a toast for the assholes

Father never taught me that the world is cynical. This blog was previously titled "escaping cynicism" where I then received criticism from others remarking it's not an appropriate blog title.

I wish I hadn't changed.

Let's be real; every person on this planet is motivated by self-interest in some way, shape, or form. There's no escaping it. It's a harsh fucking reality that everyone should be taught by their parents growing up, and in order to take a piece of the pie, you'll need to exhibit some form of cynicism as well. Maybe more than others.

There are few people that will show any form of compassion towards others during their display of cynicism. If you ever find a person that does show compassion or empathy during their quest of self-interest, hold onto them and don't let go. Well, let go if you're becoming a bit too weird and needy, but try your best not to lose that person. Through my constantly evolving repertoire of friends, I've dropped each one that exhibited the former quality. Only did I realize when it was too late.

This isn't a blogpost to whine, bitch, or complain. No. I'll apologize in advance if it reads that way, as that is not what I intend on writing. I write this post to remind myself that I need to be more cynical myself in order to be happier. Time and time again I find myself putting others needs, wants, and happiness before my own. When people can leave you behind and not second-guess their decision is when you know you're being walked on.

Each time a computer breaks or something remotely close to being electronical in nature needs assistance, I'm the person they call. I'm the person they expect to fix it, for free. Little do people know that everything has a price. My price: respect. It's always a dine-and-dash scenario. Reap the meal and skip the payment.

I'm an asshole for skipping a funeral for a person I have never met in my life, nor did I even know about. I'm an asshole for getting angry when people leave me behind after saying I'll be a few minutes late, but asking them to wait up for me. Frustration.

When I try to put myself before others, I'm an asshole. If I put others before myself, I get trampled on and I'm unhappy. It's a fine line that I've grown exhausted treading.

No more am I going to bend over backwards when people ask me to do something for them. If it even slightly conflicts with one of my interests, plans, or goals, I automatically throw it out. I don't like the thought of doing it? Too bad, find someone else. I want to go somewhere at a certain time? I leave, regardless if others are ready or not.

I'd rather be an asshole and happy than an unhappy doormat.

Too often if someone is asked to do something they don't fancy doing, they bend over and cave solely to please the other person. Their own goals and interests are put in the back seat, giving first class priority to the acquaintance.

Oh, and when someone says they're going to do something and don't follow through. First time, it's okay. Second time, I'm apprehensive. Third time, you're out. It's a game of baseball and you're at bat. I'm lobbing slow underhanded throws waiting for you to knock them out of the park, and you're letting them pass by. Three strikes and you're out. There's a batting line-up and you're not next.

I drink too much. I eat too much. I spend too much money on others. I care about others too much. I hurt myself too much.

This world is a fickle bitch and my ass grows tired from sitting on this rollercoaster of a ride.

Here's a toast for myself.

the sun always shines behind rain clouds

Struggle is a word common in the personal vocabulary of billions. Without regard to those that were fed with a silver spoon and gifted lifes pleasures on a gold-plated platter, everyone experiences the word "struggle" at one point in their life. More often than not, it's a word that is encountered on many fronts.

Within the 23 hours, 56 minutes, and 4.1 seconds that occupy each day on Earth, I have a few struggles of my own. As one may guess, these are not great struggles by any means. Food is on my plate, muscles attached to my bones, and a beating heart within my chest. The basic necessities to live and even play are at my fingertips. My struggles are subjective.

But they're struggles, none the less.

I don't struggle to wake up, or to wash myself. Struggle is nowhere to be seen during the process of boiling water for my morning thermos of coffee. Struggle begins to peak over the horizon as the students flow into the schoolyard. Thirteen small portions of angst stream into my fourth grade classroom like tetris pieces cascading down upon each other; some fitting perfectly where they should fit, but most doing as they please while I try to organize amidst the chaos.

It's not that I don't like them. I care for most of my fourth graders far beyond any expectations I had coming into this position. When they are together and as the hours pass, it's an growing hurricane. If you're not familiar in regards to hurricane formation, let me help. Small pockets of storms that bubble up over warm ocean waters. These small thunderstorms start rotating around a centerpoint of low pressure, and as they grow, more and more thunderstorms form. A short while later, you've got a hurricane.

