‘Twas a bumpy flight before Christmas, when all through the house
Not a passenger was stirring, not even a spouse.
The drinks were all spiked by the flight attendant with care,
In hopes that in Boston, we all soon would be there
The children were all screaming, wanting to be home in their beds,
While visions of Pokemon-Go danced in their heads.
And the grandma in her ‘kerchief, and I in my hoodie,
Had just settled in for our last flight, a gut-wrenching goodie.
When out on the wing, there arose such a clatter,
I sprang from my seat to see what was the matter.
Away to the window I looked with alarm,
To see what it was, causing us such harm.
The moon on the breast of the new fallen snow,
Gave the lustre of mid-day to Boston below.
When, what to my wondering eyes should appear,
But a ruby red sleigh, and eight tired reindeer.
With an old lost driver, so chubby and adorned like a hick,
I knew in a moment it must be St Nick.
More rapid than eagles his coursers they came,
And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name!
Now Dasher! now, Dancer! now, Prancer and Vixen!
Oh Comet! Oh Cupid! Oh Donner and Blitzen!
We landed on the wing, not atop a porch or wall!?
Now dash away! Dash away! Dash away all!”
And then, in a twinkling, I heard on the wing,
What sounded like the Angels, beginning to sing.
As I drew in my head, and was turning around,
In through the cock-pit door St Nicholas came with a bound.
He was dressed all in fur, from his head to his foot,
Like an 18th century Appalachian trader, all covered in soot.
A bundle of sticks he had flung on his back,
Unexpected to be stranded, even he thought the flight was whack.
His eyes-how they twinkled! his dimples how merry!
His cheeks were like roses, his nose like a cherry!
The plane jumped around in the air, soft like a bow,
And the passengers cried and whaled like a newly shot crow.
The stump of a pipe he held tight in his teeth,
And the smoke it encircled his head like a wreath.
My eyes met his and noticed his little round belly,
The plane shook and lurched, bouncing my brain, like a bowlful of jelly!
He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work,
And re-filled all the boozy drinks, then turned with a jerk.
And laying his finger aside an old woman’s nose,
He calmed her fears, and the boozy drink rose.
He then sprang back to his sleigh, to his team gave a whistle,
And away they all flew off the wing like the down of a thistle.
The plane, it righted, with no more of a peep,
The fear amongst the passengers was gone , though it’d been quite deep.
Just then I heard him exclaim, ‘ere he drove out of sight,
“Welcome Back to Boston, and to all a good-night!”
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.
Now I lay me down to sleep, I pray the Lord my soul to keep, If I shall die before I wake, I pray the Lord my soul to take. Amen.
I am going to Hell. At this point in my life, I’m fairly certain of this fate. Of course, that’s if Hell actually exists.
If it exists, I certainly hope it’s as twisted and tormented as Dante makes it out to be. Because then I’d have some eternal entertainment to go along with my eternal damnation.
For most of my life I thought it was an absolute certainty I’d be going to Heaven. It was a belief grounded in my relatively intact set of morals, which I picked up from a childhood of Christian indoctrination. As in, “thou shalt not kill.”
Even on my worst days, I have definitely never killed anyone. Obviously, this is a solid step in the direction of Heaven for most people. And I took many other steps in that direction for a significant portion of my life. As a child, I even thought it would be cool to be a priest.
I was raised in a Catholic household, went to church every Sunday, believed in God, said my prayers, went to confession, and received communion. Then I went to college, started sleeping in on Sundays, and only made it to church when I was home on vacation. Yet, I still believed in God, that my relatively moral lifestyle was the foundation for a good life, and enjoyed asking God for things of a miraculous nature.
For example, one of my favorite requests went something like, “Dear God, this workout is killing me. Don’t let me die on the elliptical machine.”
Once I started grad school, I started making a real attempt to go to church more regularly, as way of accepting a mature lifestyle, and establishing myself in the community.
