basketball | Elbrecht's Corpuscle

Dumaguete

Posted on July 19, 2015 by Elbrecht

[Dumaguete, Philippines, August 2008]

—–

As I approached the coffee shop, a man dressed in military camos pulled open the door for me, an AK-47 cradled in his right arm, his index finger comforting the trigger. I had been in Dumaguete for less than a day, but I was already certain my life had been forever changed.

“Hi Joe!”, blurted the young man working behind the counter as I stepped inside the coffee shop. I made eye contact with the AK-47 wielding security guard, as a means of thanking him, and of course, to make sure I was not about to have the butt of an AK-47 come crashing against my skull. These are the thoughts which enter a man’s mind when he’s in a foreign country and greeted by a firearm.

“Joe” was a term used to acknowledge the presence of a white guy in this city, and likely, throughout the entire country of The Philippines. A quick glance at the rest of the patrons assured myself that he was speaking to me. I was the only “Joe” in the joint, as well as the only one I had seen in the past day. [Or that I would see in the next week.]

“Jane” was the term of endearment used to greet a white woman, as Samantha had relayed to me when I landed; we would be “Joe” and “Jane” the entire week.

—–

So not only was I on the complete opposite side of the world from I had started this journey, but I was being allowed, basically encouraged, to assume a new identity. It seemed like something out of a Jason Bourne movie. Tropical island, new identity, beautiful woman at my side.

Of course, I was not a brain-washed assassin, but I was on vacation, so why not pretend.

—–

I made my order at the coffee shop quickly, as there were only a few choices, and the young man working behind the counter repeated it in perfect English. Samantha had arrived in Dumaguete three weeks earlier for this reason in particular: the locals were well versed in our native language. The other reason was their cheap labor, but it was English that started the ball rolling.

When the coffee was ready, he handed me the styrofoam cup, chimed “Have a great day, Joe!” and I turned to see my friend at the door. He was still in camos and carrying an AK-47. I had not imagined it. He smiled and opened the door for me.

—–

He would be the first of innumerable well-armed Philippino men I would encounter in the upcoming week. Apparently every store in Dumaguete felt the need to intimidate potential bandits with a dose of lead poisoning.

During my journey from Boston to Dumaguete, a trip paid for by my girlfriend’s employer, I hadn’t really considered what I would encounter in The Philippines. I simply felt lucky to get the experience to travel for free to a new country.

My overnight lay-over had been in Hong Kong, so I had gone from a major US city to a major global city to a relatively small University town in Southeast Asia. When I strolled through the streets of Hong Kong, I was reminded of nYc, except I could not read any of the street signs.

—–

When I strolled through the streets of Dumaguete, I was not reminded of anything. I had no similar experience from which to draw.

Home to Silliman University, Dumaguete had well-educated and English-speaking men and women who were looking to start a new career. My girlfriend’s employer desired access to this exact population, but also individuals who were able to work during the “US night hours” for a US-based company… for significantly lower pay than would be required in a city like Boston.

—–

Dumaguete fit the bill.

However, the well-educated and English-speaking population was surrounded by the polar opposite, a significant number of destitute, non-educated, non-English speaking Philippinos who had limited access to anything I would consider basic necessities.

—–

I had experienced poverty first-hand in my adult life prior to my arrival in Dumaguete, but this poverty was nothing like what we have in the US.

While Samantha slept during the daytime hours [she was working US hours to stay in constant contact with her home office in Boston], I would meander around Dumaguete, hailed as “Joe” by every small child, grown adult, elderly woman, and AK-47 wielding Philippino I met.

One morning I strayed over a mile from the city center where we were lodged in an upscale hotel and found myself in abject poverty.

There was no running water, simply a spigot where little boys and girls would carry a bucket and then pump on the handle so they could rinse themselves back in their shack. Chickens flapped their way down the dirt-strewn pathways.

—–

I walked in between the shanties and each time a child would see me, he or she would shout, “Hi JOE!!!”

