Wichita | Elbrecht's Corpuscle

The World is Flat

Posted on January 27, 2017 by Elbrecht

Despite centuries of knowledge to the contrary, I’ve considered that Aristotle was wrong.

Or that Sir Isaac Newton didn’t know what he was talking about.

And maybe Eucledian geometry had a major flaw.

None of these amazing scientists or their eye-popping equations accounted for one significant variable: life in the 21st century.

We are living in an age of mankind which could not have been predicted, even by the most sophisticated understanding of the world in centuries past.

I can send a real-time message to a friend in India with imperceptible hesitation between communication devices.

I can watch video of the sun rising upon the Australian shore.

I can order a tool, have it manufactured in Germany, and delivered to my doorstep within a week.

I can view the image of an assassination in Turkey and almost instantaneously share my shock and awe with a colleague located only minutes from the dead body.

I can step foot in each of these countries with the push of a button.

When I left my home in Wichita, KS over 20 years ago, I couldn’t have imagined where my life would take me. At that moment, I was headed East, to Lexington, KY, to start anew after the divorce of my parents.

In the subsequent years, I developed a heightened awareness and independence I doubt few expected. Eventually, those traits carried me even further East to Boston when I was 24; an effort to figure out what I would make of my life immediately ensued.

I took my first step on foreign soil in 2005; I had not yet read Thomas Friedman’s 21st Century Economic Bible, “The World is Flat”, but in a cosmic moment of clarity, I inherently knew my life had been forever changed.

At my brother’s behest, I began reading Friedman’s account of how modern life and technologic advances had defied the laws of physics set forth by nature and confirmed by some of the greatest scientists to ever walk the Earth.

Ten years have passed since I finished Friedman’s manifesto. And my thirst for global excursions has yet to be satiated. Each time I have traveled abroad for pleasure was akin to another sliver of my brain being turned on for the first time.

When I lived abroad for two years during medical school, on a small, moderately inhabited island in the Caribbean, I had the opportunity to see how the world could still be flat, in ways Friedman never expounded upon.

The simplicity, beauty, and innocence of Dominica were unmistakeable at times. But in the next instant, I’d be immersed in the medical knowledge accumulated over the course of millions of hours of scientific discovery. The juxtaposition was remarkable.

I readily acknowledge: I have lived a charmed life; one full of opportunities I have been thankful for; as well as those I’ve created for myself.

Each success has been no small feat. Many were met with significant resistance. Some with initial failure.

But I have been persistent. Persistent in my desire to prove Friedman correct. Persistent in my desire to meld the scientific truths of Aristotle, Newton, and Euclid with the economic realities of modern life.

I only know one way of doing this. To travel. To find the experiences that allow us to come as close to surreal as possible. I crave them.

The World is Flat.

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.

—–

I Joined the Army

Posted on December 25, 2013 by Elbrecht

{I was reminded of this day during a text message exchange with an old friend last night… originally posted 12.27.08}

I never thought I would join the army, but on Christmas Day, I decided to enlist. It has always been a passion of mine to serve others through hard work and volunteerism, just like millions of American men before me.

Thankfully though, the army with which I decided to enlist is not currently deployed to Iraq. Instead, I decided to suit up and become a part of The Salvation Army… if only for a day.

Most people don’t realize that The Salvation Army is actually a religious organization with strict doctrine. So strict that you can not marry outside of the Army if you are an officer, even if your spouse dies. Imagine if the US Army didn’t allow you to marry outside of the Army… forget “Don’t ask, don’t tell”… we’re talking full-fledged legalization of gay marriage. But I digress…

My brother, father, and I decided to partake in some volunteerism on Christmas morning/day rather than sitting around my father’s dining room table, eating cereal in our boxer shorts and watching cartoons. We were hoping that our experience at The Salvation Army in Wichita would far exceed that sort of fun. So rather than that sort of excitement, we woke up early on Christmas morning and headed over to The Army’s west Wichita headquarters, suited up in Salvation Army aprons, threw on some disposable latex gloves, and joined the other early morning enlistees.

