Well, first off, I should mention that I’ve been in Germany for the last week. Sorry about not warning you beforehand, but posting last week was impossible with the wretched hostel internet. More on that later.
Anyhow, let me take you through a whirlwind tour of the week of January 20th. On Sunday night, I played poker with the guys in the dorm for about two hours and got only one pair the entire night and had to fold the rest of my hands. I almost never bet anything, but I still lost all of my chips to antes. This is why I don’t play with money. The next day, my luck held out as I went running. A car came careening around a blind corner on an impossibly narrow road and I had to dive into a hedge to save myself from being turned into paté. Clinging to the bush, catching my breath, and laughing, I began to wonder “Why do my arms hurt?” I extricated myself from the shrubbery, revealing arms painted with blood and needled with thorns. Turns out I’d jumped into holly and briar bushes. I spent the next hour after I got back plucking wood from my flesh and cleaning the long scratches that went up to my elbows. I mean, I knew that running was pretty much self-harm, but that put a new spin on it.
The next day I went to help a girl with her Media coursework. I don’t know why these girls keep asking me to help them! This must be the fourth one now! I mean, I don’t mind. If anything I enjoy helping people if I can, but I can’t be the most useful person around. Everyone seems to think I’m some sort of encyclopedia, but I can hardly turn left without getting confused. Oh well. It’s good company, I usually get a laugh out of it, and it’s much better than just spending the time alone in my room or going to the gym. Anyone want help with anything? At all? Please?
A couple days later, those who went to debating were treated to some unhealthy goodies, after which I decided to go work out. Bad idea. Clutching my stomach as I hobbled toward the shower across the hall, a boy named Tom called to me. “Why, hello there Matthew!” he said in his best posh accent. “How are you doing, old boy? You don’t look so well.”
“No, sir, no I’m not too well at all,” I responded in kind. “My stomach seems to be in a bit of a tizzy.” I know that’s not the right word, but it sounded good.
“Oh, dear. Might I ask what happened to you?”
Straightening up and imagining myself with a typical English general’s mustache, I replied “A lot of hot chocolate and a shit load of biscuits before a core workout.”
The next morning I discovered that our housemother is a fundamentalist Christian. Normally this wouldn’t be an issue, but I could not seem to escape, as I was trying to make some toast when she walked in and started talking about ghosts, actually believing that spirits exist. So, of course, the natural progression went straight to talking about souls and God. I just said that I think people can believe whatever they want, but I believe that there is no God and that our “souls” are biological, neural processes, just as mortal as our bodies. Well, she was having none of that. She did not say outright that I was wrong, but she did not accede any of my points regarding evolution or simple anatomy while also referring to the Book of Revelations as prophetic and infallible. “I mean, they predicted stuff way back then, told us when it was going to happen, and then it happened and they could never have known about it without some sort of divine guidance.”
“Well, the people who wrote the books of the new testament were educated and could have noticed how history repeats itself. Nations rise and fall all the time.” I started buttering my bread a little faster, sensing dangerous territory and knowing that I wouldn’t be able to keep my mouth shut.
“No, no! Look what’s happening in Egypt right now! The Book of Revelations said that Egypt would be the first country to disappear.”
“Um, modern Egypt is totally different from the Egyptian empire that existed back then. That empire fell LONG after the Qin dynasty collapsed, not to mention the Mayura empire in India which also fell before Egypt did.”
“No, no! I mean that the people will just vanish. There’ll be nothing left.”
I had to wait a few seconds to bite back the sarcasm. Just in case she hadn’t noticed, I said “Um, there are still a lot of people in Egypt.”
“Yeah, but they’ll all disappear soon.”
“Where does it really say that in the Book of Revelations?”
“Well, I haven’t actually read it yet, but it’s in there.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. Have you read the bible?”
“Yes, actually I have read the whole thing and the only logical way that Egypt is going to ‘disappear’ short of nuclear or chemical warfare is if the Sahara desert spreads past the Nile and wipes out their agricultural base, but that won’t happen for another couple of hundred years, by which point Venice (which was also once an empire) will have sunk to the bottom of the sea.” Of course, she was totally unmoved by logic. I don’t know why I bother. It’s just as bigoted of me to preach logic as it is of her to preach fundamentalism when neither of us can know if we’re right.
