Que Buena Onda, Po.

While on my mission: I had rocks thrown at me, I was kicked, I was swung at with fists and a 40 ounce glass bottle, I was mugged (of all 150 pesos we had between the two of us), I was yelled and sworn at every single day, I was called a liar, a devil, and an idiot. I would say a good 70% of the people I met on a daily basis hated me. Sometimes it didn’t bug me. I was being ridiculed for doing something that I believed in. It didn’t get to me because it was the message they hated, not me. The more resistance that was put up around me the more it seemed to validate what I was doing there. Other times it really got to me. I hated them back for doing what they did without knowing or ever talking to me.

This isn’t a knock on the Chilean people, though. I am pretty sure that is how it is for all missionaries around the world, but in Chile, unlike the majority of the world, you could knock on a random door and ask to use the bathroom and be let in and given a drink and bread, no matter how poor they were, or how much they hated America or Los Mormones—that is as long as we promised not to talk about God. Other than our message, the average Chilean would be willing to talk to us about almost anything. They are such a caring and friendly people, where strangers are innocent until proven guilty, and I love so many of them so much. I still cry some nights because I worry about them, and because I feel I have betrayed them by losing contact (I lost the notebook where I had addresses), and because of who I currently am. If I had one wish, it would be to go back, and talk to Paula and let her know I haven’t forgotten her and her daughter, and tell her I love her and that rarely a day goes by where I don’t think and wonder about her. I would talk to Felipe. He would smile his big smile and scream, “Elder Estenrood!” and would go to do the handshake we made up, and see that I have forgotten it (what is wrong with me!). I would go to the Loyola’s. They would make dinner and we would have a mate around the table and laugh for hours. I would find Ximena and tell her that if she was the only person I ever met while in Chile who wanted to talk to me, and if every other day before and after our time with her was absolute and total hell, my time spent there would have been more than worth it. I would walk La Isla, La Cisterna, San Joaquin, and Lo Espejo.

I can’t do any of these things, and at this point in my little exercise I am finding that it is having the opposite effect I was going for.

La Isla de Maipo

I was born in a little town out in the country called La Isla de Maipo. You see, your first area is where you are born. Your first companion is your dad or ‘Papito’. If there are other missionaries living in the apartment you start in, they are your uncles. If your trainer trains other missionaries, they are your brothers. If you are someones last companion, you kill them, and so on. My papito was Elder Wolfley. He was just over five feet tall. I am 6’2” so we looked kind of funny walking through the sector. Whenever someone brought up how funny we looked Elder Wolfley’s joke was, “Hay Gringito y Gringon.” Funny at first, but after 3 months it wears on you.

We got along pretty well and had some good times. One of my favorite mission stories has to do with Elder Wolfley.

It rains a lot during a Santiago winter, and this winter brought the most rain the country had seen in a long time and there was flooding everywhere. The only thing to do all day was to walk around town and look for people who needed help. I didn’t really have any clothing suited for a flood, so I walked around in jeans and a Foursquare hoodie. Elder Wolfley on the other hand was decked out in water proof gear from his head to his boots, and he made sure to remind me that he was perfectly dry all day long.

Almost every where we went we were up to our knees in water. We tried to stick to the sidewalks where we could because they were raised up a bit and the water wasn’t as deep. While walking on the outskirts of the town we crossed a pretty wide intersection, and I found the curb on the right side of the road and we started up the street with Elder Wolfley at my right. After a few steps there was break in the curb and I dropped down four inches. I tried to warn Elder Wolfley by shouting, “Hole!” but I was one step too late. Elder Wolfley literally disappeared into the hole. Being as short as he was the hole was deeper than he was tall. The concrete hole was there to help drain water off the road, but obviously wasn’t much help at this point. He popped up from the water screaming. Laughing, I asked him if he was okay. He didn’t answer and I kept on laughing. There were three people walking behind us when he fell into the hole, and I will never forget their faces. Three of the most classic faces I have ever seen. They stood there wide eyed, while the grumbling gringito pulled himself out of an invisible hole, and while the gringon made fun of him. I don’t think I stopped laughing the rest of the day. He didn’t find much humor in it at the time, which made it funnier for me, and I reminded him that despite all his fancy clothing he was now just as wet as I was. Not to mention that he just fell into a huge hole.

El Dieciocho

After I came home from Chile I talked about how I found myself at the dieciocho. I have long since lost myself again. I sometimes imagine a transparent me waiting at bus stop eighteen for me to go pick him up again. So that is where I will start.

