Fear the Manbag

A long time ago, in a little mom and pop store called Walmart, I bought an unassuming, black and red messenger bag from the on sale school supply aisle in preparation to go to Quebec High School (I had deemed my L.L. Bean backpack's wheels and carting handle a bit too unsightly for high school). I was under the impression that messenger bags were the bees knees.

I was correct. I now know from experience that man bags are, in fact, the bees knees.

Over times, this majestic murse not only earned a spot slung over my shoulder, but metamorphosed in both appearance and practicality. I soon added Jack Skellington, Quebec Rugby, 1up, and Watchmen patches to the outer flap and a few pins to the strap. And almost immediately, Mr. Manbag went from a school supply carrier to an all-around awesome satchel, carrying on a regular basis most of my life and occasionally moonlighting as a much-too-large "personal item" on flights to America.

The bag, at optimum capacity and full usefulness, carries my planner, two notebooks, and a script, with various loose pieces of paper. Just ask anyone who spoke to me from mid-December to January 12th how important to me my planner is-- those were the dark days that it was lost. Any major event and homework assignment is inscribed in those pages-- with a planner and I might be described as slightly forgetful, without one I become a younger but just as frayed man-bag toting version of the abhorrent Uncle Billy from "It's a Wonderful Life."

Above, left: Uncle Billy, or: The guy who ruins everything

Lost even more frequently (this time ask my drama teach) are my scripts. There's been a script to a play or musical almost constantly in there since sophomore year, and hopefully that streak will continue.

Last but not least are my notebooks. On is for work, stuffed with menus, to-do lists, and journalism articles, the other is for everything else, from quotes to blogs to ramblings to letters to whatever else. I'm not going to mince words. It's a journal. It is not, however, a diary. Those are for girls.

But like any good item of sentimental value, the sideways backpack is more than just the sum of its parts. This bag has been with me in Quebec, Africa, the States-- there and back and there and back again. I love it like I would a pair of good old shoes that have traveled with me forever , except no one's forcing me to throw it away, and I certainly hope I never grow too wide for that giant strap. Few material items have that kind of longevity coupled with such thorough use. You just have to respect it.

Anyway, I don't know what will become of my manly purse next year, other than it's definitely coming with me to college. My hope is that develops a blanky-to-Linus-esque connection to me. I just don't know what kind of sport-coat a messenger bag would make.

-Will


"Plus, it's not a man-purse, it's called a satchel. Indiana Jones wears one."

Senior Cafe: Two Parts Stress, Three parts Awesome

One again, the days start getting longer, the power cuts continue, and the weak-sauce winter comes to a close. Actually, the power cuts were supposed to quit in November, but the calendar also clued me into the event this weekend.

Senior Cafe.

For those who have understandably forgotten my description last year, it's a big talent show fundraiser the Seniors put on. Previous Hall of Fame acts include lip synching to "Numa Numa," laying down some phat beats with the McDonalds rap, and of course air banding "More Than a Feeling." The lead air guitarist was kickin'.

This year, though, "the Seniors" is us. More specifically, the President is me. So things were a little more complicated than last year's single costume change from air bander to awkward Swedish singer.

It was a crazy week for sure, making tiki torches from scratch, moving couches for coffeehouse seating, collecting cakes, etc, but it actually went pretty well. And the night was a blast-- I figure if the people running it have fun something must be going right.

My Vice President also accidentally swallowed some gas when siphoning from one generator to another (the power cut). Good thing MKs know to drink milk immediately because I still have a very loose grasp on the concept of acids and bases. I have a feeling it's really simple. So Tanner, VP, gets the night's MVP award. I won't go into how much he and my English teacher helped out, but they did. A ton. Thanks guys.

Of course, Past Will though it was a great idea to also be in three acts, because just running it is too simple. I have to give him some credit, though-- that number was originally six. My favorite though, beating out a barbershop quartet singing "That's What Friends Are For" from The Jungle Book and Chamber Choir singing "The Longest Time" by Billy Joel, was my friend Jear Bear and I's cover of "Tribute" by Tenacious D.

