https://www.timcerullo.com/work daily 1.0 2021-07-27 https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/59907172cd0f685c51b3adc1/1502770363012-QOOLONY70MGK2PXDI2C7/Supercuts+Print2.jpg Work https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/59907172cd0f685c51b3adc1/1502770330724-6OZBKLVBTL9AE5BOFI0I/Supercuts+Print1.jpg Work https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/59907172cd0f685c51b3adc1/1502770095912-S2HM4BAEPYS5PHMMSM52/Banquet+Site+1.jpg Work     https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/59907172cd0f685c51b3adc1/1502770124127-3IVV0WP8B75GDNUBI1YM/Banquet+site+2.jpg Work     https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/59907172cd0f685c51b3adc1/1502770147179-VC8BH6PX3UC1B5G5392L/Banquet+site+3.jpg Work https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/59907172cd0f685c51b3adc1/1612496716349-BAMRFKW5W2KLC29267B2/Cerullo+Resume+SITE+2_2021+IMAGE+trim.jpg Work https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/59907172cd0f685c51b3adc1/1503693429476-VNP0Z0JNUMT5AB779IK7/WC_water.jpg Work https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/59907172cd0f685c51b3adc1/1503693451190-BU15QZ0L9T5EP7QC97X6/Cerullo+WC+Bathroom+Both.jpg Work https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/59907172cd0f685c51b3adc1/1503693364975-U4Q08X3LAY13LII3WH1I/WC_nightgowns.jpg Work https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/59907172cd0f685c51b3adc1/1503693301416-1D00K6GH2LCM5ZBACSCJ/WC_knuckles.jpg Work https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/59907172cd0f685c51b3adc1/1503693494924-9KH527PLOANQXQDRRUAN/WC_burnt+tounge.jpg Work https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/59907172cd0f685c51b3adc1/1503693647568-AOBT44YDFCIKYTQCACG1/Cerullo+UA+Runs.jpg Work https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/59907172cd0f685c51b3adc1/1503693605232-13C3DNH547V2NT35OWBT/Cerullo+UA+Strike+Zone.jpg Work https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/59907172cd0f685c51b3adc1/1503693734714-02FQFNZAQJTRZR1R5FOH/Cerullo+UA+Round+Ball.jpg Work https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/59907172cd0f685c51b3adc1/1503693694792-1DB4OF6A2SGFJWYR14I1/Cerullo+UA+Pipes.jpg Work https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/59907172cd0f685c51b3adc1/1503698836014-IYT1YYARK1JAI7S2O24R/RK_WashMon-Post.jpg Work https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/59907172cd0f685c51b3adc1/1503698784714-NV39SH967ZNSY2SR7GLX/RK_GGBridge-Post.jpg Work https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/59907172cd0f685c51b3adc1/1514302428748-6PNFSKYHI33QMJJWXCRX/Standing+Tall.jpg Work https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/59907172cd0f685c51b3adc1/1502767536069-6FU9Q6P5LSPLTQLKO2VX/Legend+and+Throwback.jpg Work - Print https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/59907172cd0f685c51b3adc1/1502770095912-S2HM4BAEPYS5PHMMSM52/Banquet+Site+1.jpg Work     https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/59907172cd0f685c51b3adc1/1502770124127-3IVV0WP8B75GDNUBI1YM/Banquet+site+2.jpg Work     https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/59907172cd0f685c51b3adc1/1502770147179-VC8BH6PX3UC1B5G5392L/Banquet+site+3.jpg Work https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/59907172cd0f685c51b3adc1/1502851828636-DWG1AX48TG3CKHYBAUUC/Same+Place+OOH.jpeg Work     https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/59907172cd0f685c51b3adc1/1502851868446-8D46MBMRGH0JIXMNUXUW/GetShort+OOH+Comp.jpeg Work     https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/59907172cd0f685c51b3adc1/1502851901581-RHBTW6WQW6O9RGO721AN/6+Coors_FBPosts.jpeg Work Social Posts https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/59907172cd0f685c51b3adc1/1529853254091-0GKZ04R12RSH9UZBXIQC/Dance+1.jpg Work https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/59907172cd0f685c51b3adc1/1529853215621-XV1BF8VBM4MNPHHIXEML/Boost%2BBanner.jpg Work https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/59907172cd0f685c51b3adc1/1539531904910-3D3IYNI7SF055CNJL086/bball1.jpeg Work - Bracket Breakdown Every year, when Selection Sunday reveals the 60-some-odd colleges that will vie for the prestigious NCAA Men’s Basketball national title, my friends, family, and the guy at the gas station all ask me the same question: “Did you fill out your bracket yet?” As a basketball fan, I feel like this is a required process; guessing which teams will win proves you’ve been paying attention. Plus, it’s a good excuse for people to argue and say, “I told you so.” Therefore, each spring, I print out a bracket and pencil in my decisions like a multiple-choice exam that I’ll no doubt fail. But this year, as I tried to make my way to the center of the sheet and crown a national champion, I realized how much I detest this ridiculous tradition. I’ve always been a big men’s college basketball fan. Growing up, I’d claim dizzy spells and sore throats so I could stay home from school and watch the tourney’s first round. As if playing sick ever worked. My mom was always onto me. She knew when March Madness started, so I’d have to settle for watching highlights of the games I missed. I didn’t start filling out brackets until high school, when a group of friends tossed five bucks into the pool; best bracket takes all. At first it was fun. I would read up on statistics and study the polls to win that forty-dollar pot. I never did. 2003 was the closest I ever came. I picked Syracuse to win it all. But this was the year Carmelo Anthony stormed onto the college basketball scene for his short visit, marching the Orangemen to a national championship. Of course, four other brackets also had them taking the title, each with wiser picks than mine. As we got older, the buy-in got larger. I kept entering. And losing. After a few years, the tournament pools began to lose their