I lived in La Cisterna on La Gran Avenida above the eighteen for seven months. The Gran Avenida is one of the busiest streets in Santiago. We lived in a corner fourth story apartment above an intersection. The windows were always open because the summer was very hot and there was no air conditioning. When the light turned green and the busses proceeded through the intersection I would have to pretty much yell in order for the person next to me to understand over the first gears of all the busses. There was no need to set an alarm because the busses and the taxis tocando sus bocinas would wake me up, but I don’t ever remember really being annoyed at all the noise.

Just looking out the windows at all the people was enough entertainment to last all day long. And walking up and down the avenue was some of the most fun I had while in Chile. I remember when Colo-Colo won the Chilean Cup and the street filled with people and traffic could not get by. Hundreds of people flooded the street waving Colo-Colo flags and singing the club song and chanting, “C-H-I, Chi! L-E, Le! Chi-Chi-Chi! Le-Le-Le! Colo-Colo de Chile!” and the four of us joined in while hanging out our windows. We watched the crowd until the police were able to break it up so traffic could get by.

I saw eight different missionaries come and go while at the dieciocho. Four of them my own companions. Elders Huerta, Gonzalez, and Meza left the mission from the dieciocho. Elder Cordoba started there. I remember crying when Elder Huerta left. I remember getting so mad at Elder Wheatly for chewing SO loud, and then being even more angry when Elder Meza showed up and chewed even louder. I remember taking on Elder Campbell after Elder Meza went home, and while showing him around the sector the first day I puked on the side of the street from food poisoning, and had to stop at two different members houses that were less than a mile apart, so I could exlpode from both ends, before we made it back home. I remember climbing through a vent in our kitchen ceiling so we could get on our roof to see the Independence Day fireworks, and scream ‘Viva Chile!’ with the others on top of their roofs. I remember getting my Dear John on Christmas Eve and calling my family on Christmas day. We ate at Pizza Hut as a zone for our Christmas dinner. I remember Martes Loco at that same Pizza Hut where we would get 2 for 1 every Tuesday. I remember the four of us drinking mate (accent over the ‘e’. I don’t know how to do that on a computer) at night and telling each other about all the crazy people we met that day

It’s sad because all I can do now is remember. I am glad for the memories, but sometimes they just aren’t enough.

Scratching the Surface

I have been happy before. I don’t exactly remember what it was like, but I remember being it. I want to be happy again; I think that would be nice, so I am going to write some posts about the last time I remember being happy. It was when I was in Santiago, Chile serving as a missionary. I am not going to write about real personal experiences I had there, because I don’t really want to talk about them here. I just kind of want to reminisce about the place and people I love and miss so much. Please bear with me over these next few posts. I will try to keep the posts as short as I can. I can do nothing more than just scratch the surface about how I feel here, but I think they are worth writing and I hope they will be worth reading.

I apologize in advance for all the ‘I remembers’ and the ‘I woulds’ but writing it like that is best way I know how of getting across how my mind works when I am laying in bed at night and it wanders it’s way back to Santiago.

I'll Sing Along Forever, Continued

Well, now that we have all that back story I wasn't planning on writing, let's fast forward to 2004 shall we?

I don't know how much time I spent just laying on my bed being homesick for Santiago. I wanted to go back more than anything. I had nothing else to do; it was in the middle of the Spring semester so I couldn't go to school, and I didn't have a job. It was hard, but I think the biggest thing was that life at home had changed a lot. While all the True Believers were back together, and it was great, there wasn't as much time for each other anymore, and there was going to be less and less as time rolled along. Friends were getting married or dating seriously and thinking about it or working at real jobs. Although I had matured a lot while I was gone I was still hoping that when we all got back there would still be a good year or two where we could go to school together or get an apartment or something and all move in and just hang out like the ol days. It was never going to be same, and that was hard on me. It still is.

I don't know what the first CD I bought after i got home was, but my favorite was Anchors Aweigh by the Bouncing Souls. This will always be one of my most beloved records. It came out in 2003 while I was away, and is different than anything they had released previously. While there are fast and slow songs on the record, the overall tone is very somber compared to the five previous releases. There is talk of life, death, change, separation, living and learning, and moving on and being able to be the same person while doing it. I have always had the most in common with the Bouncing Soul's lyrics than any other group and the entire record just seemed to match this time of my life perfect, and the title track encompassed all of it. When I listened to this record was one of the only times I truly felt at home. So, they helped me come home just as they had helped me leave, and for that I will sing along forever. And so:

Anchors Aweigh, my friends
I'll see you another day
I'm going away
experiences have to come
and the past has got to go
back into our dreams

Anchors Aweigh, my friends
Everybody understands that good times
come and they go
and together we will always flow
back into our dreams

And our troubles
we can't leave them behind
but the wind blows
and blows them all away
and the road goes
and takes them all away
back into our dreams

I'll Sing Along Forever

I am posting because B-lyn told me to.