When I pulled out my camera a couple of times to take a picture of the ocean, one would invariably get louder than the others, until I would turn, see them smiling as bright as the sun beaming down on the Pacific ocean, and snap a picture of them. Then they would scatter, only to reassemble a few moments later.

It seemed like something out of a UNICEF commercial; and I was walking through it, completely phased by what I was experiencing.

—–

The more I wandered the borders of Dumaguete and Silliman university, the more I saw and the more I thanked my lucky stars for being born in Wichita, KS, rather than one of the bazillion locations on planet Earth where a day-to-day struggle to stay healthy and alive is real; even in the 21st century.

Semblances of American existence had permeated their life, like Coca-Cola and crappy rubber basketballs, but even these were found only in the city center.

Obviously the island nation of The Philippines is not a homogenous poverty-stricken death trap, but when you compare the resource availability of the poorest of the poor there to our socially secure structure here, it is night and day.

Numerous other experiences had already made me appreciative of my life prior to that week in The Philippines, but by the time I landed back at Logan, I was irrevocably changed.

—–

Not in a “I’m gonna donate money to help poor orphans in The Philippines” type of way. But in a “I’m one lucky son of a bitch who shouldn’t take for granted any opportunity or allow anyone else tell me how my life should turn out.” Being born in a mid-sized Midwest city had given me that chance.

If I had been born in a shanty in Dumaguete, Philippines, I would be lucky to be opening doors to a coffee shop for “Joe” while wearing my military camos and cradling my AK-47.

—–

Veritas

Posted on May 12, 2014 by Elbrecht

During a heated text message exchange back in March, a college roommate of mine took umbrage with me cheering on Harvard in a basketball game. But this wasn’t just any other basketball game. It was the 2nd round of the NCAA tournament known as March Madness. The Ivy League champions, having defeated a more well-respected and well-known opponent in the 1st round, were in the midst of a furious comeback against a perennial title contender, the Spartans of Michigan State.

Alas, the brains of Harvard succumbed to the muscle of MSU in a game for the ages. The Harvard Crimson, a band of super intellectual b-ballers made a name for themselves with that showing, along with their back-to-back-to-back NCAA tournament appearances. Veritas.

Veritas is Latin for “Truth” and appears on Harvard’s coat of arms. Thus, I typically refer to Harvard as simply, Veritas. And I think I’m allowed to refer to Harvard as Veritas. After all, I went to school there.

No, seriously. I did. I went to Veritas. Not in a Matt Damon in “Good Will Hunting” attends MIT type of way; I wasn’t cleaning the bathrooms and scribbling unintelligible theorems on blackboards.

I actually attended Harvard. Excuse me, Veritas.

From 2006 to 2008 I attended Veritas as a part-time student in order to complete my pre-medicine requirements.

My association with the most world-renowned academic institution is a bit convoluted thought… I must clarify that I attended the University, not “The College.”

The University includes “The College”, the medical school, the law school, the divinity school, the Kennedy school of government, and various other entities that do not fall under the umbrella of the undergraduate education.

I attended the Extension School, an entity designed for working stiffs who want to take Harvard-level courses in a variety of academic areas. The courses meet in the evenings and on weekends so students can torture themselves at work all day and then try to pass Organic Chemistry by attending lectures two times a week for 4 hours apiece. I get heart palpitations and a migraine simply recalling those days.

[Note: the Coat of Arms for the Extension School displays two bushels of wheat and a burning lamp. The two bushels of wheat represent the original cost of attendance of the Extension School’s precursor, the Lowell Institute. The burning lamp signified the “learning by night” philosophy of the School. Let me tell you, I paid by credit card due to my inability to harvest wheat and I studied by overhead lamp; as you may know, fire codes have been updated since the early 20th century.]

While I completed my coursework at Veritas, I mingled with many undergraduates in the Science Center and around campus. During those instances, I never heard anyone refer to themselves as a student of “The College.” I even dated a graduate of “The College” while I was living in nYc. She never once referred to it as “The College”, only as Harvard.