sparkle. They felt more like a waste of money. Every season, I would know my bracket was ruined by the third round. Once you know you’re out, there’s no fun in even holding on to the thing. My bracket would sit on the coffee table, slashed with crossed-out wrong picks, and I’d think about the ten, twenty, fifty dollars I spent on that piece of printer paper. I should’ve gone out to dinner instead, or put it toward my student loans. Something better than that sheet. It was never long before my bracket met wastebasket. To me, filling out brackets takes away from the games. We all have personal biases, conscious or unconscious, but the science of Bracketology requires one to discard these preconceived notions and choose winners based on factors like team depth and strength of regular season schedule. I try to be impartial when I fill out the sheet. But I seem to have personal investments in too many schools to do it. My dad’s side of the family hails from West Virginia and are all huge fans of West Virginia University, but when I pick Arizona to upset WVU in the first round, I find myself pulling for the Mountaineers anyway. And what happens next? They go on to rout one of the most storied basketball programs in the country, Duke. I don’t even care that I have Duke going to the Elite Eight, this is a joyous day for me and my coal-mining uncles. And even though I chose Gonzaga over Davidson (whoops), I can’t explain the pleasure it brings me to see their ex-superstar forward Adam Morrison sitting glumly in courtside seats, watching his alma mater lose in an upset. Something about Morrison made me hate Gonzaga. Could be his goofy hair and porn-star mustache. More likely, it was his half-court crybaby antics in the 2006 game against UCLA, when the Zags blew a seven-point lead with under two minutes to go. This type of hatred is not uncommon in college basketball. It seems like the better the player is, the stronger the hate. Shooting guard J.J. Redick acquired a similar following at Duke, I suppose because of his outstanding 3-point shooting ability. Regardless, excitement like that makes me say to hell with the bracket. Then I get to Michigan State on the sheet. How can I count out my own school? I can’t. I always have them going somewhere in the tournament, at least to the regionals, even though it’s not always plausible. That’s one bias I can’t set aside. Even though I’ve seen the Spartans upset in the first round a couple times in recent history (to Nevada in 2004, and George Mason in 2006), I still put so much faith in the squad. We’re talking about a team with one of the most loyal followings in all of college basketball. A team whose fans will camp out in bitter October to score season tickets. And Tom Izzo, he’s a God among men in East Lansing. It’s fun to have a real attachment to one of the competing teams. Plus, how can you not root for the underdog? I love seeing a thirteen seed beat a four. I love the obscure school that comes in and wins games. Watching San Diego best UConn by one in overtime was awesome. And Davidson, talk about an underdog. Their ten seed in 2008 was probably generous, but they edged Gonzaga (sweet!), Georgetown (holy cow!), and Wisconsin (speechless). It took number one seed Kansas to knock off Davidson, and even that game was decided by only two points. Why do you think they call it March Madness? So, this year I stopped short. I set down my pencil and let my bracket lay unfinished. I’ve taken some razzing from my buddies and the guy at the gas station, but I’m done “proving” myself. I can and will watch every game in suspense, pulling for whichever school I want. When it comes down to it, March Madness isn’t about making picks and winning money. It’s about hoops. Anything can happen, and that’s reason enough to not fill out a bracket. This year I surmised to leave Bracketology to the pundits on TV. Let old men in bars and kids in dorm rooms bicker over their Final Four picks. They’ll never get it right. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/59907172cd0f685c51b3adc1/1539532630787-2RSBL2984JRMKRA6I8UB/btower.jpg Work - MSU Arts & Letters Commencement Speech Delivered May 3, 2008 Professors, Students, Families, and Friends, I stand here before you in a pair of shoes that I’ve had since tenth grade. I love these shoes. They’re tan suede with a gum sole. Nothing fancy, just your basic moccasin boot. Clark’s Wallabees to be exact. They’re comfortable, and no matter how shabby and discolored they may be, I wear them proudly. My mom says they’re worn out. I say they’re worn in. These are the shoes I had on during my first student event at Michigan State: the Academic Orientation Program, or AOP. AOP took place on the hottest two days of July. It wasn’t exactly my fondest MSU memory. It went something like this: after checking in by 9:30 am, we were corralled together in the Case Cafeteria for our first taste of caf food. Luckily (and purposely, probably) the university scheduled the first hour and a half of orientation in an air-conditioned facility. I held my tray of chicken tenders and tater tots, and surveyed the tables; some people stared at their plastic macaroni and cheese, avoiding eye contact with their new classmates while others chirped excitedly with friends. People shook hands, smiled at one another. And everyone wanted to know where you were from. The place smelled of new beginnings and French fries. Midway through the meal, an AOP worker approached my table and announced it was time to get our ID pictures taken. I sat on the stool and stared into the camera. A few seconds passed before the photographer asked if I was ready. I nodded. “Smile,” he said with haste, simultaneously snapping the shutter. As a result, my ID photo looks like a mug shot. A picture of my shoes would have made for a better-looking card. It was at this point I realized AOP was not going to be my favorite MSU experience. I