When I moved to Boston, I started going to church more regularly, bolstered by the belief that I had found my purpose in life… But that was back in 2004 and the Catholic Church was just beginning to endure the greatest assault it has ever faced. The assault was coming from every angle, even from within. As the accusations of sexual abuse started multiplying and became reality, I was in the midst of the greatest transformation of my life.
I began to have faith in myself.
The same level of faith it takes to believe there is a higher power, someone or something who has pre-destined each of our lives, was the amount of faith I had swept over me and my ability to transform my own life. This level of faith made me begin to question a lot of the certainties I had in my life, not only about religion, but about who I wanted to become, how I could do it, and what it would take.
A lot of things have happened between then and now in my life. Some good. Some bad. But for the most part, the past decade has been a whirlwind of self-discovery. However, my willingness to question what I have believed about religion, God, and faith definitely sits atop my list.
—–
Not that long ago, before I started my medical residency, I was working overnight at the Amazon warehouse in Lexington, KY. Early one morning, around 2AM, a 21-year-old young man was across the conveyor belt from me when he struck up a conversation. I had seen him around before and noticed that during our brief 15 minute breaks he would be reading the Bible. On this night, our chit-chat quickly moved to the most engrossing discussion on religion I have ever experienced.
It didn’t take long for me to recognize this guy had thoroughly delved into the Bible and his knowledge of scripture was as impressive as any Sunday morning sermon I’ve ever heard. But his story, the one that led him to give himself to God, was the final piece of the puzzle in my religious self-discovery.
He told me how he had grown up in a misogynistic home, one where he was taught to do as he wished and pleased, to use sex and drugs to make himself feel good, and to ignore the role of education and morals in his life. He was infinitely atheist, often openly mocking acquaintances and classmates, even friends, who entertained the idea of a higher power.
But at age 19, with his two-year old son, born of a drug-laden sexual tryst, at his side, he gave himself to God.
His girlfriend was pregnant with his next child and he was beginning to feel overwhelmed with the future. He described looking at his son one night, becoming overcome with grief, falling to his knees, and beginning to cry profusely. Then, he felt the hand of God on his shoulder, could hear Him speaking in his ear, and a wave of emotion poured over him.
Moments later, he was irreparably changed. He felt a purpose in his life and a desire to live with a moral certitude. He felt “saved”, as if there was someone else looking out for him and asking him to be a better person. The thought of his eternal salvation came to mind. So he dedicated his free time to his family and his religious education.
From the way he described himself prior to this experience, I could tell a completely different man was standing across from me on an early morning in late May. The difference between him and I, though, was that he believed God had changed his life, while I understood that he, and he alone, had made a decision; the decision to no longer be an irresponsible child, trying to raise a child of his own, and to instead become a grown adult.
In my mind, there is no spiritual mystery to maturation.
—-
The understanding of the human body I have acquired during my medical education is an easy scapegoat for my drift away from God and/or religion. But truth be told, my beliefs were changing long before I understood the electrical underpinnings involved in a heartbeat, the diffusion capacity of a pneumocyte in the lung, or the capability of an egg to be fertilized by sperm.
My medical knowledge has played a role, but not as great as it might seem. I have actually entertained the reality that my belief in science, the platform on which medicine is based, is not mutually exclusive from religion. Many people think a true belief in science, or more accurately, the scientific method, prevents one from acknowledging a God. I don’t necessarily believe that is the case.
“Finding Darwin’s God” by Kenneth R. Miller, is one of the most influential and thought-provoking texts I’ve read in the past 10 years. In it, he lays a quite convincing thesis for the co-existence of God and Science. In fact, he argues the “miracle of life” known as creation is not mutually exclusive from the acknowledgement of evolution. He argues it may actually speak to the wonderful power of a creator; one that has set the world in motion, but is allowing it to be self-defined.
Self-defined. Like each and every one of us.
—-
As I laid out my thesis against his belief in God, the young man at Amazon pointed out he had at one time felt exactly the same way. Until the fateful day in his life when he was saved. When God revealed Himself and changed the young man’s understanding of the world and his life.