“Well, believing in God is just a safer bet than being an Atheist, just in case there is a hell.” At that I stuffed my toast in my mouth, said something about work to do, and almost ran out, nearly bowling over one of the cleaning ladies.
That same day I also learned that the chaplain’s name actually is Slim. I thought people had just been making fun of his paunch. The next day, I was asked to read a part of the Old Testament to the school during chapel and, unable to resist, I read it in a Southern Baptist accent. Looking around during my poor impersonation of Samuel L. Jackson, I noticed several people chuckling while the poor lower school girls sitting to my right covered their faces with their orders of service, blushing red like Christmas lights. I walked away like all was normal, sat down, hands shaking, and prepared to get a detention. The chaplain found me speaking with the choir director afterward. Mr. Hurst had just given me a “bollocking” (as the Brits here call it) and I turned toward my doom with my head ready for the noose.
“That was a fantastic reading, Matthew. Would you like to read for us again some time?” Didn’t see that one coming.
What I also failed to predict was the fire alarm that went off at midnight just as I was going to bed. As per protocol, I bundled up in my duvet, grabbed some shoes, and put on my hat and a fake beard. My excuse for the teachers: “It keeps my face warm. Who knows how long we’ll be out here for?” My explanation to the students: “It’s entertaining. Who knows how long we’ll be out here for?” I have decided that wearing this shall be mandatory for every nighttime fire alarm. I donned that outfit five times that week. Yep. Good times.
Saturday rolled around and I went to help with something called “Academy Day.” Pretty much, it’s the day when the school opens its doors for prospective students interested in sports and puts on its best face and lies through its teeth about the food. I went to help the shooting academy (due to my involvement in archery), which consisted of me just firing a fancy re-curve bow at a too-close target for a few hours, trying out a pistol for the first time, and watching the others while people filed in and out, asking the instructors questions and generally ignoring me. Or at least I hope that they were ignoring me. I’m a horrible shot! Anyhow, a few of us older students were watching a Welsh girl and a Polish girl fence. It was a heated bout and “someone” *cough cough* me *cough cough* commented that it was a duel for the ages between the sheep shaggers and the Nazi shagged. The Polish girl scored a point and turned to us. “Sorry, what? Did you say something about Poland?”
“Oh, I was just saying how lovely the people are!”
Thank God she couldn’t hear me through that fencing helmet.
Sunday, February 23, 2014
Sunday, February 9, 2014
You Mean The Horse DOESN'T Die?!
Before anything else, I just want to mention that I met an Amish man on the tube in London. I’m not sure how often you guys see them over here, but when I asked him about riding a train, he said that “The coach and buggy just doesn’t quite cut it for such distances.” I laughed for a long while after he got off.
Anyhow, it was back to the old grind once I returned to campus and, wouldn’t you know it, sitting in chapel and ignoring the service was the first order of business once school started again. I’d become rather accustomed to the organ cranking out sounds reminiscent of a calliope and had stopped watching the other audience members. I knew that I’d be surrounded by shy, bored people inundated with carnival music, and turned instead to writing notes about my fantasy stories. My head snapped up at the end of the service, though, when I heard the “Game of Thrones” theme playing. Most people’s heads turned at this, a bunch of them laughed, and it was great to watch the confused expressions of those who didn’t get the reference. Last term, the organist had played “Chim Chimmeny” from “Mary Poppins,” but I had dismissed it as a flight of fancy as nothing so fun had cropped up again in his repertoire. Okay, I thought. This makes up for that detestable arrangement of “The Lord Is My Shepherd” that they played last month. The damned thing sounded like a wake, not a thankful praise to God. After that it was classes, music, drama, exercise, lending a friend “Dracula Dead and Loving It,” writing, going to see a play, and helping to convince a Malaysian girl that Azkaban was a real place. Yep. Just a normal week in England.
