Who the F--K is that?

I went to college at Ball State University in Muncie, Indiana, after graduating high school in 1990. Although I went there because of its strong architecture program (which was my major during my freshman year), I also was proud to learn that it was ranked as one of the best party colleges while I was enrolled. I’m not suggesting it was given that title because of me, but since it had “earned” that reputation, I felt it was my responsibility to at least help do my part to keep that acclaimed designation in tact.

I was a good student. In fact, according to my roommates whom I shared a house with my junior and senior year - Brett Ekes, Ted Hendry, and Keith Quante (or Udo as we called him for no apparent reason) - I studied way too much. In truth, I did lots of my stupid stuff in high school so maybe I had met my quota for young adult stupidity as an adolescent. But, I also went to my share of parties and penny-draft nights. (Yes, penny-draft nights were a real thing. As in a really bad thing.) I really was never the leader with my friends. So, especially as a freshman and sophomore, I was pretty much the goofy-looking guy with a dumb smile carrying a plastic cup following the crowd to the next house. My typical role was to cause plenty of laughs for the night but also be the one sensible enough to know when we better leave.

There was one particular house that I liked to go to the most because there was a band that I loved that played in the basement. Udo had introduced me to the house, some of the band members, and generally served as my guide both getting to the party and usually getting me home. The setup of the house was nearly like all the houses that I had entered in the college town. They were modest homes, probably built in the 50s or 60s. When you would enter the front door, you would step directly into a small living room and usually be greeted with a casual head nod from those in the room. The house with my favorite band usually didn’t have a large mob of people in that first room. Instead the living room seemed to consist of philosophy majors debating important topics like: at what point (if ever) does an old ship that is getting every board replaced become a new ship? These students sat on dingy orange furniture that was slowly starting to match the stained shaggy carpets. They usually were only partially visible with a cloud of smoke crushed up against the ceilings that smelled similar to when my parents raked and burned leaves at home.

Although I sat with this group a couple times and truly loved their conversations, I usually did not hang out there because I was committed to seeing the band in the basement and admittedly wasn’t good at holding my own in the conversations since I didn’t suck from the wisdom torch that got passed around. So, I would give my cool guy head nod, walk through the cloud of smoke and the small group of people and make my way to the music which involved going into the kitchen, taking a left, and then another left through the door, down a narrow, steep stairwell, where I would enter my oasis that smelled like an even mixture of mold and Busch Light and the energizing and mesmerizing sounds of R.E.M., Pearl Jam, Rush, and other legends - played by amateurs that I still viewed as rock stars. The basement was always packed with people, so I always imagined there being a few hundred people at these concerts, but in reality there were probably closer to 50 and because of the limited space we would still crowd together with just enough room to pound our heads to the music just below the rafters.

I loved the music. I loved the energy. I loved the people. I loved the freedom. So, I started following Udo more and more often to my oasis. I even decided to just go on my own one night when Udo couldn’t make it. I think I left straight from a computer lab. (My roommates were right; I did do a lot of homework.) Arriving at 9:00 p.m. on a weekend was considered early, probably before the band had started, but I thought I would get a front row seat, uh, I mean a good square-foot of concrete.

So, flying solo, I entered the house and saw a small group of only four or five people in the living room watching TV, without the clouds of smoke, the sounds of music, or debates that I normally see. “So, this is what it’s like to be early,” I thought. I walked into the kitchen, took my usual left, and was ready to open the door to the steep stairwell, when I was apparently tossed into some weird new dimension. The door to the stairwell, no - the entire stairway wasn’t there. I didn’t see it vanish. But, I know it was there last time and it was suddenly gone. Unexplainably gone! I looked back around at the kitchen. It also looked different. It definitely looked cleaner. And, then, the realization began to hit me. I was not sucked into another dimension. I had just walked into a small group of complete strangers’ house that weren’t having a party, but instead were just watching TV.

I froze. I had only been in the house for a few seconds, but it seemed like time itself and my surroundings were standing still with my thoughts suddenly processing at top speeds. I was taking stock of what had just happened. I just stormed through the front door of a complete stranger’s house without knocking, gave my cool guy head nod and even added a “Whazup” for good measure (and to break the unexpected silence that filled the space without a band playing) and then proceeded into their kitchen, where I stood alone. I was considering my next move as I stayed quiet in the kitchen, when the TV was turned down slightly, and I hear a guy say to the others in the room with such clarity - even though he was trying to keep his voice low, “Who the f--k is that?”

I looked back in the direction of where the stairwell should be. “Darn it! It’s still not there.” I inspected the wall near where the stairwell should be for the back door that normally exists. It too was not there. So, without a better plan in place, I took a deep breath and just walked back into the living room, gave another head nod, and just walked back out the front door without saying a word. I didn’t run, but I did make my way to the nearest crowd of cup holders on the streets. I honestly don’t know if they ever came out the front door. I never heard them shouting after me, but I also didn’t even want to look back.