shuffled back to the table, gathered my dishes, placed the tray on the rollers and watched it glide through a small window where it was sorted by student workers. After the meal, we were led to orientation according to major, I was a “no-preference.” This meant I would spend the next two or three hours listening to faculty and students tell me it’s OK to be unsure. Later, we all lined up in groups based on where we were going to live our freshman year. Our group leader, Amanda, took us across the courtyard to Wonders Hall and showed us our new quarters. The 15 or so of us slowly crept into the stuffy dorm room, exploring the spaces, glancing in the bathroom at the closet-sized shower and industrial toilet. It was imposing with plain walls and fluorescent lights, institutional. But I tried to be optimistic; I tried to see it becoming a home. I stepped out the front door of a sweaty North Wonders into the humid afternoon, and sat alone on a shaded bench. I leaned back to take a load off my shoes, and stared at a motionless tree. Amanda broke the pensive silence. “Time for a campus tour!” She barked enthusiastically into her megaphone. I wiped my brow and tried to keep up for what felt like miles as MSU was revealed. Crossing the Red Cedar over and over as it snaked its way through campus, sometimes spilling over its high banks, our leader walked quickly. We saw our famed Sparty statue (where I’m sure many of you had your picture taken dressed in cap and gown). He stands guard triumphantly upon his pedestal. I took a picture of Beaumont Tower as its chimes rang from the treetops through the silent library windows. We hurried past the administration building and auditorium and after two hours, we finally arrived back at Case. I collapsed into the air-conditioned home base. I was ready to go home. My shirt was sticking to me and, despite these amazingly comfortable shoes, my feet hurt. As I drove home the next afternoon, half-asleep from such a structurally organized, fast paced schedule, I remember thinking to myself, praying, Please don’t let real college be this structured! A pep talk from my big sister (an MSU alumna) reassured me: Real college is nothing like AOP. Turns out she was right. **** I had these shoes on my feet six weeks later when I moved into my North Wonders dorm room. What excitement! SUVs and pick-up trucks parked all over the grass, loaded with the essentials: desk lamps, chairs, mirrors, and DVD players.It was another blisteringly hot day, but I barely noticed, I had been waiting for this all summer. Moving away from home and having my first shot at living responsibly on my own. I was ready for anything. My roommate brought the fridge and microwave, I took care of the TV. By late afternoon, moms were hugging and crying while dads patted their boys on the back. Over the next few days we worked on our room: we bought posters and Christmas lights, got a loft put up and carried a seven foot rug all the way from SBS. It’s amazing what you can do with those bare walls. Just trade the fluorescent lights for lamps, cover the cold tile floor, it really does become home. I declared myself an English major and went to class. Things seemed perfect, and we had four whole years to figure out the rest of our lives. All the time in the world, right? Well, back then we thought so. But today, we probably still have a lot to figure out. I know I do. **** On an academic note, these shoes took me to a bunch of great classes, each of them offering its own set of challenges. They forced me to think differently and look at things from various perspectives. I learned in college that a good professor makes all the difference. I took two semesters of poetry writing with Robin Silbergleid. On the first day of class, I was nervous that my peers would have a better grasp of poetry than I. To me, my poems sounded elementary and silly. But I was quick to discover that nobody in the room would be winning any prestigious poetry prizes anytime soon. Everyone was in that class for the same reason: to learn the craft. And Robin’s guidance helped me find my lyrical voice and grow past the clumsy, “roses are red” poet I was previously. I took plenty of other classes that challenged me intellectually and emotionally, but I see now that each of these courses helped me grow and become a better-rounded individual; even my required math courses, through which I tirelessly exercised every mathematical cell in my head for a barely passing grade. We all suffered through a class like that, where no matter how hard you study, you just squeaked by. My brain doesn’t mesh well with numbers and variables, but I made it through. The fact that I have gained understanding in a wide array of subjects is one of the proudest things I take from Michigan State. And I would like to take this opportunity to extend my sincerest gratitude to those professors who helped me develop into the individual standing here today. This well roundedness extends beyond the classroom as well. I absorbed everything I could, taking in the sights, sounds and smells of campus. The hot, sticky classrooms of the first weeks of school. Football Saturdays, with their commotion and Spartan fan camaraderie smelling of grills and crisp autumn leaves. Though I still don’t fully understand how the Cyclotron works, I do know our lab is one of the best in the nation. These are the things that define Michigan State. The vast landscape of our campus that extends from Grand River all the way down Hagadorn where farmland takes over and you can find buildings like Crop & Soil Science and Swine Teaching & Research. Even dodging sidewalk cyclists is, in retrospect, gratifying in its own way. They may not look it, but these shoes keep me nimble. Most importantly, these shoes are comfortable. Just like college life. Let’s be honest, regardless of the stresses that go along with being an undergrad, it was a comfortable