I've struggled with the name Camp Stand-By-Me for a while now. Half of me thinks it's corny and Free Willyish, while the other half scolds me for being inconsiderate towards children with disabilities. So, since the kids have disabilities, the camp name must be extra sappy? What about The Camp at Vaughn Bay OR, if the namer has a sense of humor and full job security, Camp Pee Your Pants. It also forces my inner conscience to hum that song, "I'll stand by you. I'll staaaaaand by you. Blubber blibber blabber. I'll stand by YOU", a horrific daily occurrence.
Camp Stand-By-Me (BLAST THAT NAME!*^#!!!!) has nature trails off to the left side of it if you were facing up the hill from the bay. Because of it's hilly nature and campers' needs, the trails require boardwalk to traverse, giving it a bunch of switchbacks and wild bends in the road. The problem is that these boards are covered with what camp director Ellen dubbed "Northwest Slime", the most slippery substance known to mankind. I scoffed at this prospect at first (which I seem to be prone to do judging from previous posts, you think I'd learn something one of these days), but changed my tune quickly upon watching one of her dogs slide about 3 feet forward in an attempted stop. These boards are a menace to society.
Enter Americorps NCCC Green 6. Our daily routine: Ply up boards from the boardwalk with crowbars and hammer, pressure wash them, stain them, put a layer of sand on them for rough texture, apply 2 layers of sealant, nail those willies back in. The difficult part is managing drying time, keeping the process flowing smoothly, and the fact that everything bottlenecks at the pressure washer (because there's only 1.) When we are not working on the nature trails, we are disassembling bunk beds and reassembling new ones, moving truckloads of new furniture, or doing paperwork or other odd jobs.
Another problem is the Camp Director, Ellen. She is our first attrocious boss, a change of pace from the well-managed last 2 projects. She's like an oversized mother hen pecking at her chicks, but instead of using a beak she impugns us with passive aggresive clauses. Although not always around, we eat lunch at her apartment, which is above us. The tension in the room is palpable, sort of swirling around the room from person to person as she suggest dietary restrictions and healthy, sustainable living habits. Her austerity hurts. A little cloud of "smug" hangs over her head. She's one of those people that, as you see her coming your way, you can do nothing but groan and wish you were invisible so you don't have to go through this painful interaction and lecturing.
The maintenance guy, Jason, comes to camp 2 days a week. He is a baller. Funniest, most easygoing guy in the business. Sample conversation:
Jason: "What's up, mang."
Me: "Yo, Dawg."
Jason: "How's the wife and kids"
Me: "All 7 of them are doing well, thanks. And you?"
Jason: "Pregnant as all hell, but doing well."
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ml_R9QisgRY
Thursday, April 29, 2010
Wednesday, April 21, 2010
Easter Seals Camp Stand-By-Me
This past weekend inspired one sure thing in my search for a career field: I WILL NOT work with disabled children. Some stuff I say here may be politically incorrect, even offensive. I apologize if it goes too far. I know some people relish the opportunity to handle kids' disabilities, to use every ounce of patience and persuasion available to them so that the kids may enjoy themselves. These human saints will find happiness in their work. I am not one of them.
Camp Stand-By-Me has the best intentions: Give parents of children with disabilities weekends to get some rest in their chaotic lives. In the summer, they can drop their kids off for weeks at a time. It certainly isn't too much to ask of us as Americorps volunteers to handle disabled children for one weekend. Many of my teammates found the work rewarding and, to add a touch of Hollywood, inspiring. I did not chime in to this sentiment. I found it to be an uncomfortable mix of exhausting, depressing, and boring. Exhausting because there's a constant pressure to straddle the line between letting them enjoy their time here and making sure they follow the rules. Depressing because there was no way to communicate with them, to find common ground, and no way to get them to listen to you. Boring because every activity takes 2 to 3 times longer to complete. Let me detail.
I slept in the "older boys" cabin, with 7 campers and 1 other counselor hired by Camp Stand-By-Me. They boys were older than the average, if you hadn't guessed from their cabin name. 1 of them was blind and mute, he needed a wheelchair to get around and required 2 depends at night accompanied with a special absorbent sheet for when he wet the bed. Another spoke only 2 words: Wa-Wa and Beer! (or Beard!? I couldn't tell). He needed someone to hold on to going up and down the hill that makes up Camp Stand-By-Me, something due to his legs not functioning properly. He also would automatically wet the bed, and sometimes deficate in it. Another young man was severely autistic, speaking back to you only what you said to him. He would masturbate in his bed throughout the night. One camper had cerebral palsy, and when needing to pee in the night would have to notify a counselor of his predicament and we would carry him to the toilet. 2 more kids with down syndrome were unrelentingly stubborn, rendering it useless to even try to get them out of bed without physically lifting them up, which required a couple counselors. Sleep was limited to a 6 hours, way better than the 3-4 hours for those posted to the "younger boys" cabin. But the sleep was restless wondering when the next camper would need help in the middle of the night.
