Thursday, March 22, 2018

Words by ruBENstein Quarterly Newsletter - Spring 2018

I published the second edition of my quarterly email newsletter today. Check out my latest Words by ruBENstein or subscribe to it. Every three months I'll share: one or two of my recent stories plus an oldie but goodie; my most popular social media post; and one story and life lesson from one of writing's greats.

Words by ruBENstein quarterly newsletter

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Thursday, March 15, 2018

The Power of March Madness Compels Me

“Don’t talk trash about your University of Virginia men’s basketball team unless they win,” my once-removed first cousin said.

My once-removed first cousin is one of my elders and is often right. I’m usually wrong. Maybe, I’m always wrong. Regardless, this time I rejected his 69 years of wisdom. I said, “I can’t contain myself.” The power of March Madness compels me. THE POWER OF MARCH MADNESS COMPELS ME!

Singing University of Virginia Good Old Song
Watching Virginia clobber Connecticut in football at Scott Stadium in Charlottesville on Sept. 16, 2017, with three of my closest friends from our first-year hall in Humphreys dorm. Photo by Abbey Beckwith Miller.

In a four-person group text message thread, BBear wrote, “It would be great to win the Atlantic Coast Conference Men's Basketball Tournament, but it’s not necessary, and losing wouldn’t bounce us from a 1 seed. In fact, if we win just the first game in the ACC Tournament, that all but guarantees us the top seed overall.”

In that same thread, Hamburgers wrote, “It’s crazy, we’ve come so far that I don’t even care about the ACC title that much. When you win the regular season by four games, the tournament is kind of meaningless.”

I wrote, “Fuck that, I want the ACC title, too. I want it all. Fuck the rest of them.”

And when we won the ACC Tournament, I wrote, “I FUCKING WANT IT ALL. THE WORLD IS OURS. WAHOOWA.”

After the announcement that Virginia’s redshirt freshman forward De’Andre Hunter, who won the ACC's Sixth Man of the Year honor, got injured and can’t play again this year, BBear wrote, “Why does God hate us?”

Hamburgers then wrote, “Sigh, it’s great to win the ACC title, but that’s somewhat meaningless given our hopes this year. It’s a shame to see him injured like that.”

T-Unit then wrote, “He was the reason for my optimism. Now, I’d be lying if I said I felt confident about this being the year.”

T-Unit added, “😡 😠 😧😩 😢 😭”

Hamburgers responded, “I am driving, and Siri is describing all these emojis to me. It is amazing.”

I wrote, “Damn, now I really want to hear a robot explain those emojis to me, too.”

But more importantly I wrote, “Let’s calm down. Maybe we are the college basketball version of the Patriots. Players get tendon ruptures and concussions and murder humans, and they just keep winning.”

I FUCKING WANT IT ALL. THE WORLD IS OURS. WAHOOWA.

I’m ready for it: during my lifetime, only one of the sports teams I follow (Washington Redskins) has won its league’s championship, and those wins occurred when I was 4 and 8.

I’m all-in: this Virginia team has among the best defenses in the history of college basketball. It has at least two fewer losses than every other Division I team in the country.

The Virginia basketball team represents the American dream: there is just one McDonald’s All-American on the team, whereas last season the University of North Carolina had six McDonald’s All-Americans on its roster, Kentucky had five, and Duke had seven. Virginia gives its full effort on every defensive possession whereas many players on other teams play defense just as a means to get on offense.

So yeah, the power of March Madness compels me to talk some trash now. Virginia is America! Virginia’s head coach Tony Bennett may be a saint! Maybe he should be the U.S. president! Nevermind, because that would mean he would leave Virginia! I’d actually give him money directly or sexual favors to stay at Virginia and not be president (or the head coach of any other team)! Scratch that sexual favors statement, he’s like married and shit and I like women! But no seriously, I’d try to keep him in Virginia BY ANY MEANS! In January, Virginia held North Carolina to 49 points for the whole game! In November, Virginia held Wisconsin to 37 points for the whole game! That’s fucking insane! Happy March Madness! Wahoowa! Wahoowa! WAHOOWA!

