The Lakehouse

I felt someone nudging my shoulder and heard the calm, familiar sound of my grandpa’s voice, “We’re almost there, wake up.” The car ride had felt like an eternity, but sight of trees completely surrounding us awakened a sense giddy anticipation within me. I began to fidget like any eight year old that had been buckled into my grandpa’s Buick for the past two hours. The tan interior of the car became insignificant as the East Texas flora and fauna engulfed my attention. The sun light played through gaps in the forest canopy as our we drove ever further from civilization.

I felt the car slow and take a leisurely left turn into the long drive way I grown so familiar with over the years. It was summer and my parents thought it would be a good idea for me to spend a couple days with my grandparents at their lake house near Lake Quitman. I wasn’t as thrilled about it as they thought I should’ve been, but I eventually gave in to their demands. We rolled past giant pine trees that seemed to scrape the clouds. The world seemed so big back then. The fruit on the apple and peach trees my grandparents had taken care of over the past twenty years had just begun to ripen. My arm stretched out the window for an apple only to miss grasping the green orb by a mere couple of inches. Squirrels dashed back up their trees and birds flew from their nest as we passed the time worn tool shed, and came to a stop in front of the garage.

The lake house was a small, one story house that was built almost fifty years ago. My grandparents had bought it after my mom had left for college and made a couple renovations, but for the most part it maintained most of its original characteristics. The side paneling was still a burnt orange wood, and the roof was always covered with leaves and branches from the overhanging pine trees. I helped my grandma carry in some of the groceries to the kitchen. The garage was overflowing with fishing rods, lawn chairs, and an assorted collection of outdoor toys my grandparents had bought for my sister and me over the years. The watermelon I was carrying almost slipped from my grasp as I stumbled into the den. Every corner of the room had a different, unbelievably comfortable chair.  The center of the den was occupied by an old blue couch and an antiquated television that I had never seen turned on. I lugged the giant melon past the cast iron fireplace and up two short steps to the kitchen. I set it on the counter for my grandma to deal with and collapsed onto the couch. I leaned my head back and was momentarily mesmerized by the fan that never seemed like it was turning fast enough to do its job. The den was surrounded by giant windows and two sets of sliding glass doors, so that no matter where you were you could always look outside. I closed my eyes and listened to the sound of the lake washing against the bank only short distance from the front door. The lazy sounds of summer melted any desire to move.

Birds chirping in the distance broke my trance and drew me through the sliding glass doors. The sunlight danced off the lake as I walked towards the old wooden bench at the end of the dock. I sat down on the gray, weather worn cushion as a fish jumped from the water only a few feet from the dock. I heard the rhythmic sound of boards creaking behind me and turned to see my grandpa carrying a pair of fishing poles and a bucket of worms. He smiled at me and asked if I wanted a worm. I nodded as he sat down next to me, and we relived a familiar memory that will never get old.

Centered

All of a sudden, a white hot knife of pain went stabbing through my leg and I crumpled to the ground. My teammate fell on top of me and my face was shoved against the rancid mat room floor. I could vaguely hear people around me – asking, “Did you hear a pop?” I felt like I was underwater. My world moved in slow motion and seemed to lag behind reality. My vision blurred and I remember someone calling my name from what seemed like a long ways away.

It had been a cloudy, typical winter day in Texas. The intermittent rain gave the impression that someone in the clouds had been wringing out a giant washrag for the past couple of hours. My friends and I were enjoying the refreshing natural showers on our walk over to the field house for football practice. Our season had ended uneventfully about a month earlier and we were in the middle of off season. Afternoon workouts consisted of yelling, running, and puking in no particular order. We had grossly underperformed within our district and the coaches were taking every opportunity remind us of our 3-7 record.

Practice began sharply at one and my existence soon became an indistinguishable combination of sprinting, sweating, and not being good enough. Our coaches had decided to make that Friday a competition day, and had different sets of relays or challenges at each station. After the team stretched and listened to our head coach for announcements, chaos ensued as each group dashed off toward our first station. I was feeling good through the first three challenges, even winning one of the speed shuttles. At the time, I possessed no upper body strength, but twelve years of soccer had given me the agility that allowed me to always be competitive. 