Little things like cleaning up their private areas after a bowel movement or urination, feeding them as they drooled and half the food fell to the ground, and persuading them to stay in my sight made the experience unpleasant. The most frustrating part was not being able to understand what they wanted. Many times I had to guess at their intentions and motivations. It's weird to finally be getting a grasp of human nature and social intelligence, only to be put in this situation and feel so useless. I hated the feeling. This was where it got boring. I gave up trying and so had only myself to "hang out" with. I don't blame myself for giving up. I'm not suited for this type of misery. I don't look forward to the next 2 weekends with the campers, early and late May. Then again I'll be positive and it will eventually end. Just hopefully this time I won't be the one fishing turds out of the pool with a pool net.
Camp Stand-By-Me has the best intentions: Give parents of children with disabilities weekends to get some rest in their chaotic lives. In the summer, they can drop their kids off for weeks at a time. It certainly isn't too much to ask of us as Americorps volunteers to handle disabled children for one weekend. Many of my teammates found the work rewarding and, to add a touch of Hollywood, inspiring. I did not chime in to this sentiment. I found it to be an uncomfortable mix of exhausting, depressing, and boring. Exhausting because there's a constant pressure to straddle the line between letting them enjoy their time here and making sure they follow the rules. Depressing because there was no way to communicate with them, to find common ground, and no way to get them to listen to you. Boring because every activity takes 2 to 3 times longer to complete. Let me detail.
I slept in the "older boys" cabin, with 7 campers and 1 other counselor hired by Camp Stand-By-Me. They boys were older than the average, if you hadn't guessed from their cabin name. 1 of them was blind and mute, he needed a wheelchair to get around and required 2 depends at night accompanied with a special absorbent sheet for when he wet the bed. Another spoke only 2 words: Wa-Wa and Beer! (or Beard!? I couldn't tell). He needed someone to hold on to going up and down the hill that makes up Camp Stand-By-Me, something due to his legs not functioning properly. He also would automatically wet the bed, and sometimes deficate in it. Another young man was severely autistic, speaking back to you only what you said to him. He would masturbate in his bed throughout the night. One camper had cerebral palsy, and when needing to pee in the night would have to notify a counselor of his predicament and we would carry him to the toilet. 2 more kids with down syndrome were unrelentingly stubborn, rendering it useless to even try to get them out of bed without physically lifting them up, which required a couple counselors. Sleep was limited to a 6 hours, way better than the 3-4 hours for those posted to the "younger boys" cabin. But the sleep was restless wondering when the next camper would need help in the middle of the night.
Little things like cleaning up their private areas after a bowel movement or urination, feeding them as they drooled and half the food fell to the ground, and persuading them to stay in my sight made the experience unpleasant. The most frustrating part was not being able to understand what they wanted. Many times I had to guess at their intentions and motivations. It's weird to finally be getting a grasp of human nature and social intelligence, only to be put in this situation and feel so useless. I hated the feeling. This was where it got boring. I gave up trying and so had only myself to "hang out" with. I don't blame myself for giving up. I'm not suited for this type of misery. I don't look forward to the next 2 weekends with the campers, early and late May. Then again I'll be positive and it will eventually end. Just hopefully this time I won't be the one fishing turds out of the pool with a pool net.
Friday, April 16, 2010
The Great Northwest
What's better than a fresh start? Not much. I ended transition in Sacramento with a vague uneasiness of the days to come. Green 6 (my team) is down to 8 members, 5 girls, 2 seven-year-old boys, and me. Before my Central Virginia God-loving sports enthusiast left to pursue other interests, the burden of trustworthy maledom was split between us. Now it falls on me. The other two don't have the girls' trust, and refuse to take on any responsibility (even though one of them is the "Team Leader"). So it's me who's left to quell the storms as they approach. Beyond that, it is imperative that I stay even-keeled, not blow up, and, in turn, lose my respectability. This will be the hard part if you know my past. I also can't retreat to a mental hole if things start to turn sour because there's nobody left to step in and mediate the disparaging remarks being thrown around. I'm uneasy about my transition to manhood. Is it worth spending so much effort on people I don't necessarily like?