In a lot of ways, it was a culmination of my very short and trivial musical career. Who knows? Someday it may blossom into a full-fledged, international Jack Black cover band. I can only dream.

This was, not most but very importantly, our last fundraiser as a class. A lot has changed from the "dis-unified" sophomore class from two years ago. I, honestly, love our class, even though we have a human excuse and a few slackers in it. It's gonna be weird not having them all in one place.

Getting everyone together for reunions is hard.



-Will

"This is the greatest and best song in the world."

Insert Random Acronym Here

Time for another DA culture lesson.

WAIST (West African Invitational Softball Tournament) is an annual, 3-day-long event so thoroughly American that they actually have a giant red white and blue tent. I bet you'd be hard pressed to find a massive flag-tent in most states.

I've had very varying experiences in the past few years. When I first got here, I wasn't on a team, and the weekend was a big breath of fresh, American, country music, swearing air. For the record, I hate country music, but come on, it's softball. Peace corps teams make up the majority of the social bracket. These are people who live out in the boonies don't have to worry about power cuts because they don't have any to begin with. They're the ones who are for real in mud huts. So, understandably, the one weekend in six months that they get not only free, but to spend with other Americans serving all over this side of the continent, gets a little crazy.

Long story short, it's hard to lose to them after about 11:00 am, because by that time most of them are pretty hammered. They're what made and make WAIST for me, though-- not only are they hilarious, but speaking to American strangers in English is a splendid experience if you're used to stumbling through basic greetings in French. The fact that the concession stands had copious amounts of American candy didn't hurt either.

The last year, softball ruined it for me. The way it used to go is that if two DA teams did well enough to play on Monday, no one had school this year our awesome director just said no school automatically-- he's the man). Since I was on a team, and most other DA teams were clearly not going to be able to hold up the "do well" end of the bargain, our team had a lot of pressure to win. Which is really not the point of the weekend at all. Also Dad told me I was in trouble on Saturday morning and didn't tell me what it was about until Monday night. And then it wasn't actually a huge deal. It just hung over my head for a few days.

2011 lacked the wow factor of the first time but was overall more fun. Even though we didn't play any peace corps teams until Monday (I heard they asked to not play us 'cause we weren't fun to play--see above paragraph) I played on a thrown together nonsense team that played for the heck of it. This is WAIST at its finest. And we actually won the social league, so we got to take home an awkwardly proportioned African trophy as well.

And with that taste of America, we're in the home stretch for the real deal.

-Will


"A place where the beer flows like wine, and beautiful women flock like the salmon of Capistrano."

I Like to Move It- Part 2

I posted part one about two years ago. And you thought I forgot about part two.

So today I started packing for college. That's a weird thing to think about, isn't it?

And, though moving day is still a good six months away, since senior year so far has been very lacking in the free time department and the last month of it is a storm of grad parties, receptions, and banquets, I figured I might get some work done now.

Two things struck me as I've started to sort and pack. The first was how much complete junk I managed to sneak over to Africa with me. The idea was that we all purge a bit but that really didn't happen with me. I don't really know what I thought I was going to do with a bag full of scrap booking supplies, a chunk of welcome mat from my old band director's platform, or an empty box for a plastic guitar, but they all made the trip and none of 'em are baking it back.

The second realization was that it was difficult. I'm not going to try and start the "home" argument/discussion/pontification just yet, but there's no denying that ripping my beloved posters off the walls for the nth time felt more meaningful than I expected. I do love our house, and my room is pretty awesome even after JD made it smell like cat, but a small part of me still does and maybe always will consider it a pit stop between two American checkpoints. That part was silent when I stood in yet another room that has had my posters put up and taken down in.

I guess I'm not really sure what I expected was going to happen at the end of this year. I suppose I've thought of it as just another summer trip back to the States in some ways-- pack up some clothes and leave most of my stuff behind. But it doesn't really work like that.

This may be harder than I expected.


-Will


"Echoes and silence, patience and grace. All of these moments I'll never replace."

Tidbits: The Cops

There are some parts of Africa that I have gotten used to (read: experience without thinking to blog about.) The police force is one of these.