Appearances
Learn about the current and future pharmaceuticals marketplace from expert perspectives across the pharmaceuticals field at Johns Hopkins Carey Business School’s Drug Accessibility and Pricing Symposium on March 19. I’ll be sharing the patient perspective in the late afternoon panel, "Where Do We Go From Here?" Registration is free online.

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Wednesday, February 21, 2018

Two Disabled Cousins Slash Friends: Beyond the Tent and Into the Metro

I went on a Jewish retreat two weekends ago at Pearlstone Conference and Retreat Center in Reisterstown, Maryland. Well, not exactly. That sounds too culty. It was more like a retreat for Jews who aren’t really Jews. Well, I should clarify that. We’re Jews, but some of us just don’t do traditionally Jew-y things.

I wrote about that powerful experience, and you can read that story below.

As published in GatherDC

Kenny and I entered the Metro car at 8:30 on a Wednesday night after happy hour – and then some – at Carving Room in Chinatown. The Yellow-line train heading south was sparse. One woman wearing a pinstripe suit sat in the first row on the far side, and one man wearing a solid green necktie tied in a full Windsor knot read a paperback from his seat behind her.

“Aren’t you going to take that?” Kenny said, pointing to the open row just to my right knee as I walked in. Those were the seats above which was a blue sign of a person in a wheelchair.

I laughed. I had the kind of anything-goes camaraderie with Kenny, also known as my Taller-Younger-Yet Older-Looking Cousin. We’d just spent two-and-a-half hours volleying ideas about hosting a podcast. The podcast’s working title: “Two Disabled Cousins Slash Friends.”

Okay, so the title may need more work.

Taller-Younger-Yet Older-Looking Cousin has an obsessive disorder that can limit his activities. Ask Kenny and he’ll accurately state that his cousin Ben (that’s me) has many disorders. The most obvious is physical: I use crutches when I walk long distances. I call them my quadsteppers.

My quadsteppers and I fell into the row adjacent to the one reserved for disabled individuals, which Taller-Younger-Yet Older-Looking Cousin took. His joke led me to think of my interaction from twelve hours earlier. I began sharing this story as our train accelerated towards Archives-Navy Memorial-Penn Quarter station. Keep reading Two Disabled Cousins Slash Friends: Beyond the Tent and Into the Metro

In the Media
There were four people named Ben on my Beyond the Tent retreat. Gather DC interviewed us as the Jew(s) of the Week.

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Tuesday, January 23, 2018

The Moment I Got My MFA

I hadn’t expected to care that much about earning my Master of Fine Arts in creative writing degree. Sure, I felt pride for the two years I dedicated myself to the work. But, I didn’t think the three letters “MFA” on my résumé, the validation that I finished what I had started, or the brief ceremony at which I would wear the goofy “hood” would matter to me.

When the thirteen of us went backstage at Freeport High School on the night of Saturday, January 13, to dress in our academic regalia, my heart rate began rising. It wasn’t even related to the Eagles taking the lead over the Falcons. In fact, for probably the first time in my life, an NFL Playoff game was being played and it didn’t enter my awareness. I looked around the spacious and brightly lit room at my friends to whom I’d become so close. Some were dressing while others were already dressed and snapping selfies. All were smiling. That’s the thing about occasions that are bittersweet: the joy is overpowering until the end when the pain takes over.

I had been wrong about this ceremony not mattering to me.

Benjamin Rubenstein backstage before ceremony to receive Master of Fine Arts in creative writing
Jan. 13 at the Freeport Performing Arts Center at Freeport High School. Photo by Nikki Sambitsky.
Minutes later, we lined in alphabetical order. I had the honor of squeezing between Irish and Rollerbitch, whose husband was in the crowd on the other side of the curtain we were facing. “He put up with so much over the last two years,” Rollerbitch said.

She and I hugged. I would have said his time caring for their two young kids and four dogs while Rollerbitch isolated herself to write was over, but I hoped not. We were writers, which meant we would have to keep writing.