Monday rolls around, next stop: Washington. Not exactly. First we go to iHop for breakfast. Anyone been to that place recently? I left feeling like I had just been suckered into an internet money scam. I've never thought poorly of iHop before; I usually sling myself onto that bandwagon if the opportunity arises. This morning was no different. I couldn't wait to devour some savory pancakes with a carafe of fresh orange juice. Our budget was 9 dollars. Since my bladder was filled above it's tolerable capacity, I got back to the table with less than a minute to spare before the waitress would politely require my order. I ditched the pancakes. Two eggs, 2 bacon strips, home fries, toast. Yum. For 8.99. What I got was worth between $2.12 and $2.14. The eggs came from mini-land, the hashbrowns looked more like the dish that someone brings to a potluck that nobody touches, and the bacon seemed to be the meat from a mouse, or another small rodent. It was a good meal for pinocchio. For 8.99. Tricked by that blue roofing. Never again. There's this mystique about iHop, but I don't know where it comes from. Insanely overpriced, average portion sizes, annoying blue roofs. They just have a bright-colored menu with all sorts of great deals and specials! YA!!! (just don't look at the pricetag.) damn you capitalism and good advertising. All you can eat pancakes? NOBODY CAN PHYSICALLY EAT MORE THAN 2 OF YOUR FLUFFY ASS PANCAKES! And they make my mouth dry. iHop? iStop.
We stayed the night in Portland after about 8 hours of driving and a couple stops. I met up with some Hamilton alums who had moved out after graduation (Lars, Jesse and Steve Rowe for those who care.) They showed us a cross-section of Portland, and I liked what I saw. We arrived at what looked like a residential neighborhood on the north side of the city on Monday at 11 pm. I wasn't sure what the plan was, but Lars said he had some places in mind. We walked about 2 blocks before we reached a mini main street that had everything you could ask of a neighborhood. Italian, Mexican, Bars, Strange shops, normal shops, even light bulb store. And the bar we walked into was occupied by people, an astonishing fact considering the time and place. I got a great vibe from Portland, Oregon.
We arrived in Key Corner, Washington the next day around 2 PM and met with our bosses, Ellen and Jason. Ellen runs the camp, and acts like a camp director should in my mind: Smart, tough, omniscient of her camp. She rubbed people the wrong way because it was obvious she would be demanding, but thats alright by me. Rather have that than a wishy washy complainer for a boss. Reduces my responsibility I hope. Jason is the man. He approached us wearing a US Soccer jersey from Champion that I think was size Xtra Small. It just barely covered his belly button, a sweet shirt by just about any standard. He is the maintenace guy for the camp and he constantly cracks jokes and grins like a ninja turtle or Tiki Barber (they are one and the same). He'll be our day to day boss as we revamp the nature trails. I look forward to his leadership style and overall nature.
This weekend about 25 campers are staying at Easter Seals Camp Stand By Me (where we are). Their disabilities range from Autism to Down Syndrome to Epilepsy. The training they have given us has only made me more apprehensive, as they outline only teh worst case scenarios. I'll get back to you on how it turns out... if you stick around after these messages from your local station.
Monday rolls around, next stop: Washington. Not exactly. First we go to iHop for breakfast. Anyone been to that place recently? I left feeling like I had just been suckered into an internet money scam. I've never thought poorly of iHop before; I usually sling myself onto that bandwagon if the opportunity arises. This morning was no different. I couldn't wait to devour some savory pancakes with a carafe of fresh orange juice. Our budget was 9 dollars. Since my bladder was filled above it's tolerable capacity, I got back to the table with less than a minute to spare before the waitress would politely require my order. I ditched the pancakes. Two eggs, 2 bacon strips, home fries, toast. Yum. For 8.99. What I got was worth between $2.12 and $2.14. The eggs came from mini-land, the hashbrowns looked more like the dish that someone brings to a potluck that nobody touches, and the bacon seemed to be the meat from a mouse, or another small rodent. It was a good meal for pinocchio. For 8.99. Tricked by that blue roofing. Never again. There's this mystique about iHop, but I don't know where it comes from. Insanely overpriced, average portion sizes, annoying blue roofs. They just have a bright-colored menu with all sorts of great deals and specials! YA!!! (just don't look at the pricetag.) damn you capitalism and good advertising. All you can eat pancakes? NOBODY CAN PHYSICALLY EAT MORE THAN 2 OF YOUR FLUFFY ASS PANCAKES! And they make my mouth dry. iHop? iStop.