lifestyle. You had friends all over town; you probably even lived with a few of them. You ate what you wanted, you dressed how you wanted, and you went where you wanted. In fact, you could go out late on a Tuesday night and then drag your-unshowered-pajama-clad-hat-wearin’-self to that 9:10 exam. I don’t care about Hollywood or the French Riviera: college is the life. But things are about to change. The responsibility bar is getting higher and higher. You won’t be able to wake up in the morning, take a look out the window at the heaping snow and decide to go back to bed. In fact, sleeping past ten will be considered laziness. There will be no sweatpants on weekdays anymore. It’s a lifestyle change. It’s a comfort level change, too. I’m moving to another state soon. I don’t know what to expect. But I’m excited. And nervous. We go from being a “college kids” right now, to degree holding professionals in a matter of minutes. It’s happening fast, but with my shoes on, I can walk through anything. All of you have a pair of shoes like me. Maybe not shoes, but some type of security blanket or good luck charm, be it a rabbit’s foot or coin. Maybe for you it’s your iPod, or a favorite hat, could even be your lucky undies. For me, my shoes are an anchor. They keep me grounded, planted comfortably, but still allow me to move and see things from different angles. This is important in college, to be able to float a little, because it is a time of tremendous pressure: extreme amounts of homework, overwhelming reading assignments, trying to make sense of your physics review sheet. It’s stressful, and never lets up. You’ve got to give us students some credit; we have the uncanny ability to balance papers, exams, and reports in subjects ranging from Bowling to Biosystems Engineering, plus many of us go to work and still have time for a little fun here and there. So to my fellow graduates, I’m not going to stand here and enlighten you with clichés. I’m not going to tell you to follow your hearts or that everything will work itself out. My parting thought is simple: lace up and see where your shoes take you. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/59907172cd0f685c51b3adc1/1539542216670-Q978LEONQGATSHSJ5GBF/Sunny.jpeg Work - Cheering Up: Notes Toward a Happy Existence Happiness. We’ve all felt it before. A profound emotion that Mr. Webster describes as “a state of well-being and contentment.” All of us have also had bad days; days when nothing seems to make us happy and we lie in bed, sulking, wishing for a little happiness, wondering if we’ll ever attain it again. But we do. Something always cheers us up when we’re feeling dead to the world. What is it though? Could be ice cream. Maybe a drive down a country road or a double shot of Jack Daniel’s (but never the two combined). The point is that no matter what, something or someone can often change our downer mood into one of “well-being and contentment.” You’re probably thinking, but wait. Sometimes there’s nothing that will cheer me up. True, sometimes we just want to be alone, staring at the wall, watching the clock tick or the clouds melt by. Sometimes we can’t stand speaking to another person and everything anyone says, no matter how friendly or well-intended, crawls inside your ears, most unpleasant. Such instances make me wonder. We certainly don’t remain in this state for the rest of our lives, and, although some rather traumatic experiences may resurface to irk the back of the mind, we will undoubtedly call ourselves “happy” again at some time or another. What is it that brings us up when we’re down? What is it that helps us cope with everything from the daily dilemma to the harrowing tragedy? I grew up in a suburban home right out of Leave it to Beaver that leaves me with mostly pleasant childhood memories. My dad worked while my mom stayed home and tended to my sister and me; the four of us ate dinner together nearly every night of the week. The house always smelled fresh, the wood floors shone under the kitchen lights while candles burned in the living room, and on those frigid winter nights, the brick fireplace was always set ablaze. Talk about feelings of well-being and contentment. I do, however, recall an abundance of not-so-happy memories. I can still see my dad, sick of the arguing, slamming the back door, glass shattering as he stormed after my sister and me and proceeded to yell for upwards of forty five minutes. And I’ll never forget standing at the top of the stairs, head in hands, weeping at the news of my grandfather’s death. By high school, the few traumatic experiences I had encountered made me realize that no brand of happiness is lasting. I’ve had a stint or two of mild depression, nothing serious. I’ve had my share of bad days just like anyone else. But does that mean I’m not happy? I’ve always considered myself to be a generally “happy” person. I’d never really thought about defining it, and when I looked up Webster’s definition, I found it less than sufficient. I am fortunate enough to do the things I want while surrounded with people who I care about. I stay in good spirits because I don’t sweat the small stuff, as they say. I am laid-back and let very few things under my skin. To me, that’s happiness. But I’ve met a lot of people with the same good fortune who would tell you they’re not happy. Do I not know what happiness really is? Is my brand of happiness off base? These questions ate at me and, in turn, made me unhappy, so I did some research, informal interviews. I started easy, with my friends and people who are close to me. Then, I ventured out to crowded places to see what some of the rest of the world had to say. The questioning was kept consistent. I asked each person the same questions. I told them to think back to a time when they were extremely unhappy, angry or depressed—most of the interviewees preferred to keep those times to themselves and