In any good army, there is a slightly psychotic drill sergeant to whip the enlistees into shape and turn them into model soldiers. Our drill sergeant was “Debbie”, a 40-something woman dressed in jeans that were too tight, a blue Hawaiian shirt, and sporting a set of black sunglasses that were perched on her dirty blond hair. She was whipping soldiers into shape when we arrived at 9:30AM; she was also definitely “on” a cocktail of some psychotropic medication and caffeine, despite the early hour.

When we first arrived, tables still needed to be set, bread put into baskets, cranberry sauce removed from the hermetically sealed containers and sloshed into a giant serving bowl, and individual serving size butters put into bowls on the tables. There were around 30 other volunteers when we arrived. It was seemingly a mix of social outcasts, families torturing their teenage children with volunteer service, old couples whose extended family did not want to spend Christmas with them, and us. We quickly went to work completing the tasks assigned by Debbie as she stormed around the spacious dining room wide-eyed and highly caffeinated. She would occasionally flip her sunglasses down from her hair to her face while responding to a question with “You don’t wanna ask me that… you really don’t!” In the kitchen, there were four guys preparing the feast and I later learned that they had been there since 4AM. Huge tubs of mashed potatoes, green beans, and stuffing were percolating on the executive size stoves. Turkey slices were warming in aluminum cookware while the sweet potatoes were being prepared on a side table. It was only 10AM, but my stomach was craving a monstrous heaping of Christmas dinner.

By 10:15, the dining room preparation had been completed, my father was exhausted from scooping out bowls of cranberry sauce, and Debbie had finished two 20 ounce bottles of Diet Coke. More volunteers had arrived and were making small talk while awaiting the people who would be coming to our locale for a great Christmas dinner. I chatted up one of the kitchen volunteers while he was taking a break and he relayed to me some of the more important and tedious jobs that would need to be completed. While standing in the window between the dining room and kitchen, he told me that he would need a few guys to be at the window at all times to be ready to dispense the clean dishes as they came out of the wash. I decided this would be the perfect job for my dad, brother, and I.

I called them over and we marked our territory by simply ordering around the other volunteers who approached the window with naive curiosity. As described by my new kitchen friend, our job would entail unloading the clean dishes and silverware from the dish rack in lightning quick fashion, transporting them to their appropriate place in the dining room, and walking the dish rack ten feet over to the poor schlubs who were scraping the dirty plates of any remaining food particles. In my mind, it was a job suitable to one person, two at the most, but I figured we had come as a family entity and should just stick together (otherwise, my dad was likely to disappear and leave my brother and I volunteering to our hearts content). I quickly decided to refer to our positions at the kitchen window as a “union job”: one man to do the work, a second man to supervise the first man’s work, and a third man to go on break.

The dinner was scheduled to begin at 11AM, and as the hour neared, Debbie called everyone’s attention to the front of the dining room through the use of a microphone. She introduced a short, balding man with grey-fogged glasses and white hair crazily streaming out of places where it remained on his head. He introduced himself as a member of The Salvation Army and the man in charge of the day’s event. He quickly launched into a quick description of the impending event that went something like this:

“We really appreciate you all coming today. Without you volunteers we wouldn’t be able to serve these people. Remember, these are people too. They are just like you and me, they are people too. They might look a little different, but they are people. Please do not touch them. Many of them do not like that. They might be confused when you touch them. But you can talk to them. And bring them food. Be nice to them, we should show them love, because some of these people have nothing. If we do that, they will appreciate it.”

I quickly glanced over to my brother and asked, “Who the hell are we serving? Convicts?” It wasn’t until that time that I had really considered who would be attending this event, but I had originally assumed that it would be individuals from group homes, potentially homeless individuals, and families who could not afford a nice meal on this blessed day. From the description provided by Salvation Sal, I was half expecting them to wheel in cages that contained half man, half werewolf hybrids who would be frothing at the mouth. Either that or convicts wearing ankle bracelets.

When Salvation Sal completed his stirring speech, Debbie piped in and explained what the ever-increasing multitude of volunteers should be doing from 11AM to 1PM while dinner was being served. Luckily, I had already secured our union job at the kitchen window and I tuned out her crazy-eyed instructions. When she finished instructing the other volunteers, she strolled by our position and stopped to look at the three of us. She asked, “What are you gentlemen doing today? You just gonna stand there and look pretty?” My dad quickly piped in, “Yes ma’am, we found ourselves a union gig, and we’re just gonna stand here.” Apparently, my father had decided to get into the Christmas spirit and feed into Debbie’s now completely evident psychosis. She gave us a crazy smile and flipped her sunglasses down to cover her eyes as she walked away. She returned moments later with a large glass bowl full of ice and four cans of Diet Coke. She looked at the three of us through her sunglasses and said, “Guard these with your life.”