Yet, during my return visits to Boston and Cambridge over the past several years, my attendance at Veritas has arisen in casual conversation. On these occasions, I have been asked if I attended “The College” or the University.

It seems that the undergraduates at Harvard have become even more snooty in the past half-decade.

One such incident occurred while I was volunteering overnight at a homeless shelter in Cambridge. This particular shelter was run by Veritas undergrad students, which in and of itself, I thought was pretty cool.

Before our shift started, we went around in a circle and discussed how we came to be volunteering that night. Each of the undergrads pointed out that they attended “The College” when introducing themselves. I made sure to indicate I had gone to the Extension School.

Obviously, I wouldn’t want them to think I’d scored a 1600 on my SAT’s… Oh, it’s out of 2400 now? Thank you for informing me dearest student of “The College.” Go to hell.

Though I wasn’t trying to impress any of these scions of intelligence, I made sure to slip in the fact that I was about to begin my third year of medical school. It didn’t faze them.

Oh, you aren’t impressed because you go to “The College” and will be starting your own NGO in Zamibia when you graduate? Have fun! Watch out for Malaria!

During the aforementioned text exchange, my former roommate made sure to point out that I had graduated from Miami University, commonly referred to as “The Harvard of the Midwest“, not the actual Harvard University. It was for this reason that he insisted I could not claim allegiance to Veritas.

[Note: The administration at Miami liked pushing the idea of “The Harvard of the Midwest” during my undergraduate years. They often cited the ivy-laden brick buildings on campus and the focus on undergraduate education as a reason to make such a comparison. Let me set the record straight: Miami is no Veritas. It would be accurate to say there are super intelligent people at Miami who are on par with students attending Harvard. However, the sheer number of people on Harvard’s campus of incredible intelligence transforms it into a verifiable cesspool of academic excellence. Miami could never match the transformative properties inherent in such a place. Though, I must say, Love and Honor.]

Other than his undergraduate and graduate degrees from Miami, this roommate also received his MBA from Boston College, so he tried rebuffing my intense interest in the basketball game by reminding me he actually has a degree from a Boston-based university. I quickly pointed out that Boston College didn’t make the NCAA tournament and has been slaughtered by Veritas the last two times they played. In. Your. Face.

I was steadfast in my allegiance to Veritas, despite his repeatedly insisting I have no such claim.

My allegiance goes further than burning the midnight oil at the Science Center; I watched Jeremy Lin carve a hole into the heart of the Cornell defense before anyone outside of Cambridge had ever heard of “Linsanity.” I made scathing and disparaging social media remarks when Tommy Amaker was hired to be the Veritas head coach in 2007 and summarily dismissed half of his senior class a week before school started because he didn’t think they were good enough to play for him.

And I have routinely attended their games when I return to Cambridge, cheering them on despite Amaker’s questionable recruiting. I even watched them get diced to pieces by a rabid Columbia team in nYc in the winter of 2013; Veritas would go on to win the Ivy League Championship as well as their first March Madness game, just as this year’s 2014 team did.

So I feel justified in claiming allegiance to Veritas for a myriad of reasons. I’m certainly more aligned with Veritas than any number of people who claim another university or college they never attended, but wear a hoodie, sweatshirt or baseball cap on which the schools logo is emblazoned. Though, for the record, I do own a Veritas baseball cap and crimson t-shirt with “Harvard” across the chest.

But I think I’m allowed to wear such things. I did go to Veritas. I mean, Harvard. No, I really did.

When I had a Son

Posted on December 28, 2013 by Elbrecht

—–

Between the spring of 2012 and summer 2013, I lived in 3 different nYc neighborhoods spanning two of nYc’s five boroughs.

My third and final apartment was actually a room in a woman’s house in Jamaica, Queens. Despite the tightness of the accommodations, I’d only be living there for two months, so I was certain it was survivable. Plus, the room was furnished with a bed, dresser, desk… and the “son-I-never-knew”.

His name is Jacob.

