I am home. Woah. These last three months of living in the beautiful country of Costa Rica seem to be nothing but a dream; a feeling I am not too fond of. That's why this next chapter of my blog will be a valiant effort to capture any fleeting memories I can before they slip away. However, in this post: current thoughts about returning to the land of the free and home of the brave.
I made it through all of the good-byes, the full day of traveling, and even the greetings of family and friends without crying. I do not pride, nor punish myself for that fact as I believe everyone processes differently, and no one way is correct. However, as I sit down to write this–in my comfy bed–a couple tears are sliding down my cheeks. I don't know how many more to expect in the coming hours, days, weeks.
Ending a chapter in life is never an easy thing to do, especially if you don't feel like it has been completely written. The people you know who have studied abroad will tell you that those three or four months is indeed a chapter of their book, not a sentence as a vacation would equate to. Yes, I did live in Costa Rica. A place with eighty degree weather on a cold day. A land with the most beautiful beaches that I have seen accompanied by bathwater to swim in. A region with incredible landscapes and tropical storms that shout of God's existence and reflect His beauty. But it was no vacation. I wasn't visiting the country; I lived there. I had to create something of a life for myself in Costa Rica with routines, schedules, entertainment, can't forget school, and friends who quickly became my family.
All this is an effort to say that returning back to the United States is not at all the same as coming back from a couple-week vacation, and a different feeling than when I left because my life in Costa Rica–aside from the family created–is not something I will have, ever again. Leaving the U.S.A. in September, I knew that I would be picking up the life I put on hold in just three short months.
Don't get me wrong, I am my fair share of excited to be home. I wrapped my arms around the love of my life for the first time in what felt like forever. She isn't just an image on a screen anymore and I love it! I had spaghetti for dinner. If you know me at all, you understand the difficulty I had being away from spaghetti for three months. Okay, I had it twice while I was there, but it just wasn't the same. Soon I will be seeing the friends I had to leave. And though I haven't just yet, but I will today.. I get to drive! Stay off the streets because I am three months out of practice and have been influenced by the Tico, driving culture. If you hear my horn, it's probably me just saying hey. If I cut you off, well I apologize. I'm just on a mission.
Hey, by the way IT'S COLD! My friends and I began to process this well in advance, but the first experience of Oregon's thirty-seven degree weather was still a shock to the system. Just a couple weeks ago, my friends and I were bundled up with hot chocolate in hand listening to an outdoor Christmas concert in sixty-five degree weather.. However, I am elated to get re-acquainted with my sweaters, wool coat, and gloves. I have missed my winter wardrobe.
Speaking of Christmas, I still haven't quite entered the holiday spirit. The cold plus Christmas decorations is helping, instead of associating them with palm trees and eighty degree days. But it still hasn't fully developed inside of me, and it's only a week away! Don't worry, I will get there.
Needless to say, my thoughts and emotions about returning cover a wide spectrum of colors. I know that I am going to miss the relationships created there more than Costa Rica itself. It's not an easy thought knowing I won't be doing life with the people I have been for the last few months. But, I am excited for this next chapter of my life as well. It holds some exciting events within its pages.
I can flush my toilet paper again!
Monday, December 19, 2011
Tuesday, December 6, 2011
Listen up, Ladies
That's right, this one is for you. However, all you guys should listen up as well because this has just as much to do about you, and your turn is coming soon; stay tuned. I want to hash out a rather simple problem that has been stuck in a downward cycle for quite some time. I say listen up to the ladies not because they are at solely at fault, but because they have a greater impact in this issue than I believe most realize.
The problem is the loss of masculinity in our culture. I'm not talking about the aggressive, testosterone driven, too manly to give a hug, impress other men with my muscles and how many different women I can lay, dick measuring version of masculinity our culture has come to know. That's actually the very problem I want to address. I am talking about genuine, chivalrous masculinity that was once a central part of every man's identity. The masculinity that meant opening a door for a woman, standing up in her presence, and knew how to treat her with respect rather than as an object.
Am I arguing that there aren't any of these men left? Not at all. However, they are harder to come by these days, and I believe the problem is rooted in a social misunderstanding of what masculinity is. Out of it spawns a list of issues longer than a family of seven's grocery list, but this only serves as a distraction to the central problem.
The misunderstanding is simple really. Men can't be sensitive. Not that they don't possess the power to be, but rather they shouldn't be. Men have to be strong and well, sensitivity is a sign of weakness. It's for women and for women only. The problem is, this isn't true. Sensitivity is not a woman-thing it's a human-thing. That means men can and in fact should be sensitive.