When the guests arrived, it was clear that Salvation Sal must have been scarred by some past Christmas Day fiasco. The individuals were just as I had expected, not the newly released were-beasts that his description had made me envision. Other volunteers took the guests’ orders, brought them food, talked to them and made them feel welcome, and cleaned their place mats when they were finished. This cycle of life continued for the next two hours as even more volunteers arrived, seemingly only to make an appearance after having played a rousing round of Wii tennis on their newly acquired gaming system. These stragglers mostly stayed off to the side and watched the other volunteers do their thing. Our union job provided some action every 5 minutes or so as clean dishes would be brought to the window and we would unload it contents in under 5 seconds and then hand the dish rack to a guy who was dressed like he might be the lead singer of Wichita’s newest 30-something boy band.

During the lull between freshly cleaned cutlery and dishware, the three of us kept ourselves entertained with jokes about union jobs. We were eventually joined by a young boy, approximately 10 years old, whom I nicknamed Huck Finn and who must have determined we were the coolest group in the entire room. He tried to be a fast learner, but repeatedly burned himself with the piping hot silverware because he grabbed them right out of the rack, instead of emptying them into the silverware bin. Of course, in line with our sophomoric humor of the day, we kindly made fun of him for it.

As 1:30 neared, we each took turns grabbing a plate of food and satisfying the hunger pangs that had been emanating from our bellies for the last several hours. Thankfully, it tasted even better than I had imagined. Over the course of the four hours we volunteered that day, my father, brother, and I shared many laughs, performed a serviceable duty to one of our nation’s finest armies, and made fun of a pre-teen who thought we were cool. In the end, it was as fulfilling as I had imagined, but the added bonus of interacting with Salvation Sal, Debbie, and Huck Finn made it a Christmas adventure that I will not soon forget. I might even consider enlisting again next year.

An Ode to Cincinnati

Posted on July 28, 2009 by Elbrecht

I never thought I would utter the following statement: “I was in Cincinnati this weekend… and I liked it.” I came to this conclusion while on the dance floor at Wade and Lindz’s wedding listening to The Black Eyed Peas “I Gotta Feeling.” It may not have been the most obvious thought, but at that instant, my 11 year disdain for the Queen City had come to a screeching halt.

Most of my ill-conceived repugnance for Cincinnati stemmed from my antagonistic approach to rooting against my college friends’ sports teams, namely the Cincinnati Reds and Bengals. A large portion of my college friends hail from Cincinnati and as a consequence, my unadulterated love for St. Louis sports teams created a stable base from which could be fostered a lasting friendship. I simply rooted for the Reds to lose to any and every other Major League team and watched as my die-hard Bengals fans/friends endured over a decade of horrific mediocrity.

Their pain and anguish of watching Akili Smith interceptions, Wily Mo Pena strike outs, and Chad OchoCinco’s slowly disapating touch down dances, made me happy. My joy stemmed from the fact that they could then retort with calling me a bandwagon Boston fan and pointing out the tragic deaths of Cardinals players. [Note: referencing the tragic death of a sports team’s player is only appropriate after enduring another 3-13 Bengals season.]

As a result, I came to view Cincinnati, the birthplace and/or home of Gib, Fat, Wade, Hern, Zelch, Hoj, Jdawg, Wade, Cole and a myriad of other respectable Cincinnatians, as a desolate wasteland of losing and misery. Even after spending a few joyful holidays and the summer after college graduation in Cincinnati, I still viewed it with disdain. It didn’t matter to me that so many of my friends called it home. Some of this disdain may have subconsciously stemmed from my own hatred for my boring hometown, Wichita, KS, but despite this self-awareness, I still considered Cincy to be another boring example of Midwest America.