We stayed the night in Portland after about 8 hours of driving and a couple stops. I met up with some Hamilton alums who had moved out after graduation (Lars, Jesse and Steve Rowe for those who care.) They showed us a cross-section of Portland, and I liked what I saw. We arrived at what looked like a residential neighborhood on the north side of the city on Monday at 11 pm. I wasn't sure what the plan was, but Lars said he had some places in mind. We walked about 2 blocks before we reached a mini main street that had everything you could ask of a neighborhood. Italian, Mexican, Bars, Strange shops, normal shops, even light bulb store. And the bar we walked into was occupied by people, an astonishing fact considering the time and place. I got a great vibe from Portland, Oregon.
We arrived in Key Corner, Washington the next day around 2 PM and met with our bosses, Ellen and Jason. Ellen runs the camp, and acts like a camp director should in my mind: Smart, tough, omniscient of her camp. She rubbed people the wrong way because it was obvious she would be demanding, but thats alright by me. Rather have that than a wishy washy complainer for a boss. Reduces my responsibility I hope. Jason is the man. He approached us wearing a US Soccer jersey from Champion that I think was size Xtra Small. It just barely covered his belly button, a sweet shirt by just about any standard. He is the maintenace guy for the camp and he constantly cracks jokes and grins like a ninja turtle or Tiki Barber (they are one and the same). He'll be our day to day boss as we revamp the nature trails. I look forward to his leadership style and overall nature.
This weekend about 25 campers are staying at Easter Seals Camp Stand By Me (where we are). Their disabilities range from Autism to Down Syndrome to Epilepsy. The training they have given us has only made me more apprehensive, as they outline only teh worst case scenarios. I'll get back to you on how it turns out... if you stick around after these messages from your local station.
Sunday, April 11, 2010
A week has gone by since I've moved out of Alpaugh, a place that will always hold a special place in my memory. What an annoyingly great experience. How many restrictions existed there? Spotty cell service, no internet or tv, living with 9 people in 2 bedrooms, working long hours in hot sun, 1 means of mobility, no money. In hindsight, I'm so glad I survived it, but I did not enjoy my time there, no matter how much I say it. Too much easily accessible information exists to be sequestered in remote places at this age. Right now, my thirst for learning outweighs that for soul-searching. I'm happy to have endured it, happier to be away from it.
We spent the past week back at McClellan, where 6 hours a day of brain-washing occurred back in October. This time the 7 teams deployed to the Gulf area came home, meaning the entire Americorps NCCC Pacific Region was back in Sac for the first time since training ended. I expected a week long party of sorts, but was surprised to find a lack of enthusiasm amongst the crowds. As predicted by those wiser than the typical corps member, teams became extremely tight over the 4 months away and found it difficult in their psyche to return to the old McClellan Air Force base. I was one of them. It's easier to be around the people you know well than the ones you assumed you knew well. Many had high expectations for returning, and were severely disappointed to experience the changes everyone, and by default themselves, had undergone. Yet after the first couple days things settled down and a slight nostalgia swept over the campus as tensions eased and friendships were renewed.
As I settled back into a groove here, I began to realize that July is fast approaching. Some of my closest friends from orientation are going to New Orleans, meaning I won't see them again until the last week of July, our last at McClellan. With this realization comes a freedom that always seems to accompany knowing how little time a group of people has in your life. Humans tend to be conservative knowing that they'll see someone regularly in the future, and downright reckless when ensured that they won't. As the week began to move along, I noticed (at least thought I noticed) a transition to that freedom.
I went out on the town one night to dinner with the old Pod and a night of cheap drinking at Olde Tavern, our downtown hotspot. While there I ordered 5 redheaded sluts for $17 (redheaded sluts = jager, cranberry juice, something else). Noteworthy here is the cost of those drinks. Not only were they cheap, but they indicate that each Slut was $3.40 a piece. I thought about this as I brought them back to the table, tried to justify the price, and couldn't. Did that bartender just arbitrarily pick a number between 15 and 20? Either way, about 3 dollars a shot is insanely cheap. Did he screw up? What the hell is going on here? The place is the most beautiful hole in the wall, the type of joint that when anything extraordinary happens, everyone can fall back on the old proverb: "Only at Olde Tavern." Now that's my kind of bar.
