The Churro Man

Outside AT&T park--The first pitch is about to happen!

The biggest regret of my night: I bought a churro from a man covered in sweat for $4.75. I couldn’t resist the temptation. The churro was a massive 18-20 inches in length, and the sugar glowed, bounding and reflecting off of the stadium lights perched just beyond my peripheral vision. The Churro Man wore a duffle bag—presumably full of churros—across his chest. Sweat dripped down his forehead in a string of pearly beads. His expression never faltered, although it was obviously that he was outwardly tired. The Churro Man wore a slightly dangerous and deranged look upon his face—I guess he really needed to sell those churros. Waving the sugary treat violently above his head, he presented it to AT&T Park as if it was an award to be won, and I desperately wanted to win it.

What more could I have asked for? Crazy, yelling man with food? Check. Giants playing ball in the background? Check. Friends to my left and to my right? Check. And you know what I asked for? A damn churro. I wanted that churro so badly, I even had to borrow money from Kevin. $1.75 to be exact. The beer and mound of garlic covered fries that I bought right before the first pitch burned a whole in my pocket. The overly priced ballpark food didn’t have a chance—I felt the loss of my hard-earned money before I felt the hungry void disappear. So, as the Churro Man quickly approached, I responded to his fast, loud pace with an even faster loud pace. He was only two steps away when I yelled, "Hey! How much?"

1,000's squish to witness the last Tuesday
Night Game of the 2011 season.

I wrapped the long sugary concoction between my fingers. Oh how I admired the glow and sparkle of my new purchase. Layers upon layers of sugar coated the fried dough like a winter coat. I shook the churro, and the churro shook all over me. I then shook the churro closer to the ground, and then brushed the sugary coat off my lap. I silently thanked the churro for finding me during the last Tuesday night Giants game in San Francisco. 

It was about that time that I heard someone behind me say, "is there a nurse or doctor around?" The voice repeated the question again, “is there a nurse or doctor around?” Naturally curious, I looked around for the problem.  A few seats down and a little over to my left, there was an elderly gentleman having a seizure. Of course, after the announcement was made, doctors and nurses seemingly mass-produced. By any means, the man was not alone, but not much can be done to help someone when seizing. All you can do is stand by their side and make sure they don’t hurt anyone—or more importantly, hurt themselves.  Many stood and kneeled around him until he was ready to be helped.

The elderly man, didn’t seemed to be panicked or worried, and I was pleased to see that people stood by him in his time of need. Regardless, however, I was disturbed by the situation. I was disturbed by how unmoved the crowd was. Someone’s life was being changed, altered, and people were cheering about a ball being tossed around.  Of course, it would be impractical for thousands of people to rush to this man’s side—that would have looked ridiculous—but more consideration and compassion could have gone a long way.

Could it be possible that the baseball game was more important than the health and well being of this man?  I even admit—I was no better than my surrounding counterparts.  I had my churro. I had my friends. I had my game. Consciously or unconsciously—I chose to pay more attention to the field that a man in desperate need of assistance.  I would glance down momentarily every now and again, but just like the people gathered tightly around me, the baseball game would eventually become my focus again. To further my point, the mild interest of the man’s illness didn't travel much farther than 5-10 seats. That evening, all of our lives intersected in one location—AT&T Stadium. Everyone sat tightly together adding to the spirit and fervor of the crowd. When someone couldn’t participate, however, they were unintentionally separated from the event that drove everyone to the same intersection.

The 3 Replacements sitting in seats below:
Yellow cap man in the center.

I felt selfish. I felt selfish for having my churro, and I felt selfish for having my health. I felt selfish for not needing to be helplessly walked out of the stadium. I felt selfish that my biggest regret for that evening was questioning the health status of my sugary churro.  As the churro, not mere minutes later, dwelled in the pit of my stomach, I wondered if the uneasy feeling in my gut was the result of the sugar or the selfishness I felt.

Eventually, a paramedic/emt and a few friends escorted the elderly man out of the stadium.  His face appeared worn and tired, and walking seemed to be no easy task. The man swayed on his feet as if he was just learning how to walk. With each slow, shaky step, he leaned on the paramedic/emt with his remaining strength. And just like that he was gone. The man passed by me, and walked out of my life. Who would have guessed, though, that mere moments later, a new crowd would swoop in quickly to take his place.

To the Future College Graduate

To the Future College Graduate:

As a recent college graduate, I feel as if it’s my duty to forewarn the large demographic of anxious students that anxieties will remain intact even after graduation. Maybe you are one of the lucky few who have honed in on your “life’s ambition.” Congratulations.  But, if you are anything like me, you are simply confused with your possibilities. Here is an analogy: I’m staring at the massive, 15page menu at the Cheesecake Factory questioning how to satisfy my empty stomach. Do I stick with a yummy menu item I know? Or, do I upset my taste buds with something unexpected? Like the menu items, I question what path to travel. Do I remain comfortable and continue my path in the education system? Or, do I risk of uncertainty and discomfort? I took the path of a smart person, and started to explore other career paths…

Here is a problem I’ve repeatedly come across.  Yes, I did go to College. Yes, I did receive a BA in English and a minor in Linguistics. Yes, I did graduate at the top 10% of my class. And, yes, I would find my degree relevant to many professions—including teaching. But does that mean employers agree? No. More often I find my choice of study questioned—in turn, I question myself.   Time and time again, I am recited these dreadful words: “you are not qualified,” or “you have a degree in English? Are you going to teach?”  What happened to those  “entry-level” jobs that anyone, regardless of their degree, can obtain? News flash: they don’t exist. You either have a raincloud of luck booming overhead, or you know someone that knows someone.