A rotating superstorm of chaos and destruction. These small thunderstorms on their own can be guided and educated. They can be controlled and even at times exhibit respectful and admirable qualities. However when they gather around each other, a superstorm forms. I have a three-class period every day from 10:00am until Noon, where I try to guide and instruct a classroom of restless fourth graders. It just takes a thrown pencil or foot skirmish under a desk to form that centerpoint of low pressure: the one that the thunderstorms gather around. The point of chaos.

My fingertips do not exhibit the endurance to describe life after the 12:30pm lunch period. All that's left is a trail of devastation and despair. I just want to go home.

But my struggle does not stop there.

Body dysmorphia; a mental disease that has plagued me for years, but one I cannot seem to overcome. While adventuring in Honduras, my weight has admittedly increased over the previous few months. I participated in the sport of Wrestling for nearly ten years, where I was never the strongest, best, or most athletic. Day in and day out, I was subjected to drastic weight-cutting measures, but I was always left with a lackluster body.

My stomach and sides stick out a bit. My chest could be called "flabby". I never had an athletic physique during my athletic years, and it still avoids me to this day. I want better. I refrain from eating until three or four o'clock in the afternoon, where I begin my daily caloric intake of between 1,500 and 1,700 calories. Given my active position as a teacher and my nearly 15,000 steps per day, I figure this should be enough to keep me on my track to a healthy-looking beach body.

But the track is nowhere to be seen. The numbers on the scale are stagnant. The fat remains. The body dysmorphia gets worse, and I've tried everything to help me get over my unhealthy image. Perhaps it's just not meant to be, but I'll keep on trying as I've entered myself into a twelve-week health competition.

Then comes age, and what I'm still missing in life. Dawning on me only a few days prior, I realize my 25th birthday is in 11 days.

Twenty five years old.

I'm getting older. Much like a game of Super Mario Bros, a checkpoint is something you can fall back on if you run into trouble. You've still got your belongings, your loved ones, your accomplishments. Fall off or hit a wrong button again, and you're back at the checkpoint without having to start a new game. But I look at where I am: a guy on his own. No one to share memories with. No one to grow close to. My "checkpoint" is thin.

I try to reach out and talk with as many people as I can, and try to show that I want to be your friend. I read a quote the other day, but forget who it's from. Maybe someone that's reading this can help me out, but it went something along the lines of "A stranger is just a friend I haven't met yet". Even though, for the people I already do know, there are many I'd like to grow closer to.

Yet the occasional text goes unresponded to. A phone call to hang out results in me hanging out with a voicemail recording. A Facebook message asking how they're doing goes is seen.

Part of me is ready to go home to a steady job. Part of me is ready to go back to school. Part of me is ready to stumble upon that special someone. Part of me is ready to go back to life the way it was. Part of me is ready to check off this chapter of life as "complete".

Just some things I was thinking about on a long road trip home from Belize.

Maybe time will tell. Maybe I'm just being a naive child.

frustrations in the classroom

I write this post at the source of the constant headaches: the classroom. Day in and day out, the frustrations continue to amount and new surprises are always uncovered. Then again, I don't comprehend why I'm still surprised that my students continue to find ways to frustrate me.

Previously touching on this subject, I want to elaborate more on my frustrations. My memories of a child in the United States educational system, particularly the Minneapolis Public Schools system, I was an obedient child. Our classrooms consisted of between 18 and 20 kids (roughly, it's been over 12 years) and the students were well-behaved. You sat in your chair at your desk, legs under the desk, pencil and notebook out. Your mouth was closed, your voice turned off, and you were listening to the teacher. Only when the teacher granted permission to speak is when you dared to open your mouth.

Classrooms back then had maybe one or two students that were out of control. You know who they were... they were notorious for causing a disruption and speaking out of turn.

