Gabe Damast
It’s a fact; everyone changes in high school. With new social pressures, insecurity, romance, and of course those ‘raging hormones’, it would be hard not to change. I don’t think I fully understood what all of those changes meant until the summer of 2006. As we drove to the airport, there was a mood of exaggerated happiness that permeated the car. It felt as if my parents were trying to cram in a months worth of happy memories to make up for the lack there of in the coming weeks. Thirty days in Costa Rica…was this really happening? In no time at all I was bidding my parents farewell, and boarding a plane to meet up with seventeen fellow travelers in New Jersey.
Meeting ‘the group’ in the Newark airport was an exciting moment. All my friends who had been on similar trips in the past told me “you’ll become hella close with the kids you go with”, yet the prospect of becoming good friends with a bunch of complete strangers seemed alien and unreal. We played some icebreaker games and focused on getting to know one another, instead of the far away country in which we were headed.
“Hi, my name is Grace, and I’m from Indiana.”
“Hey, I’m Aaron from New Jersey.”
It seemed like everyone except for a few token cali folk were from the Midwest or the East Coast, and when it was my turn to say, “Hi I’m Gabe, and I’m from California,” there was a pause. I was one of the few kids calling the west their home. I felt unique, and empowered. Being around such a large group of kids that scoffed at the word hella, (and said mad, wicked, and yo as if it was nothing) was humbling for me. As a result, I certainly gained a new appreciation for the Bay. I slipped ‘Thizz’, ‘Hyphy’, and ‘Go Dumb’ into my daily vocabulary as much as possible. The best part was that the bay area slang produced vacant, unregistering stares on my group members’ faces, much like the expressions of the sloths that populated the jungles we were visiting. It became clear almost instantly who was from the east coast, and who was not. In a stereotypical way that amazed me, many of the kids from New York, New Jersey, and Connecticut had a certain tone, certain slag, a certain…well I can’t actually describe how they were. Regardless, I was intrigued, and began to pick up on their inflexions and the way they interacted with other people.
Costa Rica was an amazing medium for our group to get to know one another. The stunning countrysides and lush humid rain forests made the whole trip feel like it was in another dimension. A dimension where everyone spoke Spanish, had dark skin, and was a foot shorter than me. For the first week while we were traveling, I thought that we had a very cohesive group, and that we actually would all become close friends. The intense seven-hour bus rides were the best times for bonding…until one day.
“Gabe, do you think of yourself as a sex goddess, hot, good looking, ugly, or in need of surgery?” Asked Katie as she held open Seventeen Magazine to the quiz page.
“Umm…pass?” I responded meekly. It was a loaded question, everyone in the vicinity could see that, but they laughed anyway.
“Ok then, ‘sex goddess,’ said Katie under her breath as she made a mark on the page accompanied by more laughter. “Do you think the attractiveness of a man determines the outcome in a relationship?
“Yes,” I responded promptly, “I don’t date men unless they can make Brad Pitt look like Carrot top” even more chuckles.
“Too bad you make Carrot top look like Brad Pitt,” interjected John from the next row of seats. The laughter continued, yet it was forced and awkward. Apparently, I was not the only one who found this statement uncalled for. I gave him a look that should have read: ‘what the fuck are you doing?’ but he merely grinned and turned around. I told myself he was probably joking. Who would say that to someone they hardly knew unless they were kidding around? Even so…there was something in his tone, something mean.
“Well that’s funny, look at the next question: would you rather date carrot top with or without his hair?” The quiz and the laughter resumed, and in no time, Johns comment was long forgotten.
Living with host families was the highlight of the trip. Although the first week of traveling successfully established strong bonds between many group members, spending time with poor Costa Rican families brought everything back into focus. Who are we, rich Americans, to dither over our petty annoyances and setbacks in our lavish lives, when these people must consider: will I have enough to eat? How many hours will I need to toil in the sun to get paid? Their country motto “pura vida”- pure life, held so much truth to their existence.
Soccer (or Futbol) was a national pastime, and as quickly as we were assimilated into their cultures sport, we attempted to teach the locals Futbol Americano (plain old Football for all of us gringos out there).
“Go long! Go Long! Alla! Alla por acca!” Ten kids from our group along with a few locals were playing futbol americano in the pouring rain. The muddy field became a slip and slide arena, and there was no one without substantial mud stains after five minutes. Tackling was more than common, but luckily the thick mud provided a forgiving landing. I found myself on the opposite team as John, and for the millionth time on the trip so far, our personalities were clashing.
“Pass it! Aqui Gringo!!” The ball was soaring my way, and as I glanced down, there was john, hurtling towards me. I knew there was no hope, and right as I caught the ball, he smashed into my waist. My recently injured hand was the first to hit the ground, then my head, then the rest of my body, sprawled hap-hazardly in the mud. Pain shot through my middle finger, and I felt a hot throbbing numbness where my head had made impact. I opened my eyes briefly, and could see John jumping around in a victory dance.
“Are you okay Gabe?” Adrian was kneeling over me.
“Ahhhhhhhhh shit,” was all I managed to respond.