We went to see “War Horse” in Manchester soon after the term began. I’d never seen this before and had been told that it was a heartbreaking story and that my friend had bawled her eyes out when she saw the movie. I can’t say that I was so moved by it, but I was awed by their use of elaborate, 3-man horse puppets, the acting, and their use of a goose. The horse shells were controlled by a system of pulleys, clamps, and the men carrying the puppets from underneath. The ears were made to twitch, the necks bent realistically, the legs flowed, and everything else brought the brown painted mesh of twigs to life. The only actors that I wasn’t impressed with were the cousin, uncle, and whoever the little French girl was supposed to be, but who cares about the French anyway? However, the goose puppet stole the show by biting people’s ankles and getting the kitchen door slammed in its beak. Aside from that, (SPOILER ALERT- Skip to next paragraph if you wish to avoid major plot revealers), I was expecting a devastating, emotional scene toward the end. The protagonist had enlisted in the army just to find his “conscripted” horse amidst the slaughter of World War I and bring it (Joey) home. The horse, meanwhile, had suffered machine guns, artillery, being worked nearly to death, and getting tangled in barbed wire. At the end, the protagonist got hit with chlorine gas and was sitting in a hospital, blinded temporarily, and lamenting that it would be impossible to find Joey, now that he was being sent home and he’d pretty much surrendered the search after several years anyhow. At that moment, Joey was brought in by some allied soldiers who discovered him, rejoicing over such a lucky find, but the officer declared it half-dead and decided that it needed to be put out of its misery. Here it comes, I think. They’re going to kill Joey right behind his blind owner. The real tear-jerker. The officer put his pistol to Joey’s head, pulled the trigger, and nothing happened. “Damn it!” the officer shouted. “Misfire! Get me a working gun!” Well, while he was getting the gun, the protagonist started whistling which got Joey’s attention, they were reunited, Joey was spared, they lived happily ever after, and I was left wondering “What the heck?” I mean, tons of people had said how sad this play was and, yes, there were some awful parts with dying horses and whatnot, but I feel like the writer robbed this play of some of its potential by having a happy ending. Don’t get me wrong, I like happy endings too, but with everything else in the play, they could have made such a profound anti-war statement by killing Joey. It certainly wasn’t a kid’s show, that’s for sure. With the protagonist blinded and his greatest love, a horse (an image of natural beauty, strength, and innocence), killed right next to him without his knowing, the director could have conveyed how war desecrates nature, ruins beauty, and steals away everything wonderful, such as hope and love, without men’s knowledge or notice. It could even have implied that blind faith is misplaced or any number of other messages! It was a cute and happy ending, but I can understand why this is more fitting for a Disney movie, rather than a social analysis. Maybe that’s just the curmudgeon in me talking. I don’t know.
Anyhow, on the way back, I got dragged into a rather odd conversation. “Hey, Matthew.” Wez tapped my shoulder. “What’s the name of that American prison on an island in the ocean?” Nabilah peeked around him to listen to me. I had caught snippets of their conversation and had heard the word “Azkeban” once or twice, but I failed to catch on.
“What, Guantanimo Bay?” I asked. “We don’t have any others that I know about.”
“No, no, not that one,” Wez said, straight faced and shaking his head. “It’s like that though.”
It clicked. “Oh! Do you mean Azkaban?”
“Yeah! That’s the one!”
“Yeah, but that’s a British prison, not American.”
“Oh, right,” he said, letting a little smile through that the girl couldn’t see. “Sorry. I’m a bit tired and my brain isn’t working.”
“It’s alright. You live in Bangkok.”
Nabilah started laughing, embarrassed. “Oh, God! You’re making me look so stupid for not knowing this!”
“No, it’s alright!” Wez said, soothing her. “We’ll just have Matt tell you about it.”
“N-No!” she said, horrified. “Why? I already look like an idiot!”
“No, no! It’s fine! Matt’s like Wikipedia, but in his head and without the stupid comments!”
Nabilah sort of glared at him as the word “Fine” escaped her lips.
“Okay,” I began. “So do you know about Guantanamo Bay?” She shook her head. “Okay, well, it’s an American prison where we keep war criminals and terrorists for interrogation. We also keep normal people there for no reason because we’re assholes.”
