Category Archives: The Barbour

Lifelong fears are remarkable. They fill us with anxiety over what others may see as asinine or irrelevant. But for those who fear them, they are as real as the air we use to fill our lungs. We rationalize them, find ways to avoid the consequences that lead to them, and we March through each day envisioning the end goal of that fear – the ultimate pay day when the fear comes to collect. But what happens when we pass the threshold that encompasses that fear? What happens when we turn to look back on the fear instead of looking forward at it as we always have?

Today, I am in that unique position as, today, I have officially lived longer than my father.  

My father died on July 19, 1980. He was 43 years, 7 months, 14 days old when he passed. Today marks my age in time as 43 years, 7 months, 15 days. In my life, I have run into many different fears that led to whether I would survive. When I was 32, I was diagnosed with Coronary Artery Disease (heart disease). I have brought my plaque numbers down from 53% blockage to 14% over 11 years in the more important arteries that doctors focus on. In 2015, I had a horrible lung infection and before they found out what it was, I was certain that my chest was going to collapse and I would not live to see another day. I was in the hospital for 12 days before they finally found the right anti-biotic that beat back the infection. By March of 2017, I was drinking so much that I had pancreatitis, was borderline with cirrhosis, and was riddled with gall and kidney stones. I got sober and have recovered with a relatively healthier liver, pancreas, gall bladder, and kidneys.

But none of these fears matched the overwhelming fear that I would not live longer than my dad.

When my dad died, I was almost four. As I grew, the idea that I would not live beyond my father’s age grew with me. It was a totally irrational fear – I had the opportunity to change how I lived, how I treated my body, how I could change the way I approached life. So, naturally, when I turned 18, I started smoking because – I’m stupid. I worked at a fast food restaurant in my teens, eating cholesterol laden burgers nightly because – I’m stupid. For years in my teens and twenties, I was a rabid binge drinker. In my thirties, the binge drinking turned into nightly drinking. Nightly drinking turned into daily drinking. Daily drinking turned into non-stop drinking high functioning alcoholism because – I’m stupid. And yet, through it all, I watched myself knowing I was tempting fate. I was going to make the fear become reality.

When I was diagnosed with heart disease, I actually sighed a deep breath of relief. They had found it a decade ahead of time. I also had at my disposal more tools and better medicine than my father had (he died of a second heart attack). Through all of the stupidity of my thirties, I stuck to a heart healthy style diet. I clung to my regimen of pills that are designed to help keep the numbers in check. I did what I could to eliminate sodium as much as possible. And even though I was actively trying to test the boundaries of how far I could push my organs, I also monitored how I was doing with my ticker because – I’m stupid.

So, this morning when I woke up, and the realization that I had somehow come to the other side of a fear that has weighed on me for around 30 years, two things crossed my mind: “I did it, somehow, I did it” and “does this mean I can back off?” Then it hit me: back off of what? Outside of just making sure I eat semi-better, I haven’t exactly done anything except survive. This doesn’t mean I’m gonna just throw up my hands and do whatever. My daughter is nine, and I would like to see her grow to be a woman. So, the game will change to what it was supposed to be the whole time. In short, to answer the question I posed before (what do we do when the fear is no longer a fear), we do what we were supposed to do while we were living in that fear. We live. We move forward. We take a deep breath and enjoy the life we have been ignoring because of the overwhelming presence of our fear.

I woke up today not afraid. But instead of being relieved, I realized I have been completely stupid in how I have approached life. So, today at 43 years, 7 months, 15 days I approach life in a new way – the way I should have done for 30 + years. It is too late to fix the past, but the future isn’t here yet…

Common knowledge is a misnomer.

I personally do not believe there is such a thing as something that everyone knows as specific knowledge. I do believe there are common actions and reactions – ways in which we understand how to naturally defend or oppress which is driven by innate understandings of our environment. But common knowledge would mean that we all think the same way which would mean that we would all have to live the same lives. The reality is that we do not.

I often tell my students that they have been lied to all their lives as being “special.” I explain to them that none of us are particularly special – however – each one of us is unique. Let me explain the difference: to be special would be to say that you have lived some way of life that would put you above everyone else. You have become the epitome of everyone who wants “success.” The problem with this idea is that success is defined by each person differently in different environmental circumstances. My success may be defined by having just enough retirement savings to live another 10 years beyond retirement. Someone else my own age, living in a deep portion of the amazon in some “uncivilized” culture may see success as making it through just another day. For that person, retirement doesn’t even exist. Thus, the person that I see who has achieved the goal of saving enough to live comfortably beyond retirement becomes “special” to me, but they mean nothing to the deep amazon Brian counterpart who is constantly making sure that they survive one more day.

But to be unique – you need nothing to accomplish that. Each one of us lives a life that no one else can live. No one else on this planet can or will ever experience life the way I have. The total sum of events in my life have happened to me only in the order, consequence, and experience that I have observed them. They have completely shaped how I interact in this world, and they have created the knowledge that I have.

