deep place a part of me lies that I lost long ago, but I know if I unlock those doors I can never lock them again.

Even-keeled. Steady. Firmly under control. It’s all just another way of saying cold, distant, and inaccessible. Grown men don’t cry.

Plan C

I feel like people always tell students in the arts to have a back-up plan. While I understand the value of this, you know, being qualified to have a job after graduation and whatnot, I think they fail to realize that all of my back-up plans are just as crazy. When your back-ups include writer, hip-hop artist, street performer, professional wire sculptor, and 7-11 owner, you had better hope that your main goal doesn't fall through.

However, with the aim of getting feedback, I share my writing from time to time on this blog. Therefore, I will do that. The next three posts will be based on my writings over the past couple of weeks. I probably won't desire feedback on the haikus because I already know they are awesome. In fact, I know that I won't get feedback anyway, but at least my writing will be out there in the public domain.

The first post will be a poem. Some backstory - Several years ago, like more than five, I received a poem as a gift. I thoroughly enjoyed it. In the following poem, I don't know if I so much respond to the poem as take a line and build upon it. The poem was written with feelings (I know, rare). What you will read is the first draft of the seventh iteration, which could possibly be the seventh draft if it looked anything like its predecessors. It is dedicated to a person, but that person, if he/she chooses to read this, will know immediately that it is dedicated to them. I don't see a reason why that part should be public domain. So, without further ado, I present a poem.

Starless Nights

By Matthew Fife

One day I’ll find starry skies

And open air to live and breathe,

But in this concrete jungle

My memories of light must sustain.

From where I stand

The night sky is starless,

Empty of light without

Your sun to guide me.

I’ve seen the vastness of heaven

Dwarfed in the mirror of your eyes.

Here in my desolation,

A desert of endless sand,

Cactus, rocks, and shifting dunes.

But beneath the surface

Locked deep in the earth

Wildflower seeds wait to bloom.

Washed out by city lights

The heavens seem distant,

The stars sitting invisibly

In celestial thrones above,

But knowing they’re there

Keeps my feet firmly on the path.

From where we stood

We thought we saw everything.

We saw victory and defeat,

Life and death, love and loss.

But we could not, would not see

The future that is now present.