Team Dan Dropkin-Frank trolleys off to Gig Harbor, Washington tomorrow to being project #3. I expect a challenge, but can't decide if I'll rise to it yet or shrink from it. One thing I know is I can't wait to write about something new on this damn blog, Alpaugh really dried me up. Hopefully I can find a pick-up soccer night also, I'm pining for some action. Until next time...
We spent the past week back at McClellan, where 6 hours a day of brain-washing occurred back in October. This time the 7 teams deployed to the Gulf area came home, meaning the entire Americorps NCCC Pacific Region was back in Sac for the first time since training ended. I expected a week long party of sorts, but was surprised to find a lack of enthusiasm amongst the crowds. As predicted by those wiser than the typical corps member, teams became extremely tight over the 4 months away and found it difficult in their psyche to return to the old McClellan Air Force base. I was one of them. It's easier to be around the people you know well than the ones you assumed you knew well. Many had high expectations for returning, and were severely disappointed to experience the changes everyone, and by default themselves, had undergone. Yet after the first couple days things settled down and a slight nostalgia swept over the campus as tensions eased and friendships were renewed.
As I settled back into a groove here, I began to realize that July is fast approaching. Some of my closest friends from orientation are going to New Orleans, meaning I won't see them again until the last week of July, our last at McClellan. With this realization comes a freedom that always seems to accompany knowing how little time a group of people has in your life. Humans tend to be conservative knowing that they'll see someone regularly in the future, and downright reckless when ensured that they won't. As the week began to move along, I noticed (at least thought I noticed) a transition to that freedom.
I went out on the town one night to dinner with the old Pod and a night of cheap drinking at Olde Tavern, our downtown hotspot. While there I ordered 5 redheaded sluts for $17 (redheaded sluts = jager, cranberry juice, something else). Noteworthy here is the cost of those drinks. Not only were they cheap, but they indicate that each Slut was $3.40 a piece. I thought about this as I brought them back to the table, tried to justify the price, and couldn't. Did that bartender just arbitrarily pick a number between 15 and 20? Either way, about 3 dollars a shot is insanely cheap. Did he screw up? What the hell is going on here? The place is the most beautiful hole in the wall, the type of joint that when anything extraordinary happens, everyone can fall back on the old proverb: "Only at Olde Tavern." Now that's my kind of bar.
Team Dan Dropkin-Frank trolleys off to Gig Harbor, Washington tomorrow to being project #3. I expect a challenge, but can't decide if I'll rise to it yet or shrink from it. One thing I know is I can't wait to write about something new on this damn blog, Alpaugh really dried me up. Hopefully I can find a pick-up soccer night also, I'm pining for some action. Until next time...
Tuesday, March 30, 2010
This is the True Story - Alpaugh
Here's an one from about 2 weeks ago that I never posted:
Alpaugh has slowly stifled us all. Even the most spirited teammates have developed a melancholic despondency to our situation. It has drained our creative juices, resigning us to reading, video games, or movies for evening leisure. But video games have lost their edge, our movie selection is thin, and reading feels too inconsiderate in such a social setting, resulting in sets of glaring eyes peering over books. An especially perceptive passer-by may notice the storm cloud slowly and steadily manifesting itself over our home, darkening by the second. The contentment first felt within Green 6’s Alpaugh home has been battered to the ground. The invader: Gossip.
I grew up incredulously watching the Real World, wondering how the producers found such vain and irascible human beings to be on the show. This is the true story, of 7 strangers, picked to live in a house… it didn’t make sense to me. If this was real life as they inferred, why was there constant fighting? I always imagined myself on the show being content to sit back and watch my roommates go at it like a bunch of hormonal 8th graders. They would love my composure as I intervened, sorted out the problem, and imparted my wisdom. To me, the show was the least real thing on television, and I wanted ever so badly to prove that I was right.
I was wrong. Even without cameras rolling, Alpaugh became that opportunity. A lack of stimulants like TV and internet causes one to think of nothing but your roommates. The Real World uses alcohol to start the fire. In Alpaugh, it’s scheduling and unordinary occurrences. There just is nothing else to focus on but your teammates, forcing the negativity naturally associated with a 9-hour workday upon us during our free time. The tension mounts as an issue arises until the bubble bursts, at which point voice de3cibels rise and anger flows openly. And what is left to talk after each argument? The argument, of course. Aggravating each spat is how finely ingrained everyone’s personalities, specifically certain tendencies, are in each of our minds. It’s difficult to fairly assess a situation when most of it is based on assumptions of personality-types, and those seem to rise to the top during heated arguments. For example, I assume that the house guacamole lover has left it our yet again after lunch. I approach them to metaphorically squish the guacamole in their face. Right after I’ve finished my diatribe, the angry face across from me says bitterly, “I didn’t eat any guacamole today.” Even though that person often leaves out her food, this time it wasn’t her, giving her leverage in any future altercation. Why do we even buy guacamole? That stuff’s mad gross. Anyways, there’s a propensity to eat ones words in this household, even though the point trying to be proven is, in a general sense, correct.
