A Day at the Beach

So this week at school I'm teaching the 9th graders how to write a personal narrative. Since they have to write one, I figured I'd write one as well. The assignment is to write about a particular moment in your life that sticks out, something that was unique and memorable to you. So I wrote about a time that I had at LBI, a day which I remember vividly as one of the best of my life (as are most of the days I have spent at LBI due to the utter relaxation of the trip). So here goes...

All was silent as I was immersed in my dreams, until I reached that sudden point of uninterrupted sleep when you arrive at the cliff and have to make the decision whether or not to jump off. The faintness of the waves in the distance, the clinking of cups and silverware and quiet voices emanating from the kitchen, and the smell of fried eggs, morning dew and beach sand all met me as I opened my eyes.

I walked from the living room to the kitchen and through the house, passing members of my family, all looking relaxed but a tad dismayed. Then it struck me like a bolt of lightning. The pitter-patter of the raindrops trickling onto the roof and the cement steps in front of the house. I gazed out the window to find the dreariest day of our vacation in Long Beach Island thus far, and was immediately stricken with the same dismay I had waded through when passing my kith and kin in the kitchen.

“No use in setting up a beach head today,” I muttered to my Dad.

“That’s where you’re wrong,” said Uncle Don, coming out of his room, bathing suit pulled so far up his chest you’d think it was a bib. He waltzed into the living room, grabbing a towel and beach chair along the way.

“Uncle Andy, you got the binos?” Uncle Don said to my Dad.

“You got it, Uncle Don.”

I couldn’t believe their dedication, but didn’t want to show my surprise for fear of being called out. As I opened the door to follow them to the beach, the rain died down a bit, but my skepticism remained.

We walked up to the beach, stepping lightly onto the wet sand, as if our feet were baker’s hands molding cookie dough. We set down our chairs and blankets in a straight line along the beach, parallel with the Atlantic Ocean horizon. As we were sitting, the clouds rolled in deeper and the air became damper. Then, the rain drops started up again. The storm, we admitted, was not just going to pass without a fight. So, we rallied the troops and returned to the house, bummed and a bit wet.

Cousin Kyle, who is older than me by one year and a day, suggested when we got back to the house that we watch a movie.

“Let’s put in Old School or Anchorman, some crazy Will Ferrell movie.” Kyle wanted to watch one of these because of his amazing ability to memorize lines from movies and spit them out verbatim.

I responded, “Eh, I’d rather do something outside. We are at the beach, aren’t we?”

We cousins, there were about six of us older ones, got together to brainstorm a plan for the day. As we were picking each other’s brains, the rain seemed to have died down, but it was still overcast and cloudy, and the air was still cool from the rain, the same feeling you’d get from the air that smacks you in the face after opening a freezer on a hot summer day.

Since it wasn’t raining anymore, our options expanded to more outdoor activities.

“Let’s go to Pier 18,” suggested Cousin Colleen, Kyle’s sister, in an almost-predictable plea to shop at the only mall on the island.

“That’s boring!” we male cousins bellowed out at her request.

“Well what are your amazing ideas?” Colleen retorted.

“How about a game of mini-golf,” Cousin Matt chimed in. Cousin Matt, the big, burly guy with a big heart in the white T-shirt, who used to terrorize me when we were kids, isn’t really my cousin; Matt is actually Kyle & Colleen’s cousin on Uncle Don’s side of the family. But down the shore, we’re all family, regardless of bloodlines and genetic semantics.

“That’s a great idea!” I chimed in for the first time in this debate. “And we can bring the kids along too; the parents would like that one.” You see, our family beach house was actually two beach houses right next to each other, with five different families staying underneath the two roofs. The five different families are made up of 10 adults and 13 kids total, with guests floating in and out of the houses throughout the week.

So, Mr. T’s 36-hole mini-golf was the destination as we set off, about 10 of us “kids” (a term that is used lightly and which spans from the ages of 15 to 26), packed into the “gunships,” a more threatening name for Uncle Don’s and Uncle Eddie’s minivans. We bustled through those 36 holes, paying no mind to scores or Mr. T’s rules and regulations, goofing off every chance we got.

Two hours later, when we finished all 36 holes, it was about one in the afternoon and we were starved. The gunships set off for Dom’s Drive-In along Long Beach Boulevard in the town of Brant Beach for some delicious cheesesteaks.