—–

A 12-year-old with an absentee mother and incarcerated father is quick to bond with anyone who gives him attention, as I quickly discovered.

When I arrived in May, the school year was winding down, so Jacob’s hours of daily supervision was waning in parallel. Jacob was a mildly delinquent kid to begin with and his mother did not allow him to participate in any after-school activities, thus creating the perfect storm for me to become Jacob’s de facto guardian.

—–

Over the course of May and June, Jacob became my shadow… and a constant reminder of why I use condoms. Nearly 33 years old myself, Jacob easily could have been one of my own offspring.

In May, I was completing my Surgery Clerkship, which required me to leave home at 4:30A and found me returning home at 7P on a good day. Jacob would always be waiting for me. On some days, he would hide behind the front door so that when I would slog through it he could pop out and cause my heart to skip a beat. Each time this happened I imagined that skipped beat to be what it must be like to unexpectedly have a woman tell you she’s pregnant.

He would laugh and smile, which despite the soul-crushing daily commute and exposure to hubris-filled surgeons, would cause me to smile in turn.

The part of the house where he and his mother resided was separated from the upstairs rooms, so he would follow me up the stairway and ask what I was up to. Still clad in my scrubs, I would look at him and shake my head. “Give me 5 minutes, then we can hang out.”

He would dart back downstairs only to return 4 minutes later with a rap on my door.

Most nights would revolve around hanging out in my room, where he could watch Netflix on my phone or computer. Not wanting to have my medical career derailed by some scandal, I would allow him to inflate my air mattress on the floor, which propped open the door to my room, and watch some crazy shows.

—–

Typically I would inform him at 9PM that I needed to sleep because of my early morning, but I knew it would take him 30 minutes to finish up whatever he was watching, so I was never upset when he would simply nod his head and keep on chuckling along with whatever he was watching.

On Saturday mornings I would awaken at 7AM to a dull thud on my door. If I hadn’t been regularly awakening at 4AM I might have shot out of bed, swung the door wildly open, and screamed “What the hell, man!” But each time I would calmly put on some clothes, slowly unlock the door, and smile when I opened it to see him standing there, eyes barely open, hair a wild mess, and hear him mutter, “I’m bored.”

I’d reply, “No, I think you are still asleep.”

If Jacob couldn’t find a friend to shoot hoops with, he would beg me to go with him. The first time I obliged, I ended up playing two-on-one basketball with another him and another kid and narrowly avoided having to retire from the game I love by blowing a 11-0 lead only to hang on to win 21-19. I also pulled one of my glutes going for a block.

When he needed a snack, he would ask if he could eat something of mine from the fridge… after he’d already eaten it.

If he felt like scaring the shit out of me, he’d sneak out the second story window in the kitchen, climb on the roof to the window that was outside my room and beside my bed… and bang on it like a wildebeest.

—–

During the first two weeks of June, I was in Boston, but would receive a daily text message from Jacob. It usually said something like, “Poop.” Or to ask if he could eat something of mine, which surely had already been eaten.

A few of the highlights of having a 12-year-old pseudo-son:

1) Being asked what sex is like… while walking to shoot hoops… And quickly realizing this was a lose-lose question.

2) Allowing him to pick a place and time to go see the latest Superman movie… and having the time be wrong and paying $15 for a ticket because he didn’t bring his money.

3) Playing catch with him in Central Park… and then having it abruptly end when he tossed a baseball over my head and it nearly concussed a group of innocent bystanders.

—–

4) Trying to get him to stop kicking a large bouncy ball down the aisles of a CVS.

5) Having him try to jump in the Central Park Pond to catch a turtle.

Despite the innumerable incredible experiences I had in nYc, this unexpected friendship/guardianship ended up being one of the most cherished. Perhaps one day I’ll have a real son of my own. Perhaps I’ll teach him about the birds and the bees while shooting hoops. Perhaps I’ll play catch with him in Central Park. But most certainly, I won’t forget the time I did it all before with Jacob.