Je M’appelle Thomasso

With my mental sense of reality so far out of whack, seeing straight is like diving into a vat of root beer without any headlights strapped to my ass. Yes, if you are wondering, this post is about nonsense. Nonsense is all that I have left until I start the new year. I used to believe that I had lots of commonsense, but as I weaved and bobbed through academia, I was told the awful truth that my commonsense was just a figment of my imagination, and that no matter how hard I tried to understand it, it will always come and bite me in the ass as I walked through the doorway.

In my days of pillaging and raping knowledge from my textbooks, I realized then that life was too short to sit in one room and read my way through the complex equations of other people’s answers.  I had to leave and search for myself those hard to reach answers that nobody would give me. Seriously, no one would tell me what the Social Contract really meant, or why the rich played on a different playing field than the poor in our justice system?

In the last days of my endurance race through the endless classes and lectures, I found most of those of answers. Sadly, I lacked the ability to tell those stories though any conviction of truth and make it sound believable to any extent. I could talk the talk, but I could not walk the walk, as they say in my circles. Sure, I could baffle them with brilliance, but my bull-shit needed a lot of spit and polish. Telling lay people about the justice system is all fine and dandy, but hoping that they understand it, well, the glazed look on their eyes tells the whole story. The light bulb did not go on. Next.

Even my lexicon has hit a pitch that only a precious few can understand. The trouble of being so specialized is that you are no longer able to generalize anymore. I attended a seminar that was hosted by various organizations that included a member from SCIC. After the lecture I approached him and started talking shop. There was this lovely looking woman from the media who looked so puzzled as we talked on about crime and stuff that she started butting into the conversation hoping to get our attention. We were so focused that we ignored her and kept on going with our dialogue on domestic terrorism. After ten minutes of talking, the woman left with a very dissatisfied frown on her face. “Sorry my dear,” I thought to myself. As a Criminologist, my tolerance for small talk is very low, so if you speak my language, or find a topic that we all can understand, then you are going to get my full attention, and hopefully some great dialogue too.

In closing, I am reminded of my French classes when everyone is repeating what the instructor says in French. I laughed then, and I laugh ever harder now as I remember. When he spoke, “Je viens d’avoir une dispute avec mon copain…” you would hear this dull, low, wave of mumbling from thirty five voices with no enthusiasm whatsoever repeating the line, syllable per syllable. I laughed my ass off after that happened as I suddenly became conscious of it. After that I would look up at the instructor and see the smiley look on his eyes as the class repeated in zombie mode each line of French back to him. Now that is a language barrier if I ever heard of one!

À tout à l’heure!

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