“Yeah,” Wez chimed in. “You guys can be pretty terrible.”
“Yeah. Anyhow, Azkaban is like that for England, but they keep prisoners there that… aren’t quite right in the head. They are war criminals that are dangerous, but also crazy and won’t respond well to normal interrogation and torture techniques. It’s a mix between an asylum, a prison, and an interrogation facility. Now, they have these specialized inquisitors there, trained for just these prisoners. These inquisitors are called ‘Dementors…’” I let the last word hang in the air. Watching realization dawn on her face was like watching an incoming tidal wave from the shore. In brief, she laughed, but she was not happy with us and I don’t think she’s forgiven us for that yet. The problem is that she’s clever enough to turn this back on us somehow, so I’m still watching my back.
Save me.
Anyhow, it was back to the old grind once I returned to campus and, wouldn’t you know it, sitting in chapel and ignoring the service was the first order of business once school started again. I’d become rather accustomed to the organ cranking out sounds reminiscent of a calliope and had stopped watching the other audience members. I knew that I’d be surrounded by shy, bored people inundated with carnival music, and turned instead to writing notes about my fantasy stories. My head snapped up at the end of the service, though, when I heard the “Game of Thrones” theme playing. Most people’s heads turned at this, a bunch of them laughed, and it was great to watch the confused expressions of those who didn’t get the reference. Last term, the organist had played “Chim Chimmeny” from “Mary Poppins,” but I had dismissed it as a flight of fancy as nothing so fun had cropped up again in his repertoire. Okay, I thought. This makes up for that detestable arrangement of “The Lord Is My Shepherd” that they played last month. The damned thing sounded like a wake, not a thankful praise to God. After that it was classes, music, drama, exercise, lending a friend “Dracula Dead and Loving It,” writing, going to see a play, and helping to convince a Malaysian girl that Azkaban was a real place. Yep. Just a normal week in England.
We went to see “War Horse” in Manchester soon after the term began. I’d never seen this before and had been told that it was a heartbreaking story and that my friend had bawled her eyes out when she saw the movie. I can’t say that I was so moved by it, but I was awed by their use of elaborate, 3-man horse puppets, the acting, and their use of a goose. The horse shells were controlled by a system of pulleys, clamps, and the men carrying the puppets from underneath. The ears were made to twitch, the necks bent realistically, the legs flowed, and everything else brought the brown painted mesh of twigs to life. The only actors that I wasn’t impressed with were the cousin, uncle, and whoever the little French girl was supposed to be, but who cares about the French anyway? However, the goose puppet stole the show by biting people’s ankles and getting the kitchen door slammed in its beak. Aside from that, (SPOILER ALERT- Skip to next paragraph if you wish to avoid major plot revealers), I was expecting a devastating, emotional scene toward the end. The protagonist had enlisted in the army just to find his “conscripted” horse amidst the slaughter of World War I and bring it (Joey) home. The horse, meanwhile, had suffered machine guns, artillery, being worked nearly to death, and getting tangled in barbed wire. At the end, the protagonist got hit with chlorine gas and was sitting in a hospital, blinded temporarily, and lamenting that it would be impossible to find Joey, now that he was being sent home and he’d pretty much surrendered the search after several years anyhow. At that moment, Joey was brought in by some allied soldiers who discovered him, rejoicing over such a lucky find, but the officer declared it half-dead and decided that it needed to be put out of its misery. Here it comes, I think. They’re going to kill Joey right behind his blind owner. The real tear-jerker. The officer put his pistol to Joey’s head, pulled the trigger, and nothing happened. “Damn it!” the officer shouted. “Misfire! Get me a working gun!” Well, while he was getting the gun, the protagonist started whistling which got Joey’s attention, they were reunited, Joey was spared, they lived happily ever after, and I was left wondering “What the heck?” I mean, tons of people had said how sad this play was and, yes, there were some awful parts with dying horses and whatnot, but I feel like the writer robbed this play of some of its potential by having a happy ending. Don’t get me wrong, I like happy endings too, but with everything else in the play, they could have made such a profound anti-war statement by killing Joey. It certainly wasn’t a kid’s show, that’s for sure. With the protagonist blinded and his greatest love, a horse (an image of natural beauty, strength, and innocence), killed right next to him without his knowing, the director could have conveyed how war desecrates nature, ruins beauty, and steals away everything wonderful, such as hope and love, without men’s knowledge or notice. It could even have implied that blind faith is misplaced or any number of other messages! It was a cute and happy ending, but I can understand why this is more fitting for a Disney movie, rather than a social analysis. Maybe that’s just the curmudgeon in me talking. I don’t know.
