Literally

For all you fans of semantics, the word "normalize" has become normalized to mean something else.  I bet it did not see that one coming.

People use it as a way to sound cool while randomly scolding everyone about our societal standards, so it's got like twice the fun, which is pretty hard to beat.  "We need to normalize this behavior!" they might say.  What normalize really means is to adapt an anomaly to fit within a standard; change it so it fits within a defined structure.  That's the opposite of what people want it to mean.  If you want to change the defined structure, that's reform.  

It doesn't mean "make normal" any more than disingenuous means "not genuine" or any more than unctuous means "tasty and decadent."  But don't let that stop you.  The simple fact is a word should mean whatever you think it means.  Or if you really want to get technical, whatever it sounds like it means.

Oh I’m just trying to be really wacky and zany.  You know - supercilious.  Have a great day my vestigial friends!

Rick

The morning of the first day of first grade, I sat there on the edge of that big bus seat watching the last minutes of summer zip by the window when the kid in the seat next to me did something I'll never forget; he opened up his lunch box and started eating his sandwich.  I couldn’t believe it.  I sat in amazement.  Never mind that he won’t have anything to eat at lunch, there wasn’t enough bus ride left for him to be able to finish it.  It was a moral and logistical nightmare!  I couldn’t contain myself another moment, and piped up.

“You better put that away - we’re almost there!”  

He seemed a little stunned by the news, looked around and said “We are?”, but then grasped the realness of the situation, and packed up his sandwich posthaste.  I respected that move.  He wasn’t reckless. He was just hungry.

That was the first thing I ever said to my best friend, Rick.  A guy so effortlessly cool, he could eat his lunch on the bus.  A kid who, by age 13, was as smooth with the ladies as anyone I’ve ever met to this day.  He was so even-keeled and just generally seemed to have it all figured out, and we never had anything but fun.  He was 1000 times better at Asteroids® than me (he hit the FIRE button with a blazingly fast two-finger drumroll) and he could always outrun me no matter how hard I tried, but that’s what you want.  You need something to aspire to and Rick was it.  You know that thing about how you never want to be the smartest or even the coolest guy in the room?  Well if Rick was in the room, don’t worry - you weren’t.  

I remember the last time I saw him, he was playing baseball and his dad was cheering him on from the 3rd base line.  “Hey Rico! Just throw it!” he shouted.  "He’s not gonna hit it!”  That was met with slight admonishment from the 3rd base coach but pretty much rolled right off - it wasn’t enough to quell Dad’s enthusiasm.  Cheers for “Rico!” kept coming, and Rico delivered.  

Details of that one weekend I spent in Marlboro, NY in 1982 remain permanently sealed, but it remains one of my strongest memories.  I moved away soon after and we ultimately fell out of touch.  About five years later he was murdered. 

Thanks, Rick.  You were the best, buddy.  Happy Birthday.

Mrs. Carswell

This isn't that far off...

Mrs. Carswell was articulate, like you'd expect an English teacher to be.  A young-ish black woman who carried with her a real air of The South.  She was tall and lanky, and favored bright-colored polyester pants with matching tops.  My strongest memory is of her in Royal Blue, but I know she ran the gamut.  She was stern but somehow likable.  She really put herself together every day and was there to teach English.  Pretty no-nonsense.  And no-nonsense pretty.

She interrupted a student once to lecture them; a lesson for the whole class.  The student mentioned that they "hated" something rather harmless and Mrs. Carswell stopped the kid right there.  "No you don't!  You dislike, you are annoyed by, you object to, but you do not HATE."  And she continued on with her lecture about the power of the word "hate."  I never forgot that.  Probably the first example I can think of when I realized words were a little more than just a way for you to get through a sentence; they have real meaning.

Later in the year we were at our desks silently toiling away at an assignment when the PA speaker came on.  Someone held the mic up to the radio and we heard that President Reagan had been shot.  One kid jumped up with his arms in the air and shouted "Yes!"  Mrs. Carswell snapped at the kid and told him to sit down.  I immediately thought of the "hate" lecture and thought she was going to unload on this kid for feigning true hate, but instead she let it go and listened intently to the PA speaker because that was obviously more important at that moment.  Still, I was pretty certain her opinion of that kid must have gone down a few notches.  

The President obviously was okay, but what I remember most about the shooting was seeing for myself exactly what Mrs. Carswell was talking about.