One of the coaches had wanted to talk to me after the previous drill, and I was in an all out sprint to catch up with the rest of my group. I threw open the mat room door to the sound of the linebacker coach screaming at everyone to find a partner. The room smelt of twenty years of sweaty, adolescent male and had a torn up black mat covering the majority of the floor. I frantically searched for someone who hadn’t already paired up and discovered the only kid left was our two hundred fifty pound center. I took a deep breath and prepared for what I knew was going to be a miserable experience. We were actually a pretty good team for the first couple of races. Sure, I was slow when it came to trying to support his weight since the kid was twice my size. But the fact that he could throw me over his shoulder, and carry me around like an empty backpack tended to even things out. Everyone knew Coach Cheeks was always obsessed with having us physically carry our teammates, and we were all dreading what we could tell was going to be the final race. He had one of those voices that sounded kind of like someone revving their car engine. You could never really understand what he was saying, but if he started yelling louder you had better figure it out. He started crescendo-ing , “Piggy back! Piggy back!”, and we all knew what to do. I hopped on the center’s shoulders and he took off across the room and back. We were in good shape since he had practically looked like Usain Bolt compared to some of our more equally paired competition. I fell off his back and braced myself to carry a small car. My body strained with effort. Slow and steady wins the race isn’t a mantra that football coaches understand. Coach Cheeks was almost physically inside my ear, bellowing at me to run faster. I quickened my pace as the pair next to me began to catch up. The end of the mat was in sight. I tried to slow down in preparation to turn around and run back to the other side of the room. My desire to win planned a quick pivot and a gut-check sprint back to the other side. Then the mat became slippery with sweat from previously fallen competitors and my left foot shot out from under me. The weight of the world came crashing down on my right knee.

The Rest Stop

I was bored, hot, tired, and starving. My little sister was in even worse shape, and had decided to occupy her time by incessantly trying to touch my kidney with her elbow. My older sister was on my other side and reeked of an unnamed lotion her body seemed to depend on second only to oxygen. Whoever decided to shove the three children in the backseat of my mom’s black Ford Windstar for an eight hour car ride had made an extremely poor decision. We had been on the road since before the sun was up. Luckily for the other passengers, us kids didn’t even remember waking up  at the hotel and being placed in the van. Unfortunately, lunchtime was nearing and everyone’s patience was beginning to run thin. My mom had spent the last half hour feigning sleep in a attempt to try to keep us quiet, but our chanting and projectile pretzels had forced a flinch that gave her away. Grandpa and grandma had long since turned off their hearing aids and were having a wonderful time enjoying the coastline from their second row seats.

It had been a week since we started our journey through the Northwest United States. The previous day, we had met up with my grandparents in San Francisco and began a two day long drive up the coast of California. My dad soon understood that we could only be placated with a chance to stretch our legs and put something in our bellies. He pulled into the next rest stop and into an empty parking space. My mom had barely unlocked the van before an all-out battle royale had begun to see which sibling would be the first to jump into the ocean. I stiff armed my older sister as I flipped over the backseat and out of the trunk while my younger sister tried to scrambled past my grandparents.  We threw our shoes off in the general direction of our mother and sprinted off against a warm, salty breeze. I kicked up sand in every direction and began to pull away from my sisters as the clear winner. With each and every stride my anticipation ballooned until finally I dove headfirst into the glistening Pacific Ocean. For a second, everything was quiet. My eyes burned. The blue-green world surrounding me seemed undisturbed by my victory. Then a blinding light reappeared and my sisters’ laughter brought my world back into focus. We spent the next hour racing down the coastline, always trying to run faster than the incoming waves. By the time my parents had caught up to us with their leisurely stroll, we were soaked, exhausted, and incapable of removing the smiles cemented on our faces.

On our way back to the car, I slowed my pace and tried to absorb my surroundings. My childhood ignorance itched to run back to the van, but I was mesmerized by the pattern in which the light played off the waves. I wanted it. I wanted the warm sun, the incessant laughter, the refreshing water. I was too young to see how much these recollections and the ephemeral ocean breeze had in common. My family’s voices beckoned me back to earth. I took one last glance at a memory and shoved a huge handful of sand into my pocket. “Don’t leave me!”

Blinded Freedom

The afternoon heat of a particularly lazy Sunday afternoon warmed my right arm as I rested it against the window of my dad’s old company car. The only reason I continued to fight the inevitable Sunday afternoon coma was the anticipation of a new form of independence. A novel source of freedom that I had been dreaming about for months. Reality snapped back into place as my head bumped against the warm Plexiglas, and the soon to be familiar sound of gravel being compacted by tires permeated my lethargy.

The owner of the used car lot practically opened my door for me as I fell out of my seat and into a sea of cars that all seemed to say, “I will never be this clean again – buy me!”. The recently shined collection of automobiles reflected the summer sunlight in a way that made me want to look away, but blindly run toward it at the same time. The thought humored me as a man with dark, greasy hair and a gregarious nature that I knew would last only as long as my dad was around sprinted towards us. He shook my hand and asked, “What are you here for son?”, in a seemingly prepubescent tone. I told him we were just looking around and he immediately went off on some tangent he thought was relevant and my dad seemed interested in. He talked extremely fast and walked even faster. We were racing past a row of used trucks when I saw it and immediately knew that destiny was colored red for that afternoon.