Anyhow, on the way back, I got dragged into a rather odd conversation. “Hey, Matthew.” Wez tapped my shoulder. “What’s the name of that American prison on an island in the ocean?” Nabilah peeked around him to listen to me. I had caught snippets of their conversation and had heard the word “Azkeban” once or twice, but I failed to catch on.
“What, Guantanimo Bay?” I asked. “We don’t have any others that I know about.”
“No, no, not that one,” Wez said, straight faced and shaking his head. “It’s like that though.”
It clicked. “Oh! Do you mean Azkaban?”
“Yeah! That’s the one!”
“Yeah, but that’s a British prison, not American.”
“Oh, right,” he said, letting a little smile through that the girl couldn’t see. “Sorry. I’m a bit tired and my brain isn’t working.”
“It’s alright. You live in Bangkok.”
Nabilah started laughing, embarrassed. “Oh, God! You’re making me look so stupid for not knowing this!”
“No, it’s alright!” Wez said, soothing her. “We’ll just have Matt tell you about it.”
“N-No!” she said, horrified. “Why? I already look like an idiot!”
“No, no! It’s fine! Matt’s like Wikipedia, but in his head and without the stupid comments!”
Nabilah sort of glared at him as the word “Fine” escaped her lips.
“Okay,” I began. “So do you know about Guantanamo Bay?” She shook her head. “Okay, well, it’s an American prison where we keep war criminals and terrorists for interrogation. We also keep normal people there for no reason because we’re assholes.”
“Yeah,” Wez chimed in. “You guys can be pretty terrible.”
“Yeah. Anyhow, Azkaban is like that for England, but they keep prisoners there that… aren’t quite right in the head. They are war criminals that are dangerous, but also crazy and won’t respond well to normal interrogation and torture techniques. It’s a mix between an asylum, a prison, and an interrogation facility. Now, they have these specialized inquisitors there, trained for just these prisoners. These inquisitors are called ‘Dementors…’” I let the last word hang in the air. Watching realization dawn on her face was like watching an incoming tidal wave from the shore. In brief, she laughed, but she was not happy with us and I don’t think she’s forgiven us for that yet. The problem is that she’s clever enough to turn this back on us somehow, so I’m still watching my back.
Save me.
Sunday, February 2, 2014
Home
Well, I’m really not sure what I can say about Christmas break. Maybe it defeats the purpose of this blog to talk about my time back home.
Home.
Hm. I never really considered what that word meant for me. I followed that adage “Home is where the heart is,” so I thought that it was wherever I loved to be most, or where I felt that I was having the best time. I wasn’t at my house often these last couple of years between school and karate and boy scouts and, well, every other thing that I was doing. I thought that my “home” was at Tabor and at Bridgewater Martial Arts, because I was surrounded by friends there who I could have endless fun with while blowing off steam and dealing with my problems. It took a bit of distance to realize that I was wrong.
When my parents stepped out of the car to pick me up at the airport, my father wore his familiar leather bomber jacket and my mother wore her traditional Christmas reindeer antlers. A year ago, I would have asked her to put them away, but this time they just made me laugh as I went to hug them and climb into the car. There I found Thurber, my dog, behind my seat. We were separated by a metal fence, installed so that he couldn’t jump forward, but he shoved his nose through the bars as far as he could and then some (his snout must have stretched an inch that night) to lick my ear while I nuzzled his freshly groomed fur. I chatted with my parents while turned around in my seat to mess with Thurber for most of the two hour drive back and was struck by something strange. I did not feel excited to be going back to our house. It troubled me and I said nothing about it. I was looking forward to relaxing a bit and spending time with my friends, but I had no thrill at the idea. It’s just the jet lag, I thought. You’re tired. I was lying to myself, though, as I had slept for most of the flight and felt wide awake, especially as Thurber shoved his tongue into my face. We got home and I wandered the house a bit, lounging on the couch with my cat, dog, and guinea pig. Still, I could only say that it felt like I’d come home after a long week of school. There was no rush, no immense relief, nothing of what I expected from a homecoming.