Since gorging ourselves at Dom’s was top priority, none of us noticed the weather’s improvement until we stepped outside into the scorching New Jersey sun, stomachs full and ready to get back onto the hot sand and cool saltwater.

As we pulled out of Dom’s, the sun shining above us, the familiar chords to the Beach Boys “California Girls” filled the gunship, and all ten of us set off towards the house, singing along with what would have earlier been considered our siren song, but was now cause for celebration among family.

When we got back to the house, we found it deserted; surely everyone was up at the beach, enjoying what turned out to be a most beautiful day. We quickly changed into our bathing suits, grabbed towels and chairs, and marched up to the beach front. Sure enough, there was our established beach-head for the day: a line of chairs stretching the entire Jersey coast, filled with people who were all my family, people with whom I would love to spend a beautiful day at the beach. And that’s exactly what we did: sit at the beach for the rest of the day, under a cloudless sky, enjoying each other’s warm company and the carefree relaxation that only comes when you’re sitting on the beach with the ones you love in the wake of a storm, on what turned out to be the most beautiful day of 2005.

Dancing Naked

So last night, gambrinous and full of burrito, my roommates Matt and Dan and I were running to catch the bus back to our apartment. Of course, the bus pulled away about 30 seconds before we get to the bus stop. Panting and screaming, we decide we should just walk home, spending only 20/25 minutes in the cold, since the next bus was at least a half hour away.

We start on our way. Fortunately for us, there is a 7-11 midway between Main Street and our Towne Court apartment. The same 7-11 that my aforementioned convenience-store friend Sayed works at. Dan and I walk in to the shouts of "Jon jan!" Dan grabs a coffee; I grab a green tea, but I know that, despite our quick purchases, we'd be in for a long conversation.

Sayed starts telling us a story about when he was 19, about 16 years ago he admitted to us. He and his friends, inebriated as well, were walking home during a big rainstorm. The reason they were walking home, let me clarify, is because they were driving and the car got swamped with water.
"Automobile turns into big boat! With captain, but no oars!" Sayed roars across his store.

So, Sayed and his friends got out of their car and, according to him, acted as if they were at a car wash and the attendants were all naked. They weren't just washing the car in the rain, they were getting down and dirty on top of that car, dancing naked on top of a car in the middle of the night on a road in Iran. Five Iranian guys, standing on top of a car, dancing naked. Got a mental picture in your head? Good.

When Sayed returned home that night, his father questioned him as to why he was soaking wet and why there were dents on top of the vehicle. Sayed made up some vague story about a tree, some falling branches, and high winds. Needless to say, Sayed's father was a bit skeptical.

Years later, Sayed's father had found a picture of Naked Sayed and confronted him about it, to which all Sayed could do was laugh. What I wonder is: where is that picture now?

The Tuesday That Felt Like a Monday (Pt. 2)

So after I left 7-11, I headed over to class, a Seminar on Teaching English. I have had mostly good experiences so far in my teaching this semester, and am excited and surprised when things go my way. So, I have tried to share my excitement with friends, fellow English Education majors who I felt would share my sentiments. However, it seems when I tell of my good observations or good lessons or things that just make me think that maybe, just maybe, I decided on the right career path, I am met with criticism. People saying I am full of myself just because of my ambition and diligence, traits I would like to think I have embodied my entire life. Is it conceited to want to be the best teacher I can be? To be the best worker I can be? To be the best me I can be? I don't want others to think I'm full of myself; I want them to support me in my pursuit of happiness, in my possession of self. Is that too much to ask?

After the drabness of class, I walked back outside into the dreariness of this Tuesday/Monday, trudging to my car. After ignition, I was greeted once again by the mellifluous tunes of the Flecktones, drifting by my ears as my car and I drifted along Park Place. I stopped at the supermarket to pick up some milk and cold cuts (which reminds me of the lunch I have to make for tomorrow, better get to my point), and I got to thinking about all the people I observe in my life who I know by name or face, but probably have no clue who I am. For instance, Zeke, the supermarket attendent who, with his blonde post-bowl-cut, post-grunge rock/surfer hairstyle and obviously noticeable mole on his Adam's apple, seems to be at the supermarket each and every time I go there. Then there was Allie, the beautifully pale-skinned redhead whom my cousins mentioned rung them up that great weekend back in November when they visited. These people go through my life, and surely the lives of others around them, unknowing that they are being noticed on an everyday basis. And I wonder if I, too, am unknowing of someone who notices me, knows more about me than meets the eye. And I wonder why I can't strike up a conversation with Zeke or Allie, let them know that they're not unnoticed, just as maybe I would welcome the same kind of conversation.