“Hey John, I don’t think Gabe’s okay.”
“What? Oh, my bad.” He said, choosing not to be disrupted from his victory lap. I sat up slowly and flexed my hand
“You gonna be alright?” Asked Adrian.
“Yeah, Ima sit the rest out.” I said tentatively massaging the spot where John’s Shoulder had jammed into my back.
“C’mon man, suck it up. Don’t be a pussy.” John shot at me with aggressive intonation. Everyone was aware of the conflicts John and I had been having, and now, they stood frozen, watching and listening.
“Screw you man, you just fucked me up.” I had taken enough from John, and at that moment, I felt like ripping his head off. I could already read the headlines: “In murderous spree, boy is decapitated while in Costa Rica.”
“Hey, you agreed to play tackle football, you should have been ready for it.” He said with a smirk on his face. The Costa Rican bystanders looked on quizzically as our voices rose.
“You know what, fuck you.” And I walked away. Although my head was held high, for some reason I felt like I had lost the confrontation. I was tired of the ever-present conflict that seemed to arise whenever I was in high spirits. It had to end.
After the game I cornered John when he was alone. Although I wanted to smack him in the face, I forced myself to be diplomatic. “We need to talk.” I said with conviction.
“What, talk? Okay.” He replied, shifting from foot to foot, his bored, dumpy features scanning the trees behind me. I had almost…almost believed that he would take me seriously, but my illusion was shattered as he twisted his head from side to side, avoiding eye contact.
“No, I’m not joking man, this is ridiculous what’s happening between us! And to tell you the truth, I’m sick of it. I don’t give a shit if you wanna play yourself off as the macho comedian or whatever, just leave me out of it.” His expression did not change; in fact he looked even more uninterested than before.
“Yeah, okay cool dude.” He began to walk away.
“No, I’m not finished! I want a truce. You stop fucking with me, I’ll stop doing whatever I’m doing. What am I doing?”
“What? I dunno man…” he must have been joking. I could hardly believe the lack of attention he was paying to me. It was almost as if he didn’t know how to act now that there was no one around to impress.
“Okay, just get off my case, and I’ll get off yours.” I put out my hand to shake on it. He took it, and shook, but it was an empty gesture. I knew it meant nothing. Although I felt crappy that day, I turned the confrontation into a positive one. From that day on, I resolved not to let John get to me. Avoiding someone in a close-knit group of eighteen may seem difficult, but I managed. And in those situations where I was forced to interact with him, I paid him as little attention as possible. There was such a wealth of activities, things to see, places to go, that my overall spirits were somewhat lifted as I refused to acknowledge John. My bonds with other group members grew, and before I knew it, the home stay was over, and we moved into the final week of the trip.
Everyone had told me that month long trips to South America change you as a person. I half believed them, but I don’t think I could fully comprehend what they meant. I might not have even realized any change at all if our group leaders had not organized a certain activity on the 3rd to last night in Costa Rica.
It was evening, and we were sitting under the wooden overhang of our hotel, nestled in the hills overlooking the Pacific Ocean. A tropical breeze blew through the trees and the sounds of millions of insects filled the air. Each of us was given a sheet of paper and a pen, and then asked to write a letter to ourselves about three things that we had learned while in Costa Rica. The letter would be mailed to us 3 months after returning to the U.S. My pen hit the paper immediately, and what was suggested to be a minimum of half a page turned into over two pages of thoughts and values that I passionately poured onto writing:
‘I have learned that dwelling on the small mishaps of everyday life is stupid,
and that I am capable of letting problems go and moving on.’
Now as I read the letter, I strain to remember the passion I felt for my beliefs.
‘I should hold onto that, and not let it disappear in the turmoil of life in the U.S.’
Turmoil is correct. That is the one thing that I can accredit to high school culture: it seems to beg for dysfunctional relationships, and self-consciousness. In retrospect, I can’t help but find all of this tragically ironic. Upon my return to the U.S., I realized that I could never convey to anyone just how amazing Costa Rica was. My experiences and stories that I told were merely conversation, and slowly I began to realize that no one really cared. After talking with others who underwent a similar process, I found that the public lack of interest was commonplace, and it was something I would just have to come to terms with.
And, finally, the ironic part – as time wore on the fresh feeling of change started to wear off. What I was sure were realizations that would last me all my life seemed to slowly fade away in the ‘turmoil of life in the U.S.’. After leaving Costa Rica, I had hoped to completely change my outlook on social habits, exclusion, and stress, but for some reason, my new morals seemed out of place in High School. Not to say I wasn’t a ‘changed person’, yet I kept my changes more on the inside. The best way I can describe my experience was that I was a different person in my old life; my old life that did not seem to want to maintain the modifications.
Now every time I sit and read the letter I wrote to myself, it brings back part of the nostalgic feeling of change. I like to think that I will always be able to re-live that exciting feeling by simply looking at those scribbled pages of writing. Maybe someday my environment will support all of those realizations, and I will be able to apply the morals in their entirety to my life, but for now, I am the only one who knows…