The next day, I went to church where people were glad to see me and had many questions. I love Unitarian churches. There’s nothing quite like being accepted as an atheist in a religious community. The good will is tangible. Anyhow, I then visited my friends Hunter and Ryan. Hunter dashed out of his house to meet me and I grabbed him, laughing, spinning him around like something out of a typical romance movie. He nearly fell over laughing (or maybe dizzy) when I put him down. “Dude,” he said between chuckles, “my little sister saw you drive up and said that you’d do that!”
“Really? Weird! I’ve never done that before, though!”
“I know! It’s just the bromance. Now I owe her five bucks, but don’t don’t say anything. She’ll forget by tomorrow.”
Ryan was just as glad to see me and wanted to hear everything about England and my school, or at least I told him and Hunter everything regardless of whether or not they wanted to hear it. They both insisted that I’d picked up an English accent while I insisted that I hadn’t. As both of them live on my old school’s campus, we went to the dining hall for our evening meal where I surprised my old friend group by sneaking up on Will and whispering in his ear “Hey babe. You miss me?” where he spun around, knocking the water from my hand into his lap. Whoops. Didn’t stop him and pretty much everyone else at the table from embracing me before I could even put my food down. They insisted that I’d picked up and English accent. I said they were wrong. I was half way through the meal when another friend named Colby appeared, failed to notice me at first, and then had a small heart attack when I asked “What’s up?” and I watched her face turn about as bright as her fire-engine-red hair. Ah. We always overreact. It’s great! A game of “Cards Against Humanity” soon followed accompanied by some teachers walking in on us when someone played some *ahem* “inappropriate” cards. Their faces were priceless!
I went to the dojo the next night where Sensei and the others welcomed me back with more reserve than my other friends, but just as much warmth. I was stretching and chatting with them (they insisted that I had an English accent and I disagreed) when Grandmaster Gallager walked in. He is an amiable man, but I have seen some of what this man can do to people and he scares me, especially considering that he’s a strict teacher and that I was rusty after three months of intermittent practice. Welcome home Matthew, I thought. Does a body bag come with the reception? Fortunately, none of the other first dan black belts had the techniques that he requested of us, while I did, so it turned into an instruction class for them. On the other hand, I had the privilege of being the “uke” (pronounced “oo-key”), which is the honored position of whoever the instructor demonstrates techniques on. This seems to be a popular role for me as I both tend to know the techniques already and I also laugh when I’m in pain. Don’t ask me why, I just do and I laughed plenty that night.
My parents threw a Christmas party which I quickly ditched to see the opening night of “The Desolation of Smaug” with some chums. Before Christmas, I hung out with my friends plenty, played with Thurber, sang with the church choir, went on a whirlwind tour of Syracuse University and NYU before visiting my aunt and uncle on Long Island, played with Thurber, went to the dojo almost every night, played with Thurber, and read “Mockingjay” and “Death and the Maiden.” Oh, and did I mention that I played with Thurber?
We were fortunate that Mother was off work for Christmas day after eleven shifts in the ER during the previous thirteen days. A day of good cheer and pleasant company with movies, gifts, food, and a roaring fire on a cold day is a fine thing indeed. My gifts of mead, a Manchester United scarf, spotted dick, models of St. Peter’s basilica and the Colosseum, the hand-carved box, a Chinese ornament, and a rubber Buckingham Palace duck were big hits. It feels better to give gifts, in my opinion, than to receive them. Giving gifts feels good, while I just feel awkward getting them, as I never know how to react. I mean, seriously, if it’s a bad gift, pretending to like it feels wrong while pouring out gratitude for a wonderful gift seems contrived, even if it’s heartfelt. Maybe it’s just me.
