Transitions

Once upon a time, on a warm July afternoon in a dirt parking lot of a Boy Scout camp in the Northwoods of Wisconsin, immediately after completing a 5 and a half hour haul from Chicago, I abandoned my father.  I grabbed my duffel bags from the trunk of our exhausted Toyota Previa, gave a curt goodbye, and left for the counselor bunks down the trail.  It was as though I had absolutely no emotional hesitations in leaving my parents and throwing myself into what would become one of my life’s greatest adventures. 

Well, that’s the way my father tells the story.  I don’t quite remember the episode myself, it happening a decade ago while I was a high school sophomore, but it sounds possible.  I tend not to realize the emotional import of a life transition until weeks, months, or even years afterwards.  The lessons of three-week barely chaperoned immersion in Russia didn’t hit until Senior year of College.  Both college and my four-month backpacking excursion in Eastern Europe didn’t feel an accomplishment until I was in the Peace Corps. 

I don’t want it to take this long.  Peace Corps service is a big deal.  I want to feel it while I’m speaking at a Tongan feast in my honor, as I’m saying my final goodbyes, and as I’m boarding my final flight off Ha’apai.  I wanted to feel sadness yesterday when Todd and Juleigh boarded their final flight, rather than a year from now when a tear falls into my beer at some Bar in Bulgaria (my current job prospect). 

With a recent series of goodbye Todd and Juleigh events, there have been so many great excuses for catharses.  Each of their high schools presented them gifts and had them speak at in front of the entire school bodies.  Sosefo dedicated Sports day to Juleigh and took her on a picnic.  Kepu, the governor’s secretary, hosted a beach picnic for Ha’apai’s leaving volunteers, both American and Japanese.  He brought his wife, the bank manager, and a few other Tongans we’ve grown to know over two years.  There were passionate thank you speeches, lobsters, fresh pineapple, and a roasted pig, but it felt no different from similar tributes we’ve experienced before. 

My house’s last social night brought our closest Tongan friends, the Japanese, the hard to find PCV Connor Moore, and even a overly intoxicated local restaurant owner.  Fueled by loud non-Tongan dance music, our remaining stashes of alcohol, and barbecued burgers gloriously accompanied by onion rings and French fries, we kept things lively until midnight struck and Sabbath laws applied.  It was the party to remember, but not even the alcohol could make me emotional. 

For our last night as a the Pangai Trio, Tupou, our favourite guest house operator, invited us over for general merriment, rounds of thank-you’s, and a sampling of delicious chicken dishes.   You can’t show up to a dinner party in Glenview, IL with a ¾ empty bottle of Jose Cuervo for the host and be thanked warmly, but she was happy to try a completely new flavour of alcohol.  While Tupou sipped tequila, Todd drank his beer, and Juleigh and I shared our passion for wine, we made one last “this is it” toast.  It felt like a dozen other “this is it” toasts.

And that’s why I found myself the next morning at the airport double fisting full glasses of wine.  Todd and Juleigh were hugging contingents of students, teachers, and neighbors, trying hard to stay composed.  It didn’t work; the community support was overwhelming.  Most of the crowd left after a plane delay, so in less chaos I handed my wine buddy a final glass for a final toast (Todd declined).  Between Banjo demanding his final petting and Juleigh’s young neighbor Paane using her like a jungle gym, we enjoyed our final glass of Franzia.  It was such a happy moment that, with the added lubrication of alcohol, I should have been in tears.  I wanted to cry; my two best friends were leaving me.  But I didn’t.

My strongest feelings of the day went towards someone else -- the evil airport attendant.  Banjo followed me just outside the “gate,” which is a porous as a sieve, from where I snapped pictures of the final takeoff.  The attendant decided the best thing to do to with this egregiously placid dog was to pelt his leg with a baseball-sized rock.  This sent Banjo limp-sprinting onto the runway and away from the man, who had now found an even bigger rock and was going for a second pitch.  There was now a dog on the runway and a man chasing him as the plane was preparing to taxi.  Banjo next chose to hide under the tire of Juleigh and Todd’s DC-3.  He returned to me only reluctantly after repeatedly shouting his name and spewing insults at the attendant.  This was the first time I had every publically insulted a Tongan, but I felt that this situation warranted the phrases “you are showing bad behavior!” and “you are foolish!”  Why didn’t I get this emotional during Todd’s last hug?*

I spent my hitchhike home thinking about my remaining month.  Would I be sad without Todd and Juleigh?  How would I react at my farewell feasts and airport sendoff?  Would I cry like Juleigh did at her school function?  Would I choke like Todd at my last school assembly?    

That afternoon, I commenced preparing my things to leave.  A month might be a bit early to start giving things away, but I wanted to distribute my myriad wall photos to favourite teachers and students before next week’s graduation ceremony and never see each other again.  My landscapes and photos of Tongans made great gifts, especially with happy personalized messages on the backs. 

By the end of the exercise, however, my walls were not happy.  They were incomplete, unbalanced, and dotted with sticky tack and black construction paper.  The only photos remaining were those I didn’t think Tongans would enjoy – those of me, Todd, Juleigh, and Blair.  The wall was originally designed more for aesthetics than nostalgia since we were all still together, but this evening my wall was depressing.  This time those photos of Todd and Juleigh didn’t just look nice -- they called to me.  They said “remember when?” and “those were good times.”

There weren’t any tears, but I was sad.

To ameliorate what I worried would be a dreary evening, I invited two of my best Tongan friends over for pizza.  They came an hour and a half late, said little, ate little, gulped down their full glasses of wine, and left quickly to give the majority of the pizza to their parents.  They had never had pizza this good and wanted their families to experience it too.   If I was looking for culture sharing points, I would have felt accomplished, but I was looking for friendship and conversation.  I wish pictures could talk.  Or that my best friends were still here.

*I wasn’t the only one insulting him.  The assistant manager also recognized that the man had transformed what wasn’t a problem into what could delay the takeoff, and said similar things.  A truck load of Todd’s students felt sorry for Banjo and helped me track him down -- by the time I had finished taking pictures of the plane Banjo had already run, limping, halfway back to Pangai.