not elaborate on the scenario, which I respected. I followed by asking what cheered them up, how they were removed from such an overwhelming state of grief. I then inquired whether they believed “a state of well-being and contentment” is an adequate definition for happiness. Many interviewees were caught off guard by these questions and we often delved into deeper conversation than either of us originally anticipated. I started my research with my best friend, Gabe. Gabe and I grew up together, he lived a street over from me and we’ve been getting into mischief since second grade. We played baseball together from little league all the way through high school, and he probably ate dinner at my house more than he ever did at his own. My family loves him, and aside from blood relation, Gabe is my brother. Given that, I figured I had a good idea about what cheers Gabe up. These days, he’s a chubby waiter at an upscale Italian restaurant, with a penchant for weed and draught beer. He’s been attending classes off and on for the past four years at a local community college. Gabe’s your average wandering high-school grad, trying to plan his life under the stares of semi-oppressive parents. I called him on the phone, and after our initial greetings, he said, “I’m happy to hear from you.” “Happy, huh?” I replied. I was off to a quick start. Phone calls out of the blue make Gabe happy. But is that real happiness? The feeling you get talking to an old friend. He could have used “excited” or “surprised.” Maybe his use of happy was to make it more personal, as if to recall happy memories of our friendship. But he threw the word in so casually. “Funny you should mention that, could I ask you a few questions?” He agreed. When I asked him to think of a specific time when he felt overwhelming sorrow, he sighed. “Got it,” he said quietly. So what cheered him up? “Well, probably time,” he told me. Time? I didn’t see that one coming. I figured it would be something more along the lines Jeff Spicoli, “a cool buzz.” The only true time Gabe is ever sober is when he’s at work (and even then, it’s up for debate), but apparently an altered state isn’t enough to cheer him up. He needs time. “Just time to get over whatever it was,” he continued. “Friends help and talking helps, but time heals all wounds.” Pretty profound for a kid who hasn’t taken off his hemp necklace in six years. But as I stared at my cuticles and thought about it, I began to see it a bit more clearly. His uncle died when we were in eighth grade, and in a friendly attempt to cheer him up, I ran to his house with my baseball glove. A round of catch was always something we both loved, even on bad days. Heaving a baseball back and forth was always a good way to throw away your problems. But that day, catch didn’t do the trick. Gabe was lethargic, floating the ball to me, never once practicing his notorious knuckler. Even on the ball field (Gabe was a catcher), he wasn’t himself, letting balls pass him, not getting the throw down to second. I asked about “well-being and contentment.” He struggled with the second question for a moment, grunting and rattling the phone as he gathered his thoughts. “To me,” he finally said, “happiness is indefinable, there’s no way to verbally express emotion. You need to feel it. That’s why sports players all say the same thing after big wins, you know, ‘oh, it feels great, nothing like it.’ It’s because they can’t find the words to express their joy. Granted, some of those dudes aren’t the brightest, but even the smarter ones say the same shit. So no, that definition is not adequate.” Point taken. I thought about what Gabe told me. I liked what he had to say. Sure enough, that night after watching the Knicks beat the Celtics, the post game interviews went almost exactly as Gabe had said. I have been in similar scenarios throughout my athletic history. My baseball team won a state championship when I was fifteen, and I can honestly say there is no way to describe the emotion when the final out was recorded. It was elation and excitement. And a strange melancholy. Where the tears shed from the joy of being crowned “champion,” or the sorrow of seeing a magnificent season come to a close? Could it have been both? Maybe joy and sorrow are closely related. I guess it’s sometimes difficult to know the difference. The next day, I was strolling through the MSU Union, glancing at the faces of fellow students, some laughing at who knows what, inside jokes or poking other people. Are they happy or just amused? Others still were shut off in headphones and textbooks, or staring at the carpet wearing grim expressions. Are these folks happy despite their blank eyes and boring activities? I bumped into my friend Megan. Megan and I don’t have the same history as Gabe and me, but we’re still good friends. I met Meg through a friend when we were sophomores, and before too long, we became quite close. I asked her to participate in my survey. After asking the first question, she looked around the room. “Hmmm,” she said, “that’s a little heavier than I thought it would be, give me a minute.” After a good long silence, complete with awkward glances and giggles, she finally said, “All I can think of is probably a combination of my family, music, hugs, and just generally surrounding myself with people who are cheery.” A much different answer from Gabe, Meg had a number of things that help pull her from the doldrums. And the things were more concrete. “Double hmmm,” Meg replied with a laugh when pressed with the second question. “I think it depends on whether you go with the connotation or denotation of the word ‘contentment.’ I guess because most go with the connotation of words these days, I will say no.” “Do you think happiness is indeed definable?” I wondered. “No. I think at times I can perfectly put into words my happiness, but because happiness is so subjective, I don’t think the way I say it ever means as much to the person on the receiving end. Here’s an example: around 5:30 am I crept in bed, I was tired and happy going to bed. I personally feel like I can say that my happiness could be defined as that of a kid going to bed knowing the next morning is a snow day. But snow days could portray a completely different emotion for someone else.” I could understand that. Snow days are great for schoolchildren, but they can be a headache for parents. After two interviews, I could see happiness is not as cut-and-dry as I thought. Later in the week, I set up a lunch date with my good friend Laura. We’ve been friends since middle school where we sat next to each other in homeroom. That year, we were reprimanded on occasion for “classroom disruption,” which, in retrospect, might as well have been called “prepubescent flirtation.” We grew out of that, but our ties have since remained very strong. Laura is now a psychology major at Michigan State University. She’s serious and focused. The kind of person you know will succeed in life. I figured she’d have a different outlook from my other two friends, the ones who focus more of their time on “now” than “later.” She was eager to converse with me that afternoon, so we got right down to business. “Well, initially,” she replied to the first question, “probably working out. But writing also. If I’m analyzing the situation, which I usually do, it’s better to get things out on paper for me, that makes me feel better.” “Ok,” I responded. “Would you say exercising and writing are ways to purge the negative emotions?” “Yes,” she snapped quickly before stopping to think a bit more. “But I think being around my friends makes it the best. Yes, that’s what makes me the happiest.” I started to get confused. “So it’s not just exercising and writing?” She looked confused, too. “Ok, it’s like a system. See, when something bad first happens, I exercise. Then later, I’ll write about it. And finally, I’ll see my friends. The friends and writing are really interchangeable, but I always work out first thing.” Laura attempts to exorcise the sorrow from her body like it’s an evil demon, which, as we all know, it can be. I noticed her list, like Meg’s, contained more concrete picker-uppers. Is it a gender thing? Do women prefer something they can hold onto, while men just hold onto whatever they’ve got until the feelings subside? I can attest for the masculine. Personally, there are no concrete things that will make me genuinely happy. There are things that may help take my mind off a tragedy, but ultimately, I would have to agree with Gabe: it takes time. “Come on, there’s got to be more questions,” Laura broke the silent air. I asked her about well-being and contentment. Again, she replied quickly. “I believe you need to define happiness for yourself.” “So it is definable?” I inquired. “Not universally, but it’s definable to the person it pertains to.” I kept digging. “So what’s your definition?” “I’d define it as the combination of doing what makes you feel good and having inner peace. But that sounds really hippie-ish,” she laughed and stroked her long brown hair. “That’s happiness for me, but it could be different for everyone.” I thanked Laura for talking with me and she strolled away smiling. She holds something in her eyes that makes me think she is a genuinely happy person. Walking home through the harsh winter, I thought about Laura’s answers. Exercising, writing and surrounding herself with friends—all things she enjoys doing—help cheer her up, and give her a feeling of inner peace. But isn’t inner peace in the same family as contentment? And it can be safely assumed that each of those things give her a sense of well-being. It seemed to me that, in trying to describe happiness in her own way, Laura simply twisted around Webster’s definition. Not to say that’s wrong because the other folks who I' already interviewed told me happiness was indefinable. But Laura was up to the challenge. She gave me a firm definition of what happiness means to her, from the heart. I can’t call her a plagiarist. I felt it was time to take my questions away from my personal life and meet some new people. I was surprised at the amount of people who were not willing to talk to me. Some declined right away, without wondering what the questions were about, but what was even more surprising were the folks who turned down the interview after hearing it was regarding happiness. Responses ranged from the typical, “can’t help you today,” to the rather grim, ”fuck the world.” A guy in designer shades replied with, “I already see a shrink, thanks.” He was not being sarcastic. The topic seemed to be scaring people away; they were timid to speak about what made them happy. Maybe it’s the fact that I was a stranger. I’ve come to learn that happiness is not only subjective, but also very personal. Each of the above interviewees alluded in some way or other that happiness is extremely internalized. I could understand why not everyone would want the spill their guts to some kid in jeans and a baseball cap. Frankly, I’d probably decline myself. A few people, however, seemed enthusiastic and willing to contribute their thoughts. One day, while waiting in a crowded classroom for a lecture to begin, I turned to kid sitting next to me with surfer blond hair and a lip ring. He called himself Garrett, and after a quick handshake he agreed to chat with me about his version of happiness. “I like that question,” he complimented, “not something you think about everyday. Or any day, for that matter.” His brown eyes rolled back as he scanned his existence for a particularly unhappy time. “My dad is in Iraq right now. He’s not a in the military or anything, but he’s been there for two years in the Green Zone working in purchasing. For tax purposes, he can’t set foot on any American soil while he’s gone, so I only see him twice a year for two