As I was driving back, pondering these thoughts, I turned onto Thorn Lane and pulled into a parking spot, and as I did so, the beautiful chords ending the "Reprise" on Outbound put a beautiful cap on my day, trying not to succomb to Fortune as I went through life as it is here in Delaware.

The Tuesday That Felt Like a Monday

I started my day with the insertion of the Bela Fleck and the Flecktones disc, Outbound, into my car stereo. The melodious jazz and bluegrass sounds of "Hoedown" filled my car as I drove down 896 and up I-95 through Churchman's Marsh into downtown Wilmington, Delaware, just as the sun was making its rise over the sleeping swamps surrounding the Delaware, Brandywine, and Christina Rivers. Howard High, where I am doing my student-teaching, is nestled along this confluence of waterfronts.

The smooth, yet sultry jazz sounds were a guide upon which I'd start my day, teaching eighteen-year-olds about Afghanistan and Afghani-Americans, something which I know little about, yet fascinates me all the same. The struggle to fit into a demanding culture has been my study lately, and I can't seem to get enough of this literature.

The schoolday dragged along like tin cans behind a wedding car, but looking back, it wasn't all that bad. What I was dreading more was my night class at the University of Delaware. I still like to be the student, yes, but I sure am getting used to my position as teacher, as well.

On my way to class, I stopped at 7-11 to pick up a cup of coffee. I have made an uncanny friendship this year with a clerk working at this particular Elkton Road 7-11 in Newark. Sayed, with his V-neck undershirt showing through his food-industry white Polo Tee, greets me as I walk in, the same jovial greeting as always, "Jon jan!" Following me to the coffee pots, Sayed jokes with me, his student of Farsi (a lesson that was taught after a few drunken encounters walking back late nights from Main Street), asking me which of those (Jon/jan) was referring to my name, and the other to the Farsi term for respect. I laughed with my friend and told him the answer.

Surprised still that he remembers my name and what I look like, after at least two months of being out of town, I answer, "The first, Sayed!"

He goes on to tell me that he will make whatever flavor of coffee I want, whenever I come in. I wonder what I have done to impress this man, and offer him my appreciation.

As I walk over to pay, I inform Sayed of my newly-found interest into Middle-Eastern literature, and that I am teaching about Afghanistan and Iran to high-school kids. It is at this moment that I know I take pride in what I do, even if it is measly, amateur student-teaching.

Sayed, with his black, flowing hair, immediately turns up his interest (and his loquacity), telling me all about his life in Iran, prior to moving to America just a few years ago.
"My basement in Iran, you see, was filled with nearly 4000 DVDs and books. House of Sand and Fog? I've heard of it, I had it. You ask me about Sleeper, I walk over to my collection and I say, 'Ah, Woody Allen, yes.' But now in America, my collection is down to only 800, you see," Sayed says in beautifully broken English, an accent that says "I am not broken, but strong and resolute," a vase that has been delicately reassembled after falling to the ground.

Sayed goes on to tell me a story of a time he was in Iran at an event for his government. There were a bunch of young men standing around, listening to whomever was speaking at the time. Sayed wanted to enjoy the speaker and feel comfortable simultaneously, so he sat down on the ground. The people around him turned towards him, encircling him. His friends jabbed him. "Sayed! What are you doing? Get up! You are disrespecting your country!" Sayed just turned to them and laughed, "I love my country! I love Iran! If I have to prove this by standing up when I want to be comfortable and sit, then, huh, why love my country at all?!"

This story struck me. In his country, which he claimed he loved, he had to prove his faithfulness to his country by standing up, being part of the crowd. In America, I'd like to think I show my allegience to my country on my own terms, within my own heart, putting these feelings into action in my everyday life. That we have the freedom to be ourselves is something we cannot take for granted here, and my conversation with Sayed today helped me realize that even more.