So why is it that we put men inside a box? Why do we fill it with a certain list of traits of what men should be, and when they 'accidentally' step out of that box they get stones thrown at them? Isn't it true? I see it happen often. A guy says or does something that ever-so-slightly strays away from his strict definition and he is labeled as a sissy, gay, woman, cry-baby, fag, wimp, pansy, queer to name a few. They increase in malignancy from there. Yes guys will use these names and it is offensive, but ladies I hear throwing these stones too and let me tell you that you have no idea the damage you are causing. Regardless of whether you actually mean it or are just saying it as a joke it is being interpreted the same way, and for good reason.
When you call a man one of these names–or any of the many unlisted–you are directly attacking the very core of who he is, or desires to be. It shouldn't take much to realize that is harmful. It's even more harmful when you add into the equation that the way to show a guy love is to respect him, which is the very opposite of what you are doing when you use these names. As anyone would, he puts his guard up because the last thing he wants is his vulnerability to be attacked a second time.
I don't know if you have noticed, but men also tend to have a problem with being wrong. It's a pride thing. But that means that the guy now has to prove that he isn't a wimp, pansy, or what have you by doing one, a few, or all of the things I mentioned in the second paragraph. Repeat this same instance as often as it gets repeated and you can see how it doesn't take long for the idea of masculinity to become twisted.
Though men in general punch harder, blows of this nature always hurt more when delivered by women. So ladies, I plead you to stop calling guys these names even in a joking manner and to broaden your view of what masculinity is to include all characteristics of basic, human nature. Whether they say it or not, or whether you believe it or not men will thank you for it.
The problem is the loss of masculinity in our culture. I'm not talking about the aggressive, testosterone driven, too manly to give a hug, impress other men with my muscles and how many different women I can lay, dick measuring version of masculinity our culture has come to know. That's actually the very problem I want to address. I am talking about genuine, chivalrous masculinity that was once a central part of every man's identity. The masculinity that meant opening a door for a woman, standing up in her presence, and knew how to treat her with respect rather than as an object.
Am I arguing that there aren't any of these men left? Not at all. However, they are harder to come by these days, and I believe the problem is rooted in a social misunderstanding of what masculinity is. Out of it spawns a list of issues longer than a family of seven's grocery list, but this only serves as a distraction to the central problem.
The misunderstanding is simple really. Men can't be sensitive. Not that they don't possess the power to be, but rather they shouldn't be. Men have to be strong and well, sensitivity is a sign of weakness. It's for women and for women only. The problem is, this isn't true. Sensitivity is not a woman-thing it's a human-thing. That means men can and in fact should be sensitive.
So why is it that we put men inside a box? Why do we fill it with a certain list of traits of what men should be, and when they 'accidentally' step out of that box they get stones thrown at them? Isn't it true? I see it happen often. A guy says or does something that ever-so-slightly strays away from his strict definition and he is labeled as a sissy, gay, woman, cry-baby, fag, wimp, pansy, queer to name a few. They increase in malignancy from there. Yes guys will use these names and it is offensive, but ladies I hear throwing these stones too and let me tell you that you have no idea the damage you are causing. Regardless of whether you actually mean it or are just saying it as a joke it is being interpreted the same way, and for good reason.
When you call a man one of these names–or any of the many unlisted–you are directly attacking the very core of who he is, or desires to be. It shouldn't take much to realize that is harmful. It's even more harmful when you add into the equation that the way to show a guy love is to respect him, which is the very opposite of what you are doing when you use these names. As anyone would, he puts his guard up because the last thing he wants is his vulnerability to be attacked a second time.
I don't know if you have noticed, but men also tend to have a problem with being wrong. It's a pride thing. But that means that the guy now has to prove that he isn't a wimp, pansy, or what have you by doing one, a few, or all of the things I mentioned in the second paragraph. Repeat this same instance as often as it gets repeated and you can see how it doesn't take long for the idea of masculinity to become twisted.
Though men in general punch harder, blows of this nature always hurt more when delivered by women. So ladies, I plead you to stop calling guys these names even in a joking manner and to broaden your view of what masculinity is to include all characteristics of basic, human nature. Whether they say it or not, or whether you believe it or not men will thank you for it.
Friday, December 2, 2011
Mr. Donavan, I Gotta Go
A month and a half back some friends and I ventured up to Nicaragua for the weekend. We stayed on an island in the middle of Lake Nicaragua–a body of fresh water previously known for shark sightings and now known as a place Dana threw up–called Ometepe. It consisted of two volcanoes and an intense hike that ended with a five-hundred foot waterfall. Worth it? Absolutely.