This happened more than 25 years ago, but I still think about it often. I even have shared the story with close friends. Most people cringe at my stupidity. Some laugh. I often wonder if the people whose house I crashed are telling their version of the story. And I’ve also thought a lot about the question that was posed that night. The question that was defensively asked, not particularly artfully asked, but was the question that needed to be asked. It’s the question that I have continued to ask myself most of my life: “Who the F--K is that?”

In other words, who am I, really? Who was I then? Who am I now? If I had the courage and the thought, I would have popped back into the living room when cued with the question and said, “Hey guys. My name is Brad Fischer. I have a funny story to tell you.” I would have hopefully gotten a good laugh and would have even invited them to my oasis to make up for my trouble. I still would have been the weird guy that walked into the kitchen, but who knows, maybe I’d even have some new friends.

At that time, I also was a guy still figuring out who I was. Although I had done well in the architecture program, I ended up changing to mathematics education. I could always picture myself as a math teacher. I loved math and had great respect for all my high school math teachers -- people like Mr. Jim Mehling, Mr. Don Prusz, and Mr. Tom Meyer -- seemed like legends to me. I also had trouble seeing myself as an architect, and to be more specific, I had trouble seeing myself inside a french fry.

Let me explain the french fry. One of my projects in the freshman architecture studio program was to represent a word on a poster board and with a 3D model. The word that I was assigned was “McPlace.” I really didn’t know what they meant by the word, but I interpreted it as a word that represents the fast-food generation that had taken the creativity or guesswork out of the food industry. So, I was attempting to represent this by sketching some fries on my poster board when my brilliant and creative professor, Dr. Harry Eggink, looked at it and said constructively, “I like the start, but I want you to picture you are inside the fry. Look around. What is it that you see? What do you smell? How do you feel? I want you to put that on the poster board.”

Now that I relive that, I actually like his advice. But as an 18-year-old freshman that loved numbers and found comfort in making predictions or even drawing clear answers by crunching through numbers, I literally had no idea what he meant. I knew how to solve for X. I didn’t know how to step inside a fry. Perhaps I did need that wisdom torch.

But, changing majors was also scary for me. I was proud to call myself an architecture major - in truth for all the wrong reasons. It wasn’t that I ever particularly loved the idea of designing buildings. I didn’t hate the idea, but I applied to the program thinking I wouldn’t get in. But, when I did get in, I felt like I was part of an elite group or secret society. I loved all the people in the program, but I never really took the time to ask if I wanted in that group - until I was asked to stand inside a fry.

But, it was a difficult and unfamiliar time for me. For the first time in my life, I felt like I was faced with a decision that really mattered - that I thought would affect the rest of my life - that only I could make. And, I really had no idea what to do. In the end, I chose to change, not because I hated architecture, but I really loved math - and even more so - loved the idea of helping others find the joy of math. For me, math isn’t about following fixed algorithms. It’s a way of explaining the world. But, my enthusiasm for math is for another story.

I taught for only 3.5 years and really enjoyed it, but ended up gravitating to computers and have really centered on that work -- supporting technology in schools - ever since. If you would have told me when I was 18 that I would be working for a technology company as an adult, I would have laughed.

My point is that who you are changes. Your interests change. The people you hang around will likely change. Opportunities change. Who you are as a freshman in college will likely be a little different than who you are as a senior and certainly different when you are a 46-year old adult. Accepting change is a good thing.

However, my hope for my daughters as they enter adulthood is that they also stay grounded in who they are and what makes them special. Currently, they are kind. They are thoughtful. They respect their bodies. They respect others. They are curious and creative. They are thankful and faithful. Nonetheless, as their father, I feel the urge to start making the list of things that I want them to not do. You know…

1. Don’t do drugs. 
2. Wait to drink alcohol until you are 21 and then drink responsibly. 
3. Don’t have sex until you are in a healthy committed relationship and you are ready emotionally and ready for possible consequences that follow, like becoming a parent. Oh, just to be sure on this one, I also would appreciate if you also received your mother’s and my approval of the young man first. 
4. Don’t be mean. 
5. Don’t play Shit Purse. 

But, in truth, I know that my preaching isn’t effective and life is about the journey sometimes. I just want my kids always pointed down a path that makes them proud of themselves. Yes, I want them to choose a major that will get them a job and allow them to move into their own place. But, I also don’t want them just focused on what they will be. I want them to stay focused on who they will be. I want them to be a person that continues to be kind, thoughtful, healthy, respectful, curious, creative, thankful, and faithful.

When I was crashing the wrong house and going to the house with the band, I was probably close to 20. I obviously broke a few rules in my journey. But, thankfully my parents gave me that moral compass that always had me pointing in the right direction, so when asked, “Who the F--K is that?” I can say with pride, “I’m Brad Fischer. It’s nice to meet you.”