Thus, in sum, the knowledge I have is unique to me only. There is nothing that I have seen that can lead to a connection with some kind of common shared knowledge as the knowledge I have belongs to only me. I can use my knowledge to make connections with other people through a shared sense of experience, but the experience itself is different from individual to individual. How we interact with others comes not through what the group understands, but what the individuals understand based on their personal experiences. Commons knowledge then is nothing – common connections, that’s a different story.

There are moments where a lack of attention to detail leads to what many would call an “adventure.” One such moment happened to me when, after a night of heavy drinking at a club, I did the responsible thing and requested an Uber. What happened after was nothing short of an epic tour of Greensboro, one that had all the trappings of Moses leading a lost Hebrew nation through the wilderness without Google maps…

It began innocently when I met a few friends at a bar downtown where we pre-gamed before heading three blocks over to a new club that was celebrating its first real gig. The band that night was a seventies funk throw back that gave us plenty of music to drunkenly dance to. It was a Saturday night, so I let loose and did not hold back on how much I took in, leading to what I am sure was the hilarious vision of a late 30s man doing his best combination of Elaine and Carlton in the middle of a dark dance floor. As the hours grew late, I realized the world was starting to shift to the side a little, and decided it was time to make my exit.

I perched on the edge of the side walk outside, watching my phone for notification of where my ride was. A blue sedan pulled up, and I asked “Barbour?” – he nodded, and I got in. I sat in the back of his car, and watched the lights of the city pass the window. I tried to plan my next day, only getting so far as planning to shower in the morning before trying to remember what I was doing in the present.

A street sign passed my window, a street that a friend of mine lived on. I contemplated what they were doing at that time of night, thought about the last party they had, thought about grad school and different times we hung out in the courtyard or bar across the street from our department – then it hit me. We were on the opposite side of the city from where I was supposed to be going.

“You know where Adams Farm is, right?”

“Adams what?”

Holy shit. Either this guy put the wrong thing in his GPS or I am down to the last few minutes of my life. I immediately panicked in my mind, remembering all the news stories of women being raped by Uber drivers, and, now, I may be the first male to be raped by an Uber driver. Or maybe I was being taken to one of those secret cults where they sacrifice people for a demi-god from the old Norse traditions, or even worse – this guy could be a Scientologist and this was a new way of recruiting – I realized I may be in for hours of Thetan counts and L. Ron Hubbard brain washing.

“Adams Farm! Over off High Point Rd towards Jamestown! Adams Farm!”

“Where?”

It was clear I was s-k-rewed.

“You need to go to Autumn Court, right? That’s what I have?”

“No! Autmncrest, in Adams Farm!”

I was now wondering why this guy wasn’t getting the fact that I needed to be on the other side of the city.

“Dude, Adams Farm, going towards Jamestown. We need to find High Point Rd.”

“It’ll be extra.”

Extra! Are you kidding me!?

“How much?”

“I don’t know. But there’s a fee for changing route, plus the new route.”

I was pretty sure this was bullshit.

“Let me out at the gas station up here. I’ll figure it out.”

He dropped me off and left. I went in and bought smokes, then after I waited ten minutes to make sure he would not be the same Uber I had before, and after contemplating if I should get a Lyft instead, I requested another one. This time it was a little white sedan. I got in, and made sure this guy knew where I needed to go. I explained what had happened with the other guy, and my driver was sympathetic to all of my complaining – either that or he was just having a great time messing with the incoherent rambling drunk in his car. Probably the latter.

We finally arrived at a small cul-de-sac, and he let me out. I had been checking my Twitter when he let me out and I wasn’t really paying much attention to where we were. When I finally looked up, I did not recognize the town homes that I was standing in front of. I searched in a daze of confusion for the front of my home place, grew angrier and angrier, and finally pulled my phone out, and ordered my third Uber of the night.

By this point, I was mentally composing a strongly worded letter to Uber about the horrific night, and the incompetent drivers. I wanted the CEO of Uber to know that I was a valuable customer who put his safety in the hands of his drivers, only to be lost not once, but twice in the same night. I wanted the world to know that Uber had added an extra hour to a twenty-minute trip. I didn’t want to know what this night would end up costing me.

When the third and final Uber arrived, I got in, and told them to please get me to my address. The driver chuckled, and said “ok.”

We drove out of the cul-de-sac and around a small curve to the front of the row of town homes where I lived. I got out. Walked into the house. Found my couch and passed out.

The next morning, over coffee, I tried to figure out what exactly happened the night before. The first mistake was the wrong street typed in by yours truly – autocorrect changed what I had been typing and sent Uber the wrong address. The second time was 100% error on my part as I typed in the wrong house number and left off “Dr” at the end. Finally, the last mistake I made was not paying more attention to where I was and noticing my own back door as the second driver had dropped me off directly behind where I lived, and simply studying the back side of the houses I was looking at would have been a lot cheaper for me when it was all said and done.