The line moved. “Walk slowly,” YouSeriouslyCan’tFormatThisThesis?, the administrator of our Stonecoast MFA program, said. “So you can take it all in.”

We walked out of the room we dressed in and right up to the purple curtain. We were standing on the wooden stage. The lighting was dark, so I focused my awareness. When Irish was next to walk to her seat, I thought about how fast the last two years flew. My first writing workshop in January 2016, when I was so overwhelmed, felt like it took place earlier that morning. Some teachers of writing say that every story is about either sex or death, and I realized this story was about death. I had just turned 34, and two of those years flowed together like one Alex Cross book into the next. All of a sudden, one-seventeenth of my life became two singular and connected moments with infinite related and unrelated moments in between.

Irish looked back at me and smiled. Then, she started walking, and I moved a few steps forward.

I imagined if I was 80 like my talented friend who had just taken her seat, time still wouldn’t matter. The moment was all that mattered, which meant the length of our lives didn’t matter because life itself was just one moment in time and not the accumulation of 16 or 34 or 80 years.

Sex or death.

My turn was next. I started walking, slowly, and took my seat next to Irish.

We heard speeches from some classmates; our dean; Justin Tussing, the director of our program; and Jim Kelly, our Hugo Award-winning teacher, who said that a good teacher hopes for his students to surpass him or her. Then, David Anthony Durham, another teacher who writes science fiction, took the stage. The students returned backstage and lined up again in alphabetical order before our final walk as non-masters.

David has a tradition at graduations of reading each student’s name and some lines from that student’s thesis. First up was our friend, CameInLikeAWreckingBall, who led us across the stage to receive our diplomas (or, really, a paper that basically says, “Your diploma is coming in the mail in six to eight months!”). This happened eight more times before David called Irish's name and read a line from her speculative fiction story about using human blood for ink.

I stepped forward once again. David said, “Benjamin Rubenstein.” I walked up three steps to the stage. Then, David read lines from the first chapter of the novel which I’m halfway through writing: “They believed in me. ‘You’re the man,’ Josh said. ‘Now go be the man and get us two packs of Black & Milds Original flavor.’”

My feet moved me towards the other side of the stage towards my sort-of diploma. Walk slowly, I thought, followed by, Don’t trip. My former teachers and classmates who will graduate over the coming two years cheered from their seats in the audience. Also from somewhere in the audience, a dog barked (long story). And, I took a mental snapshot of the feeling because I never wanted to forget that moment. It was was g-damn awesome.

Rollerbitch walked next, NotTheGreatestThesisFormatter walked after her, and then the dean spoke. “On behalf of the board of trustees and in accordance with the authority vested in me, I hereby proudly confer on each of you...your Master of Fine Arts in creative writing and all its honors, distinctions and privileges.”

Then, like a roller coaster that happened to last for two years, the moment was over.
That night, we drank tequila and celebrated, and the following day we trickled out of the Harraseeket Inn in Freeport, Maine, one at a time. CameInLikeAWreckingBall was the first to leave so he could care for his flu-stricken son back home in Portland. He wrote on our closed-group Facebook page, “This experience has been as formative and special as any in my life.”

I thought about his words on my way home to Arlington, Virginia, and all last week. What he said was true for me, too, but why?

Now, I understand. The joy of our experience at Stonecoast extends so far beyond the work, the three letters “MFA,” and any one particular moment. Stonecoast fostered a tight-knit community where we “get” each other in ways that people outside the community may not. In that regard, the Stonecoast community is similar to the young adult cancer community, which is remarkable since our journey to becoming writers is not a matter of life and death…just don’t tell Irish I said that because I like my blood.

So, here’s to my residency group at Stonecoast. We call ourselves Milk Pants Stonecoast Firsties, and soon enough you’ll know who some of us are.
Milk Pants Stonecoast Firsties
Milk Pants Stonecoast Firsties before graduating with our Master of Fine Arts in creative writing degrees. Missing from photo: Graveserenader, the already-famous member of our group.

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