Anyhow, we watched classic Christmas movies like “It’s A Wonderful Life” and “Elf” (okay, that last one’s not a classic, but it’s great anyhow) and I blew through another book by Brandon Sanderson. Four days later, while my parents were away on their anniversary, I rounded up some friends that I hadn’t seen since June for a party and, once the ice between the unacquainted people thawed, we had a ball! Everyone had a great time, nothing broke, it was all cleaned up by the time my parents got home, and we have some great videos to remember it by (he he he).
As my vacation began to wrap up, I noticed something. Three days before my flight back to England, I realized how perfectly normal being back at my house felt. There had been no rush, no thrill at the return. If anything, it was mostly laid back and peaceful, but the main thing is that I was perfectly comfortable. At school, I had friends, yes, but I always had to worry about some girl or had to deal with a stressful class while at the dojo I was always trying to prove something to my peers, Sensei, and myself. None of that followed me to my house though. There, I was safe, in control, and content. I had nothing to prove to my parents nor to my pets, as they love me for who I am and what I have already accomplished. The only one that passed judgement on me there was myself. I could act to satisfy me, not someone else, and I always knew which way the wind was blowing at my house. I think that’s what “Home” is. It’s not about having fun or excitement. It’s about a constant acceptance of who you are and a satisfaction with the way things are.
Soon after I realized this a noreaster blew in about a foot of snow. On the morning of the day when I was to leave, I ran outside with Thurber one last time to romp and wrestle in the powder. It did not hurt to leave home, because I knew that it would be waiting for me when I returned, patient and constant. It only hurt to leave Thurber because I knew that he’d miss me and would not understand why I had left while I would miss his unconditional companionship. As for my friends, bugger off, I’m going back to England!
Home.
Hm. I never really considered what that word meant for me. I followed that adage “Home is where the heart is,” so I thought that it was wherever I loved to be most, or where I felt that I was having the best time. I wasn’t at my house often these last couple of years between school and karate and boy scouts and, well, every other thing that I was doing. I thought that my “home” was at Tabor and at Bridgewater Martial Arts, because I was surrounded by friends there who I could have endless fun with while blowing off steam and dealing with my problems. It took a bit of distance to realize that I was wrong.
When my parents stepped out of the car to pick me up at the airport, my father wore his familiar leather bomber jacket and my mother wore her traditional Christmas reindeer antlers. A year ago, I would have asked her to put them away, but this time they just made me laugh as I went to hug them and climb into the car. There I found Thurber, my dog, behind my seat. We were separated by a metal fence, installed so that he couldn’t jump forward, but he shoved his nose through the bars as far as he could and then some (his snout must have stretched an inch that night) to lick my ear while I nuzzled his freshly groomed fur. I chatted with my parents while turned around in my seat to mess with Thurber for most of the two hour drive back and was struck by something strange. I did not feel excited to be going back to our house. It troubled me and I said nothing about it. I was looking forward to relaxing a bit and spending time with my friends, but I had no thrill at the idea. It’s just the jet lag, I thought. You’re tired. I was lying to myself, though, as I had slept for most of the flight and felt wide awake, especially as Thurber shoved his tongue into my face. We got home and I wandered the house a bit, lounging on the couch with my cat, dog, and guinea pig. Still, I could only say that it felt like I’d come home after a long week of school. There was no rush, no immense relief, nothing of what I expected from a homecoming.
The next day, I went to church where people were glad to see me and had many questions. I love Unitarian churches. There’s nothing quite like being accepted as an atheist in a religious community. The good will is tangible. Anyhow, I then visited my friends Hunter and Ryan. Hunter dashed out of his house to meet me and I grabbed him, laughing, spinning him around like something out of a typical romance movie. He nearly fell over laughing (or maybe dizzy) when I put him down. “Dude,” he said between chuckles, “my little sister saw you drive up and said that you’d do that!”
“Really? Weird! I’ve never done that before, though!”
“I know! It’s just the bromance. Now I owe her five bucks, but don’t don’t say anything. She’ll forget by tomorrow.”