The cops in Africa are generally terrible people. Their number one activity is standing on the edge of roads and checking paperwork in (white people's) cars. In the city, the the middle of the month, if you have your papers in order, they let you on their way. Outside the city, especially near the end of the month when the rent is due, if you're papers are in order, they will find some absurd reason so give you a ticket.

Today they said we didn't stop at the sign to look for a train crossing when the sign was 20 feet in front of the tracks, making it impossible to actually see down them. Maybe it's too many people in a car. Maybe they say your car is overloaded with baggage-- in a city where this is a pretty common sight.

(Not my picture, but you get the idea)

If you get a ticket, they confiscate your driver's license, and you have to find some small building, in some random town on the highway, wait in line for a long time, pay them, get another ticket, and return to the cop that gave you the first one in exchange for the license. Of course, the friendly neighborhood cops could help you out by collecting the fine there, and putting it in his pocket.

If you've actually done something wrong, then it really hits the fan. It's the kind of situation where one might reasonably decide to just take the jail time instead of trying to reason with the African judicial system in any way, shape, or form.

There may be a single lone ranger, tame-the-Wild-West kind of a guy going through the city and cracking down on crime. But no one's ever seen him.

And this is in a good African country.


-Will


"Don't take no for an answer?! He was gonna call the fuzz."

Every Time a Bell Rings

Here's a review of "It's a Wonderful Life I did for the school newspaper, which ended up not coming out because of all the power cuts. Hopefully I did this movie some justice.

Since it never snows here, and this year it’s not even pleasant out, I’ve really appreciated the other, less weather-dependant events that signal the arrival of Christmas. Setting up the plastic tree is entertaining, as is making sure every branch is bent to reach maximum realism. Christmas cookies are delicious. Who can help belting “Santa Claus is Coming to Town” at some point in December? Near the top of the list, though, come the Christmas movies, and reigning supreme among those has to be “It’s a Wonderful Life.”

Starring Donna Reed, and Jimmy Stewart’s in arguably his best and most famous role, “It’s a Wonderful Life” is about the life of a truly selfless man (Stewart) and a fateful night where his world seemingly comes crashing down and he contemplates suicide. Hopefully most have seen it, but if you haven’t, I’ll leave it at that.

Every character from Mr. Gower to Zuzu is well-played, but Jimmy Stewart goes from bliss to depression to insanity and back again in a convincing way that you can watch year after year and still be amazed by.

Even the bad guy is excellent. Mr. Potter is less iconic but more evil than Vader. It’s rare that any villain be portrayed as so thoroughly rotten, but Potter is one that you abhor more by the year.

And to cap it all off—it’s funny. Really funny. Normally humor has the shelf life of bread, but somehow a film made in 1946 makes me annually laugh out loud. I know exactly what they’re going to say, yet the situations (pool under the gym floor, anyone?), the endearing (seriously—Jimmy Stewart is incredible), and the lines themselves (“No man is a failure who has friends”), prove timeless.

However, it has a tendency to fall into one of those book cover judging deals—it’s in black and white (don’t bother with the colorized version), and the sound quality is less than stellar, but let me assure you that has nothing to do with the quality of the movie. Don’t write it off because it wasn’t ever converted into 3D.

The movie is not only entertaining but filled to the brim with moral values. Right from the beginning of the movie George Bailey is shown willing to sacrifice for the good of others, and the value placed on human life as a God-given gift has rarely been seen, if ever, in a movie this popular since then.

It’s really got everything: a loveable protagonist, a truly evil villain, romance, comedy, and a whole heap of wholesome. As far as movies go, and especially at Christmas, you can’t go wrong with “It’s a Wonderful Life.”

Merry Christmas!!

-Will


"Remember, George: no man is a failure who has friends."

Never Thought I'd Be So Happy to See a Toilet Seat

DA culture lesson #42: Outreach
Usually twice a year, about 130 students and staff go out to an African village for a weekend and separate into teams to build a church, run drama and VBS skits, run a simple medical clinic, make benches, and sing on evangelism campaigns. Showers and toilets are holes and buckets.