weeks at a time. And those two weeks are always at some foreign location.” Garret spoke quickly and matter-of-factly, as if to hide his emotions. He brushed a hair from his eyes and continued. “It helps to call and email him, and my friends help cheer me up. Especially when they’re willing to listen. But to be honest, I don’t think I’ll really be ‘happy’ until he comes home for good next winter.” When he finished speaking, he quickly broke eye contact. It was easy to see that Garrett’s detachment from his father was a great source of sorrow for him. I wondered how Garrett would feel when his father passes away, gone for good, because sometimes things can never be as they once were. I didn’t ask about that. After scribbling on my yellow legal pad for a few moments, allowing time for Garrett to gather himself, I posed the second question. “Is being content being happy?” He pondered. “No. It’s being content. Because if content was happy, they’d call it happy.” “What’s your definition of content?” I asked. “Content is when nothing bad happens, or nothing good. It’s being satisfied. I don’t really think you can adequately define happiness in words. When you’re happy, you just know.” And with that, the professor began his lecture. The answers Garrett gave me remained relatively consistent with the other interviewees, but his response to the first question was what really interested me. Friends cheer him up, but they don’t make him happy. The fact that getting his father back will make him happy, and what does that involve? Time. However, Garrett never specifically said “time,” which made me think back to the question I failed to ask. Later, I wondered about the things that could not be changed or returned back to the way they once were. Would time help heal Garrett’s wounds? In fact, my failure to ask these questions made me so uneasy I looked up Garrett’s name online and sent him an email. He replied the following afternoon, saying “I don’t necessarily need to get things back to the way they were in order to be happy. Change happens, it’s inevitable. I suppose overwhelming emotions subside over time.” And there it was, time healing another man’s wounds. The next afternoon, a close family friend, Mick, passed away. He lived with my grandma in Florida and had been battling throat cancer, which subsequently spread to his pancreas, for a number of months. He went through successful radiation and chemo treatments in the summertime, but by autumn, he relapsed and was placed into another round of chemotherapy. The last time I saw Mick was on Christmas. He was thin and frail, and his voice was weak, raspier than usual. He took a seat at the kitchen table and moved only when he needed to use the restroom. He traded his usual bottles of beer for cups of Gatorade. The whole family knew Mick to be a kind man with a great sense of humor, this Christmas, he was quiet, speaking little. He was, however in good spirits, laughing and smiling often. Even though we all knew what was coming, Mick’s death was a shock. I didn’t cry when my mom called to tell me the news. I hung up the phone and sat in silence, remembering the past. The days I would spend with him at our cottage up north, where kids would be running and screaming. We’d drag him outside to start a bonfire, or to the dock where he would bait our hooks and pat us on the back when we caught tiny sunfish and bluegills. I called my grandma to tell her how much I appreciated him. She wept, I was quiet. I went to class that afternoon without telling my friends what had happened. After class ended, I noticed a plain blond girl sitting behind me, smiling for no apparent reason. Her eyes were clear and bright. She just looked like a happy person. I introduced myself and explained my intentions. She never stopped smiling as I talked to her. In fact, when she found out I wanted to ask about happiness, her eyes lit up even brighter. “I’d love to help you!” She squealed. Lindsay and I sat down on a black iron bench in the hallway. “Well, let’s see, if it’s, like, a transient sadness feeling,” she spoke with an inflection that made everything sound like a question, “I watch The Office.” She laughed. “But in the past I’d have to say listening to music, coloring, exercising. And writing about my feelings.” Answers were becoming less and less surprising. Lindsay’s answers were pro-active, just like the other ladies’. I mentioned the correlation to her. “Why do you like to keep yourself busy?” “Umm, I suppose because it helps relieve my mind,” Lindsay replied scrunching her face. “I mean, I guess it takes my mind off it. If I sit around, I’m miserable. If I go out and do something, I just feel better.” “So you feel better, but does it actually make you happy?” I asked. Lindsay stopped smiling, “No, I guess not happy, happy, but happier anyway.” She paused and looked at the ceiling. “I don’t know. Those things just make me happy in the long run.” I smiled and felt a strange brand of satisfaction. Lindsay had just alluded to the time it takes to heal and return to happiness. My thoughts ran back to Mick’s death, and even though I was out, talking to people and doing things to take my mind elsewhere, I was still quite sad. I wondered if women’s emotions were balanced differently than men’s. Maybe a small, uplifting experience makes a world of difference for females, while for men, it’s just a fleeting cover-up. I shook Mick from my immediate thoughts and asked about the definition. “Umm, I’m not sure about well-being…or contentment actually,” said Lindsay thoughtfully. “Like, for instance, people who develop terminal illness are not in a state of well-being, but they eventually accept their fate, make the most of it, and can experience happiness the rest of the time they’re alive.” Lindsay spoke quickly. “And as for contentment, to me, being content sort of sounds like you are settling for the way things are. Sure, you