However, the story I want to share with you actually occurred on the bus ride to the border. As we were closing in on it we entered stop-and-go traffic that consisted of semi-trucks and buses. At that moment one of the girls in our group, Kelly made it known that she had to use the bathroom and that she had to use it PRONTO. I greatly empathized with her as I had experienced the very same curse the evening prior. I don't think the people of the restaurant I encountered stepping off the bus that night saw anything more of me than the blue, blur of my North Face jacket. But that's beside the point.
Kelly built up the necessary courage to ask the bus driver–in Spanish–if she could exit the bus to find the nearest lou. He kindly responded, "yes, but if I have to start moving I won't be able to wait for you." Part of Kelly's courage was the fact that I told her I would get off the bus with her. So I did. We hurried to the closest thing we figured would have a bathroom. I think our facial expressions must have talked for us because as soon as we arrived the locals exclaimed, "¿Baño?" And before we had time to respond they pointed us in the right direction.
It proved a positive that I tagged along because the bathroom door didn't shut unless it was locked. From the outside.. I held the door shut as Kelly felt the sweet relief I did the night before. It worked out nicely that I could see the bus from where I was standing. Everyone in it had their eyes glued on us–me at that moment–in anticipation. I saw each pair of eyes widen as the bus started driving away. As did mine... I politely urged Kelly to hurry up, but you know how it is when you have been holding it in for a long time. There's really not much you can do about it.
Finally, she asked to be let out of the bathroom and the chase began. We zigged and zagged between buses and semi-trucks on the muddy, gravel road. As Kelly and I came up alongside our bus I hit the side of it twice to signal the driver. The door opened and since we are being quite honest in this story, I will admit that I felt pretty cool knowing the driver picked up what I was puttin' down, if you will. Kelly hopped into the doorway and I quickly followed, bus still moving and everything. As I made the turn from the stairs to the aisle however, the mud on my feet caused me to slip on the rubber-like floor of the bus and I basically fell onto the driver, which he didn't much appreciate. Didn't feel as cool after that one. The door closed, and the entire bus applauded our safe return. We took a bow, then our seats. Okay, we didn't bow.
Then we arrived at our destination. Not a minute later.
However, the story I want to share with you actually occurred on the bus ride to the border. As we were closing in on it we entered stop-and-go traffic that consisted of semi-trucks and buses. At that moment one of the girls in our group, Kelly made it known that she had to use the bathroom and that she had to use it PRONTO. I greatly empathized with her as I had experienced the very same curse the evening prior. I don't think the people of the restaurant I encountered stepping off the bus that night saw anything more of me than the blue, blur of my North Face jacket. But that's beside the point.
Kelly built up the necessary courage to ask the bus driver–in Spanish–if she could exit the bus to find the nearest lou. He kindly responded, "yes, but if I have to start moving I won't be able to wait for you." Part of Kelly's courage was the fact that I told her I would get off the bus with her. So I did. We hurried to the closest thing we figured would have a bathroom. I think our facial expressions must have talked for us because as soon as we arrived the locals exclaimed, "¿Baño?" And before we had time to respond they pointed us in the right direction.
It proved a positive that I tagged along because the bathroom door didn't shut unless it was locked. From the outside.. I held the door shut as Kelly felt the sweet relief I did the night before. It worked out nicely that I could see the bus from where I was standing. Everyone in it had their eyes glued on us–me at that moment–in anticipation. I saw each pair of eyes widen as the bus started driving away. As did mine... I politely urged Kelly to hurry up, but you know how it is when you have been holding it in for a long time. There's really not much you can do about it.
Finally, she asked to be let out of the bathroom and the chase began. We zigged and zagged between buses and semi-trucks on the muddy, gravel road. As Kelly and I came up alongside our bus I hit the side of it twice to signal the driver. The door opened and since we are being quite honest in this story, I will admit that I felt pretty cool knowing the driver picked up what I was puttin' down, if you will. Kelly hopped into the doorway and I quickly followed, bus still moving and everything. As I made the turn from the stairs to the aisle however, the mud on my feet caused me to slip on the rubber-like floor of the bus and I basically fell onto the driver, which he didn't much appreciate. Didn't feel as cool after that one. The door closed, and the entire bus applauded our safe return. We took a bow, then our seats. Okay, we didn't bow.
Then we arrived at our destination. Not a minute later.
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