When I moved to Boston in the summer of 2004, I felt as if I had been jolted alive and awakened from some sort of zombie-like slumber in which I feel most of the Midwest is entrenched. My return trips to Cincinnati were for the weddings of my friends, who had returned to Cincy after graduation to start their adult lives with jobs, to find lovely women with whom they could spend the rest of their days, and to start families. This is not what I had in mind. Even when I returned to Cincy to bear witness to these blessed events, I still couldn’t help but think of Cincinnati as a boring place to live, and while I didn’t begrudge the lives of my friends, I didn’t think that an existence in Cincinnati was for me.

So when I was getting my grove on to “I Gotta Feeling” and watching my friends and their wives dance around Wade and Lindz, imbibe alcohol with reckless abandon, and generally have an unbelievalbly happy time, I had another one of those jolts.

I looked out into the Cincinnati skyline from Paul Brown stadium and had my opinion of Cincinnati completely reversed. Maybe it was the heat of the moment and seeing the smiles and joy on the faces of people whom I love and respect, but when I woke up the next morning, it was still there. My opinion had changed and it was all seemingly because of The Black Eyed Peas. Indeed, I got a feeling.

Wade and Lindz are the second to last of my Cincinnati friends to get married. First it was Zelch and MJ right after college. Then Matt and Jo two years later. And then Jeremy and Tiff two years ago. Cole and Mary Lynn weren’t far behind. Gib and K-T tied the knot last fall and were followed quickly by Hoj and Kristin. And now Wade and Lindz. [Note: Hern and Coll are getting married in 3 months, but I’ll be studying medicine on an island and won’t be able to make it back.]

As several friends made the observation that they did not know when they would see me next, a stunning reality began to percolate in my brain and culminated in my “a-ha” moment on the dance floor.

No longer can I associate Cincinnati with losing and misery. No longer can I think of it as a boring example of Midwest life. No longer can I return once a year to see another friend get married and revel in old friendships renewed, starting up again where we had left off a year earlier, and eagerly looking forward to the next awesome occasion to celebrate.

Certainly, there will be more occasions to celebrate, as families are started and expanded upon, job promotions are achieved and companies are started, and maybe there will even be a Bengals Super Bowl party.

But I most likely won’t be there for those celebrations. I’ll be busy studying for a Pathology exam, reviewing flashcards on Psychopharmacology, or working late hours into the nite during clinical rotations or as a Resident. It would have been a comfortable excuse before that moment at Wade and Lindz wedding at Paul Brown stadium.

I might still have to use those excuses for some time as I begin the next portion of my life as a medical student, but I will truly miss those experiences. At that moment, Cincinnati was no longer the home of the Reds and the Bengals or a stifling example of the Midwest. It is the home of my friends, people with whom I created relationships with over a decade ago. So I can no longer use such a myopic view to cast opinions of Cincy. It is a bit disappointing in retrospect that I held such an idiotic and sophmoric opinion for such a long time, but it is definitely true: hindsight is 20/20.

Now I don’t have to “find a reason” to visit Cincinnati. Some of my best friends in the world are there. What other reason should I need?

I don’t have the opportunity to wait until another friend gets married. There won’t be a “Save the Date: Hoj’s Big Promotion Party 2011” coming in the mail. I won’t be getting a “Gib and K-T made their 1^stMillion Dance-Party Extravaganza” or “Fat and Jo’s Triumphant Cincinnati Return House Warming”. Those aren’t the type of things my friends are going to be sending invitations for. Those events will occur, but when you have a close group of friends like mine, who have grown up together, been each others best friends for the last 11 years or longer, and see each other fairly regularly, those events won’t need much pre-planning. They will just happen. And I probably won’t be there.

No, don’t be thinking all crazy and believe that I’m seriously considering moving to Cincinnati any time soon. That thought has not entered my mind. It is simply that my high-horse finally died and I can see my friends from Cincinnati for who they really are: a group of special people who happen to be fortunate enough to grow up together, involve other random people in their lives (thanks Gib!), and now have the wonderful opportunity to continue on into adulthood and parenthood as life-long friends.

I don’t think there are too many things more special than that. Except for maybe a Bengals Super Bowl victory. But I won’t be holding my breath on that one. Instead, I’ll make it a point to visit a great group of friends in the years to come, most of whom happen to live in Cincinnati.