First off, I want to give a disclaimer. This is the only "African" thing I do in Africa. I'm not gonna lie, most of the life the other students at DA and I is spent in the semi-comfortable DA bubble that consists of the school and the small surrounding area (I just couldn't bring myself to type regular-comfortable right then.)

On outreach weekend though, we pack up a couple of big, white, beat up buses called ngagen ngais (pronounced something like jaggen jais) to the brim and pretty much drive to the middle of nowhere. Not quite Timbuktu, that's in the next country over, but the sort of area you might picture it to be. Lots and lots of sand, baobab trees lining the horizon, villages with thatched roofs and not running water or power, we're talkin' the whole nine African yards.

Then we proceed to spend the next couple of days becoming as dirty as one can possibly be. Add cement, sand, mud, lots of unfiltered water to wash with to a teenage dude and you have anyone coming back from outreach who was on foundation. If they were on drama, switch cement with face paint. For benches, think sawdust. I don't even wanna talk about medical.

At night it's time for (sometimes group) bucket showers and an excursion to a Turkish toilet, which sounds much fancier than it actually is. Just in case you don't know (I didn't before I came out here), it's a fancy hole in the ground. Hence the title of the post. After that, we go out even further into nowhere and sing a bunch of songs in something like four or five different languages. On the way back, there's a really good chance a van will get stuck, so the guys get out and push or haul it out of the sand. On Saturday we do it again. On Sunday we head back to Dakar after a two to three hour church service.

While this description may sound kind of negative, the time actually manages to somehow seem almost fun. It's not something I would do for the specific purpose of fun, but it's definitely there. Even though it's gross, tiring, and time-consuming, it's not without positive elements. It's the only time all year I get to see stars-- and man could I see stars, they were amazing. I really enjoy the singing in the evenings. Having a tent filled with Halo Gang members was a blast.

Probably the most interesting things about outreach though surprises me every time I've gone (which is only two at this point). Without fail, and especially this weekend, I experience serious but super-late culture shock. Riding on the back of a pick up truck while the purple-red sun sets on a sparse savanna and a group of birds fly by makes me realize "Holy crap I'm living in Africa" in a way that a city, no matter how un-American, can't. The fact that I'm living on the same continent as lions has probably hit my friends and family in the States more than it's hit me-- I've noticed the effects more than the fact itself.

This is really comforting to me, in a way. Culture shock inherently means that I'm not entirely comfortable here, and though I've grown to appreciate Senegal and DA, and will definitely miss it when I graduate, I still don't think it should feel like home. Call me stubborn, but I don't know that Africa will ever be my "normal." But hey, if "abnormal" is anything like outreach, I'm totally okay with it.

-Will


"Where it began, I can't begin to knowin', but then I know it's growin' strong."

Here, Football is Played by Men

There's an episode of Spongebob where Squidward gets sick of where he lives and goes to a wonderful city made just for his kind. There's a part in that episode where Squidward accidentally bumps into another squid and they insult each other for a minute. Then the other one walks away, and Squidward (with a huge smile on his face) says "This place is even better than I expected!"

Yesterday, as I was walking around downtown Boston with my bros, after the world cup final ended, and heard a loud honking. We looked down the street and saw some guy with upwards of 4 Spanish flags waving from his sports car, pumping his fist and holding his horn down while he drove. This of course was the "Avengers, Assemble!!" call for pissed off Bostonians, and by the time he passed us there was a veritable wall of middle fingers, a wave of expletives, and many yelled "we don't care about soccer" comments.

It's good to be home.

Even when we were honked at profusely for crossing the street while the light was red, I had a huge smile on my face. I feel bad that rudeness and dislike of soccer is the first thing I've written about during my very enjoyable and lucky trip to America, but I can't tell you how refreshing it is to see at least the end of the world cup from my homeland's perspective and not from the rest of the soccer-loving world. The fact that for every one guy sitting in one of the city's countless pubs watching the game there were four outside walking past indifferently is a huge deal.

At the end of the episode, Squidward gets sick of his new home, goes insane, and rides a leafblower into the sky. I doubt that after 15 years and two summers that will happen.

But I do love leafblowers.


-Will


"He says that illegal Mexican immigrants are taking jobs that Americans don't want anyway. I didn't know you could get paid to watch soccer."