may accept the way things are, they may not make you unhappy or angry necessarily, but they also don’t make you over-the-top happy either.” Typical response. “Would you take a stab at defining happiness?” I asked. “It’s not definable,” Lindsay said. “It’s a way of feeling inside, and everyone has different feelings of happiness. You can’t have one concrete definition for it. Does that make sense?” “It makes perfect sense,” I replied. “Well, you’re talking to a pretty happy person, too,” she declared before heading down the hall and out the door. Memories of Mick danced back into my head. Maybe I should work out, I thought. And that night, I did just that. Perhaps trying to cheer myself up the same way some interviewees did would help me gain a better understanding of happiness. I spent a good two hours running and lifting, twisting, bending, pushing and pulling. I worked up a good sweat and proceeded to take a long shower to ease my tense muscles before retiring to bed. The next morning, I didn’t feel happier. My dreams were peppered with images of Mick. All working out did was leave me with sore abs. And it hurt to straighten my arms. I walked to class slowly that day. Before we started, I sat down next to a guy wearing a flannel work shirt, tight brown corduroy pants, and brown leather motorcycle boots. His hair was shaggy and disheveled and he wore big, thick, plastic frame glasses that made his eyeballs pop out when he looked at me. He seemed eccentric. I extended my hand with a smile. He shook it firmly. After chatting for a bit, I learned he was a singer/songwriter and the front man of a local folk band. We talked about guitars and Neil Young before I asked him about happiness. “I have no idea how to answer that,” he responded to the first question. “I mean, even early childhoods are filled with moments of sorrow and depression. You’re just too young to identify it as that, and far too young to realize what it was that got you out of it. It was probably just something that distracted you. As you grow older, you just require more powerful and effective modes of distraction” “What types of distractions work for you?” I wondered. “Romanticizing sorrow or loneliness in a song, and singing it over and over again is a good form of catharsis for me.” “So it’s not just about writing it, but expressing it as well?” I asked. “Yes,” he nodded, “over and over. I’ve mythologized all of my sorrow in song and absorbed myself in it. I’m almost addicted to sorrow now, and it brings me happiness. I think the line between sorrow and happiness is very fine, if not imaginary.” Matt had a very different outlook on happiness, and he was the only person to include sorrow in his idea of it. I complimented his outlook and proceeded with the second question. “That’s a terrible definition,” he exploded. “Like I was trying to say, I think one of the biggest ingredients in happiness is sorrow and the realization of sorrow as beautiful, common to all people, and the true expression of the human condition. I really think sorrow and happiness, at their truest states, are two of the most mingled things in the universe. This is why people cry when they’re happy and where we get the expression bittersweet. It’s a salty eye and a puckered mouth and a broken heart and happy mind all in one.” Listening to Matt’s poetic musings on happiness gave me a sense of reassurance. Maybe my tears on the baseball field that summer afternoon were the product of both joy and sorrow. I thought about Mick and the birthday cards he sent me every year, two days early. He’d write a pleasant note and slip a Blockbuster gift card in the envelope. I smiled, and at the same time, my lip began to quiver. Thoughts of Mick made me feel warm, but also upset knowing I would never receive another of his birthday cards. That evening, I lay in bed alone, staring at the ceiling. My roommate knocked occasionally wondering what might be wrong. “Nothing,” I’d lie. “Just out of it.” It seemed strange that just as I was beginning to research the meaning of happiness, Mick died and left me searching myself. I rolled out of bed, turned on some music and stretched my tight legs. I tried to be proactive. I paced back and forth in my small bedroom, played guitar and made a sandwich. I bummed a cigarette from my roommate and had a laugh or two before telling him about Mick. He said he was sorry. The topic of conversation changed quickly, and soon we were smiling again, and smoking more. As I got up to leave, he said, “Let me know if you need anything.” I said thanks and closed his door behind me. I felt a little better, but by no means happy. My phone vibrated in my pocket. My sister, Amy, was calling me from her Chicago apartment. “What’s up, Ame?” I answered. “Not much, just finished working out,” she said. I chuckled to myself. “So, you heard about Mick, obviously,” she continued. “At least he didn’t suffer too much. It could have dragged out for years, in and out of hospitals, going through a bunch of treatments.” “You’re right,” I replied softly. “He was too fun-loving to be bed-ridden.” A long silence followed. Amy broke it. “Remember how much he loved pears?” She exclaimed. “You mean ‘purrrs!’” I attempted to mimic Mick’s southern drawl. Growing up, Amy and I would tease Mick about his accent. We’d tell him to speak English. We always got a kick out of that. “Yes!” Amy yelled. “Purrrs!” We both laughed long and hard. “I’m going to miss him.” “Me too,” I said. I hung up and lay back down. My sister was right about Mick’s short battle. While it’s unfortunate to lose a loved one, it is even worse watching them suffer. My anxiety began to lift, and a smile crept into the corners of my mouth. Tomorrow would be welcomed as a new day. A day closer to my old self. The self that wasn’t so sore from an intense work out. A happier, but not totally happy, self. 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