When the young man expressed it as his destiny, one that had been pre-determined, I pointed out if his God is real and controlling my life, then my life is pre-destined, and I truly have no say in whether I end up in Heaven. Or Hell.
And if that is the case, then I am on a Highway to Hell. Because the God of Christianity requires a belief in Him to be saved. There are no keys to the kingdom of Heaven to those of us who have chosen to place our faith in the belief we have control of our lives; control of who we become and our ability to make it happen through sheer willpower and effort.
Faith is not exclusive to those who have religion in their lives. Some of us have faith there is nothing waiting for us after our hearts stop beating. And that faith allows you to embrace the world, its challenges, its heartbreak, and its rewards more than the holiest of thou.
Of course, I could be wrong. And then I’ll end up in Hell. But rest assured, Dante and I will have a quite a party down there. At the very least, I’ll spend the rest of eternity trying to convince Lucifer to apologize to the Man Upstairs.
When Wade and Lindz tied the knot three years ago, The Black Eyed Peas “I gotta feeling” ended up being the theme song and inspiration for An Ode to Cincinnati. I wrote that story in honor of my friends in attendance and how my opinion of the Queen City, always adversarial in nature, had turned 180 degrees. The idea of living in Cincinnati had never appealed to me, despite so many close friends living there, but when I witnessed their joy as group that evening, living the lives they had imagined for themselves, I couldn’t help but have a change of heart.
Two weekends ago I found myself in Boston at another wedding and the theme from three years ago, “I gotta feeling”, was the second song of the evening. I was transported back to that night at Wade & Lindz’s wedding and remembered the joy of seeing so many friends in one place. When I returned from my momentary experiment with time travel, I realized I was among the second group of friends that had been incubated because of a lone friendship.
Gib, one of my freshman year roommates, had grown up in Cincinnati, only a stone’s throw from Oxford, Ohio where we learned the joys of life. Besides being a good buffer between our third roommate, Gib provided me the opportunity to meet his already existent group of friends from Cincy who had also found themselves in Oxford. Several of them had attended high school together or knew each other from the ‘burbs, but were quick to allow outsiders like me join their Band of Brothers. Fat, Wade, J-Dawg, Hoj, Cole, Zelch, and Hern were all there that evening three years ago, and I’d found myself among them because of Gib, a lynchpin of a man among men.
On this evening, I found myself in Boston because of the other lynchpin in my life, Juice. Over the course of my four years in college, I had progressively spread my wings and made random friendships, but Gib and Juice were the two branches that had provided me the most opportunities to meet new people. Juice was like Gib, another tall, lanky Ohio kid, but he hailed from Medina, in the upper eastern recess of Ohio.
And like Gib, he had a group of close friends, who while they didn’t join him in Oxford, were likely to visit at a moment’s notice. Juice was also accepting of me into his home on multiple occasions over the years, as Gib had been, where I quickly became a part of the Medina boys’ lives.
While that evening was a celebration of Beeker’s wedding, I was reunited with this second Band of Brothers from Medina: Riegans, Slaby, BillyJ, and Riiitz [Jinx, Daryl and my brother Will had also managed to finagle their way into this troupe by way of Juice]. Two groups of friends, tied together for me by two different lynchpins that I’d somehow been fortunate enough to cross paths with.
As “I gotta feeling” faded into “Gagnam style”, the parallels between these two groups slowly came to the forefront of my mind. While I may have been the lone common link between these two nights, I can’t help but see myself as an observer, rather than as an integral part of their stories. I’ve effortlessly floated amongst these two Bands, consisting of lawyers, physicians, engineers, accountants, chemists, and businessmen.
While each of us has managed to carve out our own lives, this night was in celebration of Beeker and Beekerette’s union, as Wade and Lindz’s night had been three years before. And each wedding brought together two distinct, yet somehow alike, groups of men.
Two Bands of Brothers, each celebrating one member’s nuptials, and like the days of our youth, letting the good times roll.
Elbrecht's Corpuscle 