Graduation

When I left America to "learn french" in Quebec, one mental wall I had to break down (with the sort of mental sledgehammer I suppose we all develop,) was the fact that I was not the only one who moved on.

Moved on literally-- I moved to another country, then to another continent, so it was easy for me to mentally separate middle school from high school. I wasn't the only one who graduated (from 8th grade,) everyone else got that middle school diploma and went out to face many different high schools. I could ramble for paragraphs about how people have moved on in the "now I hate all of our old friends" or "now I think drugs are just okay" sort of way, what I'm talking about is how none of my Charter friends go to Charter any more.

It was weird to think about. What really bummed (and bums) me out is that there was no longer a way to see all of these people in one place. Many I knew I'd see again, but there's no way I could hunt down and spend time with each person individually, and there's also no way I would want to see everyone anyways. Lot of bad blood in those seedy 8th grade classrooms, ya know? Not really though.

And now it's happening again. With the passing of this year's 8th grade class there is really no students I know at the school any longer. When I went back to Charter after my year in Quebec I was surrounded by kids I was in choir, the play, band, basketball, etc. with. Now if I could make a journey, during school, the only people I'd know would be the teachers, and few of those who I actually knew still remain.

And then we have Quebec. I miss those guys. I met a lot of great people in Quebec, none of whom I'm good about keeping in touch with, and thanks to that alien Canadian school system, my class graduated this year. Congratulations to them, first of all, but since I had lots of acquaintances and few real friends there-- I was only there a year, after all-- it'd be hard to see everyone I would want to again. Because no one goes to QHS anymore, they're all in a manner of different CEGEPs or whatever you guys call 'em.

So, to all the acquaintances whom I've enjoyed meeting but never took the time to become friends with-- I'm sorry. We may never meet again, but I'll miss you.

-Will


"Can't repeat the past?…Why of course you can!"

Another Round of Goodbyes

Okay, before I get started...

DA culture lesson 65: The Wailing Wall
This is the wall on one side of the outdoor basketball court where the seniors line up every year at the end of grad for final goodbyes. The "wailing" part should be pretty self-explanatory.

DA culture lesson 74: Departure
For some reason or another, 90% of DA parents, students, and teachers have left the country by the weekend two days after grad. Why everyone leaves this quickly is beyond me.

I was going to title this one "3/4ths of the Way Done," but when I thought about what I was actually going to say, I realized that really wouldn't have been fitting. Because even though all freshman year I was thinking "only 3 more years and I'll be in America," a my goal sophomore year was just to survive (which I did,) when I was reflecting on my first year as an upperclassmen, I saw that my perspective had changed. I wasn't entirely sure I wanted this year to end.

Don't get me wrong-- I was looking forward to Junior-hosted banquet to be over (which it is,) for my homework load to drop to "eat, sleep, video games" (which it has,) and for exams to go well. I haven't gotten my scores for them, so I can't comment on them. But saying goodbye to some staff, the seniors, and one graduating girl in particular has been and will be hard.

For instance, a math teacher who came when I did and has as rough or worse a transition. A history teacher who jumped of the roof with the guys and I for kicks. A french teacher who played Punch Out!! on his computer when we took tests. A gym teacher who almost got fired after dancing at a party she was supposed to be chaperoning. I've known these staff members ten times better than some of the people in my own class. What will the school be like without a few young teachers to stir the pot?

And then we have the seniors. I doubt I would have considered myself friends with anyone in the senior class at the end of last year, and here I am missing some of them already. What am I going to do without my fellow Bostonian Red Sox fan? Or my geek friend who I talk to about Zelda timelines with? Or any of my musical buddies? (Plus there's always my ex-wives and awkward make-up appliers.) Or my goofy, crazy bro? And don't even get me started on that girl. She needs a whole 'nother blog post.

Now I'm entirely sure I didn't want junior year to end. It was stressful at times, but in the end, I'd organize three more banquets to get another year with these guys. I'm going to miss you. I'll see ya when I see ya.

-Will


"Despite the fact that I'm not your teacher and I never was, this might be considered inappropriate. Rub my back right here."