The house morale ebbs and flows, but my inability to cope with the low points is starting to bother me. I can feel it coming, yet I haven’t found a personal solution for curing it when it’s bad, I feel that every action undertaken by any teammate is irritating. And there’s nowhere to turn to for relief. It lingers under my skin, waiting for the right time to expose itself. Hopefully when it does, the cameras will be rolling… This is the true story, of 9 strangers…
Alpaugh has slowly stifled us all. Even the most spirited teammates have developed a melancholic despondency to our situation. It has drained our creative juices, resigning us to reading, video games, or movies for evening leisure. But video games have lost their edge, our movie selection is thin, and reading feels too inconsiderate in such a social setting, resulting in sets of glaring eyes peering over books. An especially perceptive passer-by may notice the storm cloud slowly and steadily manifesting itself over our home, darkening by the second. The contentment first felt within Green 6’s Alpaugh home has been battered to the ground. The invader: Gossip.
I grew up incredulously watching the Real World, wondering how the producers found such vain and irascible human beings to be on the show. This is the true story, of 7 strangers, picked to live in a house… it didn’t make sense to me. If this was real life as they inferred, why was there constant fighting? I always imagined myself on the show being content to sit back and watch my roommates go at it like a bunch of hormonal 8th graders. They would love my composure as I intervened, sorted out the problem, and imparted my wisdom. To me, the show was the least real thing on television, and I wanted ever so badly to prove that I was right.
I was wrong. Even without cameras rolling, Alpaugh became that opportunity. A lack of stimulants like TV and internet causes one to think of nothing but your roommates. The Real World uses alcohol to start the fire. In Alpaugh, it’s scheduling and unordinary occurrences. There just is nothing else to focus on but your teammates, forcing the negativity naturally associated with a 9-hour workday upon us during our free time. The tension mounts as an issue arises until the bubble bursts, at which point voice de3cibels rise and anger flows openly. And what is left to talk after each argument? The argument, of course. Aggravating each spat is how finely ingrained everyone’s personalities, specifically certain tendencies, are in each of our minds. It’s difficult to fairly assess a situation when most of it is based on assumptions of personality-types, and those seem to rise to the top during heated arguments. For example, I assume that the house guacamole lover has left it our yet again after lunch. I approach them to metaphorically squish the guacamole in their face. Right after I’ve finished my diatribe, the angry face across from me says bitterly, “I didn’t eat any guacamole today.” Even though that person often leaves out her food, this time it wasn’t her, giving her leverage in any future altercation. Why do we even buy guacamole? That stuff’s mad gross. Anyways, there’s a propensity to eat ones words in this household, even though the point trying to be proven is, in a general sense, correct.
The house morale ebbs and flows, but my inability to cope with the low points is starting to bother me. I can feel it coming, yet I haven’t found a personal solution for curing it when it’s bad, I feel that every action undertaken by any teammate is irritating. And there’s nowhere to turn to for relief. It lingers under my skin, waiting for the right time to expose itself. Hopefully when it does, the cameras will be rolling… This is the true story, of 9 strangers…
Monday, March 29, 2010
Final Alpaugh
And it’s been a while… Since you said you were sorrrryyyyyyy. There’s some late 90’s soft rock radio hit that went like that, probably a Nickelback specialty. Then they mention how we should hold our heads up high. Because it’s been a whilllleeeeee. But since I’ve been gone, you couldn’t breathe for the first time, so on and on, YEA YEA. Kelly Clarkson. A couple of interesting, worthwhile, even fun events have happened since I last checked in.
We finished our observation deck. The final product is such that only unskilled, amateur construction workers could appreciate the true effort expended to create it. Not 100% aesthetically pleasing, the deck has spunk, a characteristic of an observation deck that no private construction company would desire, but the general populace would appreciate. From far away it looks majestic and bold, set against the flat wetlands backdrop. Up close, however, some glitches are noticeable, the fault of hiring an Americorps team. It’s all little nit-picky stuff such as a couple of poorly fit planks, a smudgy paint job, or an uneven line of bolts. Perfection comes with a cost, but imperfection is free. I still have my money on that deck lasting 50+ years, although since I’ve made that bet I’ll probably come back in 5 years and see it sunk 10 feet into the ground, an infallible stray dog brothel.