Time slowed to a crawl as I quickened my pace towards the scarlet 2003 Pontiac Grand Am that had caught my eye. Being a teenage guy, I knew I either wanted a pick up truck or some type of sports car going into this experience. My dad refused to help pay for gas if I decided on a truck and was fervently opposed to sports cars, so this hybrid between a sedan and my dream gave me hope. We looked it over and spent the next half hour test driving my physical manifestation of freedom throughout the nearby neighborhoods. The AC was ice cold, the radio was loud, and my heart was sold. I loved the way that the dashboard felt like it was having a seizure every time I pumped the brakes. In hindsight, that probably should have worried me a little more, but the mechanic was convinced it was natural and my ignorance was bliss.

The salesman virtually carried my dad through the door to talk finances while I got some alone time with my future ride. I had the realization that this was my first true adult decision. Apart from the obvious safety and economical requirements, my parents left the ultimate choice completely up to me. It was the first time in my life where I felt myself growing out of adolescence and into the realm of adulthood. I knew that this car was more than just a couple thousand pounds of metal and four rubber tires. The vehicle represented freedom, independence, space – everything that a rebellious teenager wanted.  I noticed my dad ambling towards me and remembered thinking to myself that he looked both relieved and worried at the same time. He tossed me the keys and uttered a tired, “See you at home.” I jumped into the drivers seat shaking with anticipation as I thrust the key into the ignition and heard nothing but the beautiful sound of a new door opening. I checked my mirrors, buckled my seatbelt, and pulled out of my car's old home. My mind raced with the dreams soon to be realized and the endless possibilities now available. I was torn between which of my friends and family I wanted to surprise first as my dashboard started beeping and the decision was made for me. The car slowed and I felt my catharsis regressing to a grinding disappointment. This was my first of many flirtations with what would soon be an endless love-hate relationship with that bright red dream.

Meeting with Khalifa #6

My last meeting with Khalifa took place soon after spring break, and we inevitably started our talk by asking about each other’s break.  I described my trip to a friend’s beach house and Florida and then asked about his vacation. He had flown with some of his friends and cousins to visit his uncle in Colorado. They spent the week hiking mountains, riding horses, and shooting guns. Khalifa raved about how much fun he had at the gun range. He was delighted with how the range offered different types of guns, and all you had to pay for was an hourly fee and ammo. He had taken an almost absurd number of pictures to show me all the different types of guns and ammo.

As we were looking through the pictures, one photo popped up that showed him riding on a horse in the snow. I asked him about it and he responded that that experience was one of the most terrifying events in his life. Now you have to understand that Khalifa is kind of a heavy set, and he originally hated the idea of riding a horse before his friends talked him into it. He hated this ordeal for two reasons. The first was that he had never seen snow before, and displayed a mild hatred for the cold. The second was that none of his friends had thought to mention they would be riding on a path that was barely two feet wide with a rock face on one side and a steep couple hundred foot drop-off on the other. He went on for a while; complaining about the weather, and how he thought his horse was going to break.

During his entire recollection of this day, I was hard pressed not to bust out laughing. Honestly, the kid just looked ridiculous. It’s hard to do justice with words to how completely out of his element he looked in every single picture. It made me think about how out of place I would look in Saudi Arabia with my blinding white skin and red hair. I started thinking about places in the world where I wouldn’t look out of place. There is an extremely large portion of this planet where I would look completely foreign if I were to visit. I still can’t get over how much bigger the world is than myself, and how often I completely forget that. I think this is something that we are all guilty of on a regular basis, typically because our daily lives demand it.  If awareness of other cultures does not play a role in helping one reach their goals, then what’s the point? Do the ends justify the means? I can’s speak for others, but I’ve come to the conclusion that I at some point I will need to become more knowledgeable about other cultures, especially Hispanic culture. In ten years, I see myself practicing medicine somewhere in Texas. Regardless of where I am, communication will be an extremely important tool in my profession, and understanding why people say what they say is something I believe will be key on a daily basis.

The service learning experience has taught me that what we perceive is often only what we see. Too often we forget that there are almost seven billion other people living mutualistically with us, and that we are all connected whether we realize it or not.  There are certain needs and desires that we all possess, regardless of our demographic or geographic diversity. The magnitude of our similarities and differences relies solely upon the instrument we use to observe them. Perception is everything.