The classroom was structured. As a student, my desk was mine. The contents inside the desk drawer were organized, not a hint of chaos to be found. Ask me to locate my english notebook and I'd have it out in seconds. Ask that of any student for the most part and they'll whip it out in a few moments.

Food was nowhere to be seen in the classroom. You didn't even think about bringing food in, as to save yourself from the wrath of the teacher. It was a scary sight you didn't dare risk experiencing. Your water bottle was close by, if you chose, but no sugary drinks or food in sight.

These practices are absent in Honduras.

It's a daily battle in the classroom. Students here simply don't give a shit. If you are trying to speak to the classroom, they carry on their individual conversations. When your voice grows loud, theirs grow louder. There is no sense of respect from the students towards the teacher, even if you discipline them and take away privileges. There is no sense of responsibility to take notes, to write down problems, or to do them correctly.

Desks are a melting pot of chaos, disarray, and unrest. Papers, trash, books, and pencils scattered about. The hourly complaint from a student not having a pencil or pen. Four books on top of the desk with the appropriate book for that class nowhere to be found.

Students waltz into the classroom with food like it's a cafeteria. No, this is how we get ants and flies. This is how the floor gets dirty. I don't give a damn if you won't spill it, this is my classroom. I have a strict rule against food. If I see it, you throw it in the trash, finished or not. But the food is persistent.

I'm not sure if it's a generation difference, or a cultural one. One of two things will have to happen: tears will be shed under the firm rule hammer of Mr. Ian, with discipline being handed out left and right, or I will have to give up out of frustration and go home. I guess time will tell.

unattainable dreams

Everyone has dreams of what they'd like to be when they grow old. A firefighter, a movie star, or a garbage man. If you say you didn't have any dreams or aspirations as a child while growing up, you are lying to yourself. Even if it was a flash-in-the-pan dream, you still had one.

My dream as a young child in Kindergarten was to be a garbage man. I have absolutely no idea why the sight of them coming down our street once a week to pick up our trash fascinated me, but it did. I was young, my mind immature. They had a weekly responsibility, and without them, trash would accumulate. Shit would hit the fan in a literal sense. No longer do I have that aspiration, as it died out around age 8 after realizing they get paid a meager wage to make ends meet.

I do still have one aspiration and dream that unfortunately I'll never be able to obtain. Sure, this may be a partial confession, but I'd always love to be in a band. Regardless how painful to the ear the band may be, I'd still love to be part of a music group. To play in a garage, or to rock out in front of tens of thousands in Rio de Janeiro, Brazil and Nurburg, Germany. Music for people to nod their heads to, raise their hands, or start a mosh pit. Sure, many people think they sound great when they sing, but once it's played back reality gives them a hard slap to the face and they're put in check. Letting my fingers run along the frets of the guitar, some of the tones are pleasing to the ear. Sounds and chord combinations I haven't heard before, but seem to work well in harmony.

Even if it were to make one album with other musicians and to play one show in front of one or ten thousand people, that would fulfill my dream. Alas, it won't happen. I sit in my shared living room in Honduras with my guitar plugged into my laptop, Garage Band running with specific amplifier settings, headphones plugged in, the world deaf from my music.

Perhaps it's fate. Perhaps it's not meant to be.

I've started to settle into a morning routine that seems to be working. My alarm wakes me at 5:35 in the morning, and I slap my hand on my phone in desperate hope to press the snooze icon. Usually it works, and my slumber continues until 5:45 in the morning. I then wake, grab my $3 blue-and-white sandals and my towel, attempting to make my way to the shower. After spending 4 minutes washing myself and an additional 11 sitting under the stream of hot water pouring atop my head, I dry off, dress, and proceed to the kitchen.

Coffee. Hot, delicious coffee. I grab my coffee "cone" to put my ground beans into, and start boiling a pot of water. After the water is boiling, it's poured into the cone, allowing the hot water to pull flavors from the beans themselves into a measuring cup. Once I hit about two cups of brewed coffee, I pour it into my thermos "Hydro Flask" (thank you for this Christmas gift... you know who you are. It's amazing) with an ice cube so the coffee isn't too hot for school. I then get my laptop, put it into my bag, attach my watch to my wrist, proceeding to the doorway of the house.