The Alpaugh Community Clean-Up / Throw Away took place. My role as Project Outreach Liaison requires 2 separate community volunteer days throughout my time in Americorps, and this was my first one. The operation’s goal was to allow Alpaugh residents to dispose of their trash for free, an act not allowed by the county (they have to pay a flat rate of $10 plus a per pound rate for disposal.) It began like any other day that takes months of planning and preparation to put together: With a bad night’s sleep. Similar to the night before a job interview or a big game, there’s no end to the tossing and turning. But when awoken, my mind went straight to work. My vision for this day went something like this: Impoverished Alpaugh residents would bring their plentiful bags of trash to the park where we were set up, and my team of 10 would swarm their trucks, like fire ants to their prey, hoisting bags of garbage into the 40-foot long trash bins until none were left, at which point we would whisk them on their way and start the next truckload. Knowing that not many families lived in Alpaugh, I struggled to envision any potential problems. Yet, amazingly enough, we encountered one huge, revolting, putrid problem: Alpaughians don’t use trash bags. Instead they throw it all in a trailer over the course of a year and then dispose of it. So rather then chucking bags into a bin, we were shoveling, pitch-forking and front-end loading layers of dirt, trash, filth and baby diapers. My life may actually have hit rock bottom somewhere around 9:45 AM Pacific Time, when I looked up from the 3 baby diapers stuck to my pitchfork and glanced around to see my teammates all wearing the “ugly face” and trying not to vomit. I have to credit them, however, for sticking with it through 2 PM without too many complaints. Some highlights of this day include: A dead snake with a half-digested rat poking out of its side, an ant hive halfway down one of the trash piles, wading through the top of the trash bins ankle-high in garbage trying to pack it down, and any attempted communication between us and the Spanish-speaking Alpaugh residents. The feeling of relief when it was all over could only be compared to that felt when she tells you she’s not pregnant. My shoes still smell a bit like rotting milk.
Whenever something ends, reflection is required to reconstruct what you did and, of course, to mentally make it better than it actually was. So Alpaugh was great! I gained a bunch of handy-man tool skills, probably to be forgotten in the near future or never actually used. The team got a lot closer, only to most likely part like a 6th graders hair once we get back to Sacramento for a week. That’s overly pessimistic, but the need to get away from each other is quite strong at this point. I met a lot of great people from Alpaugh, and learned more than anticipated about modern day small towns in America. It’s a depressing story of inadequate funding, a form of government abuse that results in desperate, distant communities straining to find consolation or hope. My eyes have been opened, but just as soon as Alpaugh has become my priority, it will shortly turn into a shadow of a memory in my mind, because it’s not my fight. I do, however, hope that each Alpaugh family finds some form of happiness in their lives, if for no other reason than to free me from the guilt in my gut. I don’t know their solution, but I hope someone does.
We finished our observation deck. The final product is such that only unskilled, amateur construction workers could appreciate the true effort expended to create it. Not 100% aesthetically pleasing, the deck has spunk, a characteristic of an observation deck that no private construction company would desire, but the general populace would appreciate. From far away it looks majestic and bold, set against the flat wetlands backdrop. Up close, however, some glitches are noticeable, the fault of hiring an Americorps team. It’s all little nit-picky stuff such as a couple of poorly fit planks, a smudgy paint job, or an uneven line of bolts. Perfection comes with a cost, but imperfection is free. I still have my money on that deck lasting 50+ years, although since I’ve made that bet I’ll probably come back in 5 years and see it sunk 10 feet into the ground, an infallible stray dog brothel.