I was listening to the Bouncing Souls and decided to write a little thing about them, because while I was listening to them I was thrown back to three years ago. Also, for me, the Bouncing Souls and March will always be linked together like two fingers wishing for luck.

I left and came home from my mission in March 2002 and 2004. The coming home was far and away the harder of the two. I hated it. I hated it for a lot of reasons. I won't go through them because that is not what I want to talk about; the fact that I was a sad mess should do just fine. First, lets go back in time. Now entering flashback story mode: Doodle-a-doo Doodle-a-doo Doodle-a-doo Doodle-a-doo Doodle-a-doo...

1999-2001 The thought that we needed to maybe start taking life a little more serious started to make it's way from the back of our minds and struggle to be closer to the front. And reject it though we may, it was going to get there too. Some of us started to try and be serious and get a move on in a positive direction, and others (the group I belonged to) didn't. The main catalyst for this "movement" was that we were going to be nineteen soon, and are we going to go on this mission? and if so, we need to change so that we do it right. There was nothing around me that could really reach me and convince me to move on. One thing that really held me back was I knew that because of certain things I have done and was doing that road might take me a long time and I didn't have the heart for it.

Thanks to some great friends I started to make my way slowly and not very surely, but I started to put in some effort. Still nothing had really reached me in a way to help me give it my all. I went and bought a CD one day, and I got a free compilation CD with it. There were seven songs on it. Track six was "True Believers" and track seven was "The Gauntlet" by the Dropkick Murphys. It is weird to me today that they were both on there right next to each other because both of these songs became an anthem for that period of our lives and helped me through it. A few of us were in to the Bouncing Souls during this time, and I don't remember if the new Bouncing Souls record had not come out yet or what, but I hadn't heard "True Believers" yet, and when I saw it on there I was happy because the CD wasn't a total waste.

I don't remember the first time I listened to it, and I don't know when it exactly happened, but it was really the first thing that reached me. "Now you can fight or you can run/hide under a rock till the war is won/play it safe and don't make a sound/but not us/we won't back down." I wanted to be part of the group that wasn't under the rock. I realized I really didn't like being under it. I found that I was so much happier actually putting up a fight. I still listen to this, and when I can't listen I sing it it my head, when I fail or think I can't do this anymore and want to stop trying so hard, and it reminds me that it is better to be a True Believer in all aspects of life and take my licks than hide and not try. So while in the big picture punk-rock wasn't really the most important thing at the time, it was the song that helped me realize that believing in something, even if it is just life, isn't just thinking about it, but doing something about it. And life is better if you give it a purpose.

A Memorial to Beef

Yes, it is what's for dinner, but it was also the name of my truck from 1999-2002. The name was similar to Little John. "Ah, they call me Little John. But don't let my name fool ya; in real life I'm VERY big." So, he wasn't beefy. He just thought it was. And he thought he had a lot to prove.

It was a 1986 Chevy S-10. I had been driving my sister's car and I came home one night and there it was. The dull black paint was far from glistening in the twilight. It was beautiful. We were instant pals.

Everyone liked Beef becuase of his great confidence, and how he took no guff from anyone. No matter how large the task, Beef was always up to it. What he lacked in power and speed was more than made up for in imagination and creativity. He had a one of kind canny to think outside the box. For example, unable to pass Andersen's Ram Charger, Beef knew there was no way to pass it on the road (because the blasted thing was the same width as the road); Beef popped up onto the sidewalk and was able to pass the Ram Charger. However, he didn't always think ahead. He soon found himself coming up on an intersection with nowhere to go. Beef squeeled to the right and down a grassy hill, inbetween the trees, and jumped off the curb into a church parking lot where the on lookers were quite confused.

Rumors of Beef began to be whispered among the people. And soon tales of him began to spread far and wide. He ran wheeling machines into the ground. He proved the doubters wrong time and time again, until it seemed that nothing was impossible for him. Beef was not a ride; he was an experience. An experience not for the faint of heart, but those who dared enter the extended cab were treated to the most comfortable seats ever (Seriously. Maybe because they were really old and worn) and access to a cooler that was never lacking ice cold Mt. Dew.

As do all things Beef grew old and passed on, donating his parts to other Chevys. He is, however, far from dead and gone. His legend will live on forever. And his memory will forever grace those who knew him.

I write this memorial becuase I realize I never properly mourned for my good friend. So long, Beef ol pal, you were one crazy SOB. I can't believe I am still alive.