No, I don't eat breakfast. In fact, I don't usually eat any meals until I get home from school around 3 or 4 o'clock in the afternoon. This lifestyle helps me avoid indulging and overeating.

On a side note, when people say "time heals all", they speak the truth. Time does heal all.

~

everything happens for a reason

Months have passed since I've posted another blog entry. I've separated myself from typing my thoughts on a keyboard, but that has allowed my mind to mature and to settle in.

A long while ago I posted a blog entry regarding my hatred for Facebook. I revoke some of my hatred as of recent. Last night amongst friends I was able to reflect on my recent past, with the assistance of Facebook; scanning through my pictures, watching myself grow. In addition to the dose of melatonin I had taken, a dose of reality set in as well. I had a hard time believing I was here. Of all places, Honduras.

Some things didn't work out as planned. Relationships, friendships, and passions all have one thing in common: they come and go. I'm not upset though, as I'm a firm believer in fate. Everything happens for a reason, whether it's good or bad. That's fine though, as the book of life is being constantly written as each second passes. It's a beautiful book.

A few weeks ago I was having a conversation with a new friend about the ups and downs of Honduras. While it's not a paradise, the things I left behind in the United States were worth it. The new friends that I've made during my stay in Honduras triumphs over the trophs of this experience. We share laughs, stories, sorrow, and memories. I've never actually had a true roommate, as my only previous roommate up-and-left overnight and left me with a 2 bedroom apartment to myself, rent included. Now I'm living with five other roommates, and it's been a blast so far. Animosity is nowhere to be seen, and we seem to jive quite well.

About those trophs... I'm not going to lie. Honduras has its problems. The country is filthy, littered with trash everywhere you look. If a local doesn't know, they won't say "I don't know", rather, they'll lie. Living at a higher elevation near the Santa Barbara mountain, our days can change in an instant. At one moment, the weather will be hot and sunny. A few moments later, torrential rain and a chilly breeze. Healthy food is expensive, and can be hard to locate at times.

And the students.

They're a different generation. A different culture. As a grade school student in the United States, I sat in my seat, and outside of the occasional chat with a neighboring friend, would keep my mouth shut. The students here aren't the same. It's David versus Goliath when trying to keep the kids in their seats, let alone quiet. The respect the students have towards teachers is little, if at all. At the end of each day I feel defeated, wondering if I was able to make an impact on any of my students. Appreciation can be found in my 10th grade chemistry class, thankfully.

Last Friday, two of my chemistry students found me sitting next to the large tree in the commons area of the school, and sat next to me. One of them received a new MP3 player over the holidays, and was curious if I could share some of my music with her. I obliged, and transferred an arrangement of songs to it; some rock, some hip-hop, some instrumental, some jazz. While the music was transferring I was able to have a nice conversation about chemistry with them, apologizing how much of the content involves note-taking and studying. Our resources are extremely limited, so I'm not able to motivate them with interesting chemistry experiments. Anyways, I digress. She said there was no need to apologize as she was "learning a lot and is starting to find chemistry very interesting", in her words.

It's been three months, and I wouldn't trade anything in the world for it. Okay, maybe a trip to Norway or something, but the experience has been rewarding. Five more to go. Some would call this the home stretch, but it's a long one. There's still a few things to check off on my list, including more travel around the country (namely La Ceiba, Roatan, Copan, etc). Tegucigalpa and San Pedro Sula are alright, but they're not more than an average city, sans the crime. I've been finding incredible joy taking time to prepare meals and improve my cooking skill. Even cooking for others is joyful, as you get to see them react to the meal, good or bad.

Anyways, I should write more. Jot down my thoughts and experiences on a keyboard. It's relaxing, and I'm guessing it's also healthy for the mind.

~

life changes

Who'd have thought? My last blog post was over two weeks ago. At the time, I had no idea that two weeks later, my bags would be packed up, then unpacked after a short plane trip in Honduras.