The lesson I learned: pay attention to where you’re at…

It was chilly enough that the water hose I cut into was stiff. My son, a six-year-old first grader, knelt beside me watching as I put the now 20” hose into the lawn mower’s gas tank.

“Don’t ever try this until you’re big like me, ok?”

“Ok, daddy.”

“Ok, here we go.”

I took a breath, placed the free end of the hose into my mouth, and tried the well-known method of removing gas from a tank through suction.

I was scheduled to go to the doctor that morning, a check-up, before work. Because of my appointment, I had been tagged to take my oldest son to school after his mother neglected to get him on the bus on time. The boy and myself marched out the door and to my little civic, both kind of excited about this moment where dad and son got to join in the ride to school. Normally, I was gone well before the boy was up, so this was a treat for him.

However, there was a snag. When I cranked my car, the gas needle didn’t move. It sat just below the “E,” and after a few seconds, the gas light came on. Immediately I tried the desperate calculations in my head to determine if that small space between the “E” and oblivion would get me to the closest gas station. After burning some precious petroleum trying to decide if I had enough, I shut the car off, and instructed the boy that we had to do something else.

I went to our other car to check its situation, and although it wasn’t as dire as mine, it wasn’t much better. So I did what I always did when stuck in a conundrum. I lit a cigarette, and laid out all possible scenarios that would land me at the gas station. Even though car number two had a smidge more gas, it also had a larger engine and at 7:30 in the morning, my math told me it would drink faster than my Honda; I would have to chance it. I needed to get the boy to school.

I went to the back yard to grab the gas can (it too was empty) so I could get enough for my car, when I saw my lawnmower – it was a giant John Deer monster with a massive gas tank – and that’s when my genius kicked in. I yelled for my son, and he came jogging around the house to see what I needed. I looked at him and simply said, “your dad has a plan.”

Being a six-year-old, he wasn’t too wise to the world, so whenever I did something mechanical or constructive, he typically watched with eagerness, wanting to learn how to emulate his father as so many young boys do.

But on this chilly morning, he saw something different in my eyes, and his own eyes reflected a warning I did not heed.

I told him to run inside the house and grab my knife from the kitchen drawer – it was an old pocket knife I’d had for years – and bring it to me. He hustled away, reluctantly but obediently, and brought the tool back a few moments later. By then, I had pulled enough of our garden hose out to make a small syphon tube that would help me get the gas from the lawn mower into the gas can and from the gas can into my car which would get me to the gas station for more gas and on to the school where I would write my son in as by now, he was going to be late.

It was a full proof plan.

I cut the hose and marched to the lawn mower. I laid the gas can on the ground and told my son, “once I get the gas moving through this hose, I’m going to shove it into the can. I want you to hold the can still while it fills up.”

He said, “Ok.” Then his mind started calculating. “How are you gonna get the gas moving through the hose?”

“I’m going to have to suck it out.”

His face, once again, should have been enough for me to know that this was not going to work. But I had seen my step father do it multiple times, and now, as I was a man (I was in my 20s – young and stupid), I could replicate the actions and prove a hero to my son by saving the day and getting the gas needed to move on down the road.

I placed one end into the lawn mower tank, and held the other to my mouth. I took a breath in anticipation praying to something that it would work. I put the hose in my mouth, and drew back.

As the gas failed to come through the tube once it abruptly flew out of my mouth, my son quietly asked me, “you swallowed it, didn’t you?” I said nothing, and instead ran into the house. In the bathroom, I reached for a toothbrush, and tried to shove it down my throat. His mother, who had seen the flash of an idiot running by her, came into the bathroom to find me bent over a sink trying to induce muscles to reject the petroleum from my stomach.

I was not succeeding.

She asked me what I was doing, and I asked her in response, “How do you make yourself throw up?”

“What!?”

“HOW DO YOU MAKE YOURSELF THROW UP? YOU’RE A GIRL, YOU KNOW HOW TO DO THIS, HOW?!”

She asked me why, and before I could answer, my partner in crime had arrived to inform her of the entire episode.

“You dumbass,” was all she said as she went into the kitchen, and brought back three glasses of water. “Drink all of this and then drive my car to the gas station.”

I did as instructed, and got the boy to school late. I made my doctor’s appointment and was assured I would not die or catch on fire if I smoked (I already knew I wouldn’t as I tried the method before I went, but I wanted a second opinion).

My son and I learned valuable lessons that morning.

Never syphon gas from a lawn mower.

Never shove a toothbrush down your throat.

Never tell a woman she is an expert in vomiting simply because she is a “girl.”

But most importantly: pay attention to that damn gas gauge before the idiot light goes off.