The Alpaugh Community Clean-Up / Throw Away took place. My role as Project Outreach Liaison requires 2 separate community volunteer days throughout my time in Americorps, and this was my first one. The operation’s goal was to allow Alpaugh residents to dispose of their trash for free, an act not allowed by the county (they have to pay a flat rate of $10 plus a per pound rate for disposal.) It began like any other day that takes months of planning and preparation to put together: With a bad night’s sleep. Similar to the night before a job interview or a big game, there’s no end to the tossing and turning. But when awoken, my mind went straight to work. My vision for this day went something like this: Impoverished Alpaugh residents would bring their plentiful bags of trash to the park where we were set up, and my team of 10 would swarm their trucks, like fire ants to their prey, hoisting bags of garbage into the 40-foot long trash bins until none were left, at which point we would whisk them on their way and start the next truckload. Knowing that not many families lived in Alpaugh, I struggled to envision any potential problems. Yet, amazingly enough, we encountered one huge, revolting, putrid problem: Alpaughians don’t use trash bags. Instead they throw it all in a trailer over the course of a year and then dispose of it. So rather then chucking bags into a bin, we were shoveling, pitch-forking and front-end loading layers of dirt, trash, filth and baby diapers. My life may actually have hit rock bottom somewhere around 9:45 AM Pacific Time, when I looked up from the 3 baby diapers stuck to my pitchfork and glanced around to see my teammates all wearing the “ugly face” and trying not to vomit. I have to credit them, however, for sticking with it through 2 PM without too many complaints. Some highlights of this day include: A dead snake with a half-digested rat poking out of its side, an ant hive halfway down one of the trash piles, wading through the top of the trash bins ankle-high in garbage trying to pack it down, and any attempted communication between us and the Spanish-speaking Alpaugh residents. The feeling of relief when it was all over could only be compared to that felt when she tells you she’s not pregnant. My shoes still smell a bit like rotting milk.
Whenever something ends, reflection is required to reconstruct what you did and, of course, to mentally make it better than it actually was. So Alpaugh was great! I gained a bunch of handy-man tool skills, probably to be forgotten in the near future or never actually used. The team got a lot closer, only to most likely part like a 6th graders hair once we get back to Sacramento for a week. That’s overly pessimistic, but the need to get away from each other is quite strong at this point. I met a lot of great people from Alpaugh, and learned more than anticipated about modern day small towns in America. It’s a depressing story of inadequate funding, a form of government abuse that results in desperate, distant communities straining to find consolation or hope. My eyes have been opened, but just as soon as Alpaugh has become my priority, it will shortly turn into a shadow of a memory in my mind, because it’s not my fight. I do, however, hope that each Alpaugh family finds some form of happiness in their lives, if for no other reason than to free me from the guilt in my gut. I don’t know their solution, but I hope someone does.
Tuesday, March 9, 2010
Malcolm Gladwell
This blog is about Malcolm Gladwell, author of the medal winners at the all-time best nonfiction books Olympics. I’ve read few books like them (Freakonomics). If I read 20 books, only 1has to be like his books to keep me reading. He has this incredible ability to comprehend what the specialized experts understand and then convert it into a lucid prose for the rest of us to read. Most interesting to me is that he isn’t a genius, but a great interpreter. When dissecting the highest levels of math and science, you can’t hope to understand everything, but need to pick out the important parts that allow readers to understand how your conclusion was reached, and then explain it simply. He has a knack for this. I wonder where that kind of talent is learnt.
I don’t think I’ve ever seriously idolized anyone the way I admire him. He’s one of the people that I hope to meet at some point in my life, along with Bill Simmons, if only to watch his mannerisms and to see how he interacts. Since he isn’t a celebrity, I have no idea how he acts in normal day to day life. This vision is stuck in my brain: A laid-back master of language, keen to further his knowledge of any topic that wanders his way. He may not understand it all first try, but gets the gist enough to respond intelligently, with questions that further his pointed comprehension. Another part of my vision of him is someone that listens to conversation with no intent to speak himself unless it’s to pry more information from his quarry. In his writing, you don’t get a great idea of who Malcolm Gladwell is. He writes about simple topics in the most fascinating way without letting his ego influence his work. It’s a characteristic I hope to eventually obtain in my line of work.
I don’t think I’ve ever seriously idolized anyone the way I admire him. He’s one of the people that I hope to meet at some point in my life, along with Bill Simmons, if only to watch his mannerisms and to see how he interacts. Since he isn’t a celebrity, I have no idea how he acts in normal day to day life. This vision is stuck in my brain: A laid-back master of language, keen to further his knowledge of any topic that wanders his way. He may not understand it all first try, but gets the gist enough to respond intelligently, with questions that further his pointed comprehension. Another part of my vision of him is someone that listens to conversation with no intent to speak himself unless it’s to pry more information from his quarry. In his writing, you don’t get a great idea of who Malcolm Gladwell is. He writes about simple topics in the most fascinating way without letting his ego influence his work. It’s a characteristic I hope to eventually obtain in my line of work.
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