I post now from my twin-size bed in the city of Pena Blanca, Cortes, Honduras. Over 2100 miles away from home. Salsa music streaming in from neighboring houses and businesses. The air humid like south Florida. I live here now... this is home. WiFi is slow. Cellphone service is non-existent. Food, while tasty, is limited in variety. My life as I know it has completely changed in the past two weeks.

Toilet paper cannot be flushed, instead thrown in the trash bin. Food goes bad within days, as opposed to a week or two. The roads like the surface of Mars; rocky, bumpy, and no signs of order. Native Hondurans simply live life differently than back home in the United States. Shops close down at five o'clock. The sun rises around six in the morning, while still setting around six in the evening like at home. Cleanliness has gone way with the wind, as hands simply aren't clean anymore. Feet dirty from the sandals you wore walking down the dirt roads. The opportunity to take a shower presents itself every day or two, instead of as a daily ritual.

I hear raindrops pelting the steel roof of my house. It sounds like a monsoon, when in all reality it's likely a light sprinkle. But it rains often. Courtney said that it hadn't rained for a week, but this is the second evening in a row that it has rained. Last night presented itself with a torrential downpour for hours. Her and I ventured to the local pizzeria to grab some food, and walked through the roads, which now flowed like raging rivers. I appreciate the waterproof sandals I purchased. Being that I appreciate the rain, it's good to see and hear. Rain cleans the dirt off my sandals, cleans the roads, and cleans the houses. It's natures way of scrubbing down the local areas.

Today we went fishing on Lake Yojoa. It was one of the most beautiful lakes I've ever seen. Mountains surrounding the lake's perimeter, clouds covered their peaks in attempt to keep their true height a mystery. The water clear enough to see below ten to fifteen feet in depth. To fish, the guide presented us with pill bottles and fishing line that wrapped around them. Those were our reels. No rods, no live bait. Just a lure, line, and a pill bottle.

Needless to say, not a single fish was caught.

I attribute that to the time of day, which was 12 o'clock noon. Fish simply aren't hungry at this time, and the warm sun drives them away from shallow depths.

On Monday, I will be known as Mr. Ian. A fourth grade teacher at Lake Yojoa Bilingual School. I think of it time and time again. The name is a nice change of pace from Agent Gacek.

a gift

Today, an idea struck. I wanted to make someone smile. I wanted to make someone's day a bit brighter.

I've only heard stories of this happening to others before... they approach the counter at their nearest coffee shop and the person in front of them purchases their coffee. I've never seen this happen in person; to myself or others. Only stories. A gift certificate lay in my wallet, tucked between credit cards. Sure, I could be selfish and redeem it for four more coffees, but why? Money comes and goes, and being able to make a stranger smile is worth much more than money.

As I walked up the stairs from my local Snap Fitness to the Spyhouse Coffee shop that resided above, I grew excited. Walking in, the excited quickly faded as I noticed the line was empty. "Oh well, another day" I thought to myself. Alas, I spotted two elderly women walking towards the front door. Scooting in front of them in line in the knick of time, I placed my order. A Guatemalan coffee with hints of chocolate, toffee, and Grand Marnier. Turning towards my right, I asked one of the women what they would like to order, as I would buy their coffee. Then, the second.

They smiled and thanked me, saying they would cover the barista's tip. I'm happy, they're happy.

Most men and women my age are fresh out of college with thousands in debt. Every grain and morsel of ground-up coffee represented as money they sip away. Sure, I have my debts and payments as well, but money comes and goes. I would much rather brighten a strangers day than to save two or four dollars.

Slowly as I grow older, I am starting to realize the important of happiness in life. Money doesn't equal happiness. It does allow happiness to become easier to obtain, but it doesn't make happiness appear. I can sit on my bank account and watch the numbers increase, but where's the fun in that? Something in a savings account is always beneficial, and smart, but sitting on money whilst refraining from life experiences is toxic.

That's why I am starting to travel. That's why I have no troubles spending hundreds on a plane ticket. New experiences. New people. New smiles.

New life.