Meeting with Khalifa #5

       I think this will probably be my favorite meeting with Khalifa. We were trying to go to a baseball game, but scheduling conflicts arose and we had to settle for the first floor of the BLUU once again. We started talking about sports and I asked about the most popular sports in Saudi Arabia. He clarified that sporting events were nothing like American athletics. He was partial to basketball, despite this sport rarely being televised, in addition to cricket and soccer. He seemed flustered by the amount of sports that Americans play and how their fans keep up with it all. He communicated that he was always extremely frustrated with most televised American sports. Evidently, he and his friends have a bad habit of falling asleep during games due to boredom. I asked why, and he told me he didn’t understand the rules. He had mentioned that his favorite sport was basketball, so I asked him if he understood the rules. Khalifa replied yes, and went on about how “you can only take three steps and then you had to pass the ball or it was a penalty”…

       At first I thought he was joking. As it turns out, he and his friends have come up with a completely wrong, but unique form of basketball which they gleaned from watching the NBA on television. I never had the time to watch or play with them, but it is an experience that I wish I had taken advantage of. Next, I asked about baseball. He shook his head at me and set it on the table with an exasperated look. Khalifa and some of his friends had gone to a TCU baseball game the week before, and apparently had never been more lost or confused in their lives. I began to explain the basic rules to him, but we soon decided it was a lost cause and moved on. I was surprised at how difficult it was to explain the basic rules of sports that most Americans consider to be common knowledge. I think it would be easier to demonstrate the rules, rather than solely trying to describe them. Regardless, it was clear that these concepts were startlingly complex to him.

        Khalifa was also confused by the culture surrounding our athletic events. He could not understand why Americans would go to a baseball game not to watch, but to socialize. In his country, sports fans treated games like religious events and their teams like demi-gods. He felt that since there were so many different sports, the fans could not be as loyal to only one team. In some ways he might be right. I think there are other underlying factors, but it’s an interesting perspective.

        I still find it odd how such a simple concept for people of this country can be so abstract for people like Khalifa. I grew up playing every sport I could and participated in most of them throughout high school. It was an odd feeling to realize that there are people living in America who would not be able to understand a significant portion of my past and consequently who I am as a person. In addition, the recognition of how incredibly ignorant I am of other cultures was not an encouraging thought. It’s so easy to get caught up in everyday life and forget how limited our perception of the world really is.

Meeting with Khalifa #4

I’m not sure what to write about for this past meeting with Khalifa. Our time was cut short by a meeting I had previously promised a friend and, consequently, the topics I have to write about are quite limited.

The only subject we had time to talk about was what we both do on weekends. At first, I thought this train of conversation would just turn into small talk and be a mutual waste of time. Much to my surprise, one of Khalifa’s favorite past times is “watching and laughing at drunk people”. I found this hilarious for multiple reasons and inquired further. Apparently, he regularly selects random locations to smoke at with his friends, and then they make fun of intoxicated strangers. I felt like a certain aspect of this discussion was probably lost in translation, but we were laughing too hard at some of his experiences for me to figure it out. I asked Khalifa why he didn’t drink, and he responded by saying he did not like the way he acted when he was drunk, and that he would rather laugh at others making fools of themselves. It seemed to me like he probably had a bad experience with alcohol in the past, but I decided against pushing any further and changed the topic.

I asked him why he came to the United States to learn English in an attempt to try and keep the conversation going. As a proud American, I fully expected to hear an answer along the lines of: “because it is the greatest nation in the world”. Much to my surprise, he had a difficult time formulating a reply. This difficulty did not stem from a lack of vocabulary, but rather a drought of sentiment. He eventually settled on the response that he had family in the area, so logically it made sense. Initially, this baffled me. Thinking back on this experience now, it was completely arrogant of me to expect the answer that my mind thought he would give. I fully believe that I live in the greatest nation on the planet. Why shouldn’t he believe the same about his homeland? I’m shocked and a little ashamed at how ethnocentric my initial response to this happened to be. I guess this type of realization is one of the main reasons behind having a conversation partner, but it was a lesson I thought I had already learned a long time ago. It scares me how malleable our perception of the world can be. Beliefs and opinions tend to be so much more ephemeral than we make them out to be.

I think that ethnocentricity is a major problem at private schools like TCU. Despite what some statistics may say, it’s hard to believe that it feels like there is any sort of demographic diversity on campus. Ironically, this was probably the most prevalent culture shock for me when I first arrived at TCU. I grew up attending public schools in neighborhoods that were extremely socioeconomically diverse. It frightens me how quickly I’ve become complacent with my surroundings. I believe that understanding where other people have come from is the most successful way to communicate and work with different individuals. I know I’ve said this before in a previous blog, but I firmly believe we are products of our environments. The ability to keep an open mind, elucidate, and understand the backgrounds of one’s peers is key in any sort of relationship.