Ryan was just as glad to see me and wanted to hear everything about England and my school, or at least I told him and Hunter everything regardless of whether or not they wanted to hear it. They both insisted that I’d picked up an English accent while I insisted that I hadn’t. As both of them live on my old school’s campus, we went to the dining hall for our evening meal where I surprised my old friend group by sneaking up on Will and whispering in his ear “Hey babe. You miss me?” where he spun around, knocking the water from my hand into his lap. Whoops. Didn’t stop him and pretty much everyone else at the table from embracing me before I could even put my food down. They insisted that I’d picked up and English accent. I said they were wrong. I was half way through the meal when another friend named Colby appeared, failed to notice me at first, and then had a small heart attack when I asked “What’s up?” and I watched her face turn about as bright as her fire-engine-red hair. Ah. We always overreact. It’s great! A game of “Cards Against Humanity” soon followed accompanied by some teachers walking in on us when someone played some *ahem* “inappropriate” cards. Their faces were priceless!
I went to the dojo the next night where Sensei and the others welcomed me back with more reserve than my other friends, but just as much warmth. I was stretching and chatting with them (they insisted that I had an English accent and I disagreed) when Grandmaster Gallager walked in. He is an amiable man, but I have seen some of what this man can do to people and he scares me, especially considering that he’s a strict teacher and that I was rusty after three months of intermittent practice. Welcome home Matthew, I thought. Does a body bag come with the reception? Fortunately, none of the other first dan black belts had the techniques that he requested of us, while I did, so it turned into an instruction class for them. On the other hand, I had the privilege of being the “uke” (pronounced “oo-key”), which is the honored position of whoever the instructor demonstrates techniques on. This seems to be a popular role for me as I both tend to know the techniques already and I also laugh when I’m in pain. Don’t ask me why, I just do and I laughed plenty that night.
My parents threw a Christmas party which I quickly ditched to see the opening night of “The Desolation of Smaug” with some chums. Before Christmas, I hung out with my friends plenty, played with Thurber, sang with the church choir, went on a whirlwind tour of Syracuse University and NYU before visiting my aunt and uncle on Long Island, played with Thurber, went to the dojo almost every night, played with Thurber, and read “Mockingjay” and “Death and the Maiden.” Oh, and did I mention that I played with Thurber?
We were fortunate that Mother was off work for Christmas day after eleven shifts in the ER during the previous thirteen days. A day of good cheer and pleasant company with movies, gifts, food, and a roaring fire on a cold day is a fine thing indeed. My gifts of mead, a Manchester United scarf, spotted dick, models of St. Peter’s basilica and the Colosseum, the hand-carved box, a Chinese ornament, and a rubber Buckingham Palace duck were big hits. It feels better to give gifts, in my opinion, than to receive them. Giving gifts feels good, while I just feel awkward getting them, as I never know how to react. I mean, seriously, if it’s a bad gift, pretending to like it feels wrong while pouring out gratitude for a wonderful gift seems contrived, even if it’s heartfelt. Maybe it’s just me.
As my vacation began to wrap up, I noticed something. Three days before my flight back to England, I realized how perfectly normal being back at my house felt. There had been no rush, no thrill at the return. If anything, it was mostly laid back and peaceful, but the main thing is that I was perfectly comfortable. At school, I had friends, yes, but I always had to worry about some girl or had to deal with a stressful class while at the dojo I was always trying to prove something to my peers, Sensei, and myself. None of that followed me to my house though. There, I was safe, in control, and content. I had nothing to prove to my parents nor to my pets, as they love me for who I am and what I have already accomplished. The only one that passed judgement on me there was myself. I could act to satisfy me, not someone else, and I always knew which way the wind was blowing at my house. I think that’s what “Home” is. It’s not about having fun or excitement. It’s about a constant acceptance of who you are and a satisfaction with the way things are.
Soon after I realized this a noreaster blew in about a foot of snow. On the morning of the day when I was to leave, I ran outside with Thurber one last time to romp and wrestle in the powder. It did not hurt to leave home, because I knew that it would be waiting for me when I returned, patient and constant. It only hurt to leave Thurber because I knew that he’d miss me and would not understand why I had left while I would miss his unconditional companionship. As for my friends, bugger off, I’m going back to England!
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