The small coin of luck retrieved from my pocket is testament to this concept.  My newest venture (which is a traveling freelance job) was only obtained because of a close contact. For this small opportunity, I am grateful. After all, if it were not for this freelance work, I wouldn’t have been able to work in Dallas, Texas and Portland, Oregon—all in less than 3 months.  But, now that I’ve been home over a week with no consistent form of work, I find myself spending hours searching for another potential opportunity. 

With 41 applications and 7 interviews behind me-- all I consider is this: what am I doing? I’ve been told not to doubt myself, but my patience wears thin (especially when interviewers tell me that I should go back to school). I set the bar high, convincing myself that I wouldn’t fall into the category of those who end up working a minimum wage job. But, today, I felt a sense of desperation. Thousands of other college graduates work minimum wage jobs wherever they can get hired. So, how am I any better? The correct answer is as follows: I’m not better than anyone. Anyone. Nobody should have that attitude. But, I am different—maybe even unforgettable.

I recently went to celebrate a friend’s birthday; “life goals” became a quick topic.  As I was chatted with Kevin (a mutual friend at the lunch celebration), I shared some of my uncertainties—especially because I was lacking a career.  But, within those uncertainties, I found a moment of brilliance and said, “I truly believe that I am meant for something spectacular”—I just couldn’t put my finger on what that “something” was. It was then, that Kevin turned to me and stated, “Well, why aren’t you doing it?” Such a small statement became a profound moment for me. Why wasn’t I doing “it”—whatever that maybe? 

For those empathetic to my note: create your own path. Take the advice you wish to take, and pass the rest on for someone else. The path less travelled (thank you Robert Frost for the cliché) may be unsettling but rewarding nonetheless. So, if you need to hire an “analytic, creative planner and organizer” I’m your girl. I won’t let you down. But, if you’re trying to find your place in the disoriented American society, be persistent—and patient. Patients is key.

Sincerely,

The College Graduate

The River's Simplicity

I went to the river yesterday with some friends and half of Santa Rosa. Walls of trees, cars and fences greeted us along a small, beaten roadway. The frustration of tiny parking spaces and distance prompted both Ryan (my boyfriend) and AJ to return to the river’s entry point. Carrying all the river toys and a dog was at the bottom of our list, so Amanda, Sarah, Joel, Toby and I were thrown out of the cars as AJ and Ryan went to hunt for open parking spaces.

My right hand gripped a small red cooler and my left hand held the leash of an overly excited dog.  The deflated, yellow rafts that were once comfortable on my shoulder slid down into the crease of my arm as I braced for the ride down the narrow, dirt-covered path.  As the leash tightened, my brown flip flops cut into the tops of my feet, and I began my slow fight with Toby down the hill. Toby’s green and brown polka dotted collar pressed against his throat prompting a symphony of chocking and wheezing; his brown, fluffy muscular body stretched 4 feet in front of me and my feet—incapable of staying still—beat the ground, quickly and inconsistently. It wasn’t until I was halfway down the hill that Amanda grabbed the tight, black leash to help lessen the intensity of what could have been my death (or at least an uncomfortable afternoon).

After locating ourselves at semi-open beach spot, I went and stood in the river with Toby. Toby, never having been to the river, took the opportunity to utilize the space to the best of his ability. He peed; he swam; he greeted people; he swam some more; he got out of the water; he got back into the water; he ultimately attempted to poo in the water—that I wouldn’t let happen. So, instead of pooing in the water, Toby ran up the small, gravelly embankment to park his fluffy butt next to a group of people (that was a fun apology).  When his business was complete, Toby went to tackle the same few activities in a repeated cycle.

The river flowed smoothly splashing against my waist; people floated by on their boats. Small fish snuck past my toes and children made it their business to cover the passerby with water. Turns were taken drifting down the river; Amanda and Sarah disappeared floating aimlessly with the current.  It wasn’t long before the guys followed suite. I stood my ground and watched my friends disappear around the river’s bend, while Toby spent all of his energy swimming upstream.

My friends returned walking against the current with the boats dragging behind them. Warm rays prompted me to join the masses, so I grabbed my yellow boat, passed the dog to Ryan and set down the river with Sarah, Amanda and Joel. Impatience landed me in the water quickly. I anchored my torso on the boat’s side: my legs dragged inconsistently on the river’s bottom as water snuck past my waist filling the space where I sat moments before. To save my boat from a quick death, I jumped in the water and used the access to cover my friends.

All in all, my day was memorable.  I had been invited to revisit summers of my past.  Several remarkable vacations were spent travelling down the Truckee River with my sister and father. Fighting rapids, playing on embankments and watching hoards of people were an immediate must of our yearly adventures. Those moments leading up to sunburns and tired evenings were consistent and unbiased. Even as I grew older, I searched for the simplicity of those days. I searched for the uncomplicated mess and understanding (the type of understanding foreign to many); I searched to share those memories with friends that I care about (of course, Toby counts).

The Russian River has now carved its way into my existence (and, hopefully, my friends will agree).  Before this summer has ended, I’m sure you will find me floating aimlessly—with beer and friends—along the river’s current making new memories to hold closely with the old.