Noah's Travel Journal - South America, Final Entry

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Memory Loss

DON'T FORGET THE PEOPLE!: the last phrase to grace the pages of my journal before I was bombarded with in-flight movies on my way from Buenos Aires to Philadelphia. I wondered if was ready for repatriation as I watched a sleazebag aging American shout one-liners across his seatmate and the isle beyond, to a returning nurse from the peace corps. When the spit-flecked seatmate offered to switch to the window to facilitate the tragic drama of an over-inflated libido, the egocentric monologue naturally steered toward the topic of bar fighting. I was more than impressed by the quantum, evolutionary leaps in consciousness our nation's population had undergone in my absence.

I met my mother in the Philadelphia airport and managed to make it to the DESA conference in West Chester without being overwhelmed by sprawling asphalt and expensive houses. Over the next few days at the conference I waited for the culture shock to hit me square in the nose, but the blow never landed. I was still on an adventure and the amazing display of exceptional people at the conference served as a decompression chamber. I was able to put faces with the names that had encouraged me throughout my travels. The diabetic athletes and advocates that attended had been last in line for fully functioning anatomies, but were right there, waiting for the more important evolutionary boon of thriving amidst adversity.

It was like I had infiltrated the High Council of real-life superheroes. Of all the adjectives available to encompass the multitudes of different character traits and athletic endeavors, none is a better descriptor than BADASS. I consulted many a thesaurus and professional linguist, and this descriptor is what the think-tank pumped out.

I gave my Athletic Achievement Award acceptance speech at a dinner banquet where I wore my finest globe-trotting garments that had me looking as dapper as my scuffed cross-trainers allowed. As I ended my speech (which can be viewed in the newest DESA Challenge newsletter or on this site), the only way to ward off the impending tears and to steady my voice was to do what I do best. At the call to action from some of the heroes in the front, I quickly shed my mild-mannered alias (and shirt) and gave a brief demonstration of capoeira and contact juggling. I think the council was pleased, for I received an invitation to perform at a later conference for Lifescan. I guess I was granted a grace period to reacquaint myself with the societal taboo of partial nudity at a catered, gourmet banquet.

"The fighters are making their way to the center of the ring to touch gloves. Oh, Lord have mercy! Culture Shock throws a left-hook to Moore's temple and he's down! It's not fair, but he should have seen it coming after the way Shock backed down in their Philadelphia bout without incident. Someone get some medical personnel into the ring ASAP!"

I returned home to see all of my friends that I had missed so dearly. Naturally I surprised everyone because I'd detailed my plans of staying in South America to river guide while I was online buying my ticket homeward. Everything seemed normal until that sucker-punch came from nowhere. I returned, yet it was as if I never left.

Even in the precious, liberal-yuppie safe-haven of Eugene, the furtive American Dream Machine was grinding away in the background. Not quite as clunky here, but more streamlined and palm-pilot like. This is one of the most difficult passages I've had to write for it can be misinterpreted as an interminable lambasting of many people who I hold near to my tattooed breast. I had returned expecting a revolution, but only found revulsion.

I tried to fit into some role I had played before leaving the country, but I wasn't the same person I was trying to emulate. Chalk it up to too much indulgence at a younger age or merely growing out of a phase, but I couldn't stand drinking alcohol and being out-of-touch with my mind and body. The waste of money and brain cells I saw in bars brought on privilege-induced guilt. I do not mean to hypocritically denounce these outlets of diversion, but it's just the idea of a "regular" that chills me.

Soap opera parties, video game marathons, and reality shows made me realize why everyone I met abroad have such a skewed perspective of America. I started wondering if it was just my Northwestern American perspective that was skewed. I sought refuge in a Latino diabetes group meeting facilitated by my mother at a volunteer clinic, but my idealism was rapidly being cornered and bludgeoned. The complacency, societal expectations and schedules had me by the throat and began to choke me into submission. The euphoria of acquiescence only comes after the kicking and struggling stops.

Acceptance was the first machete cut through the dense foliage around the ruins of my identity. I was becoming a product of my environment and losing sight of larger issues, to focus on making progress for myself in terms of school, work and leisure. The creative outlet of performing swung to my side on a vine just in time, with machete in hand. It had never really left, it just gazed from the canopy while I ran around the jungle playing Tarzan. It was at night that we met by the watering hole to practice.

While training for the next conference performance, my recently returned brother and I began performing with a local fire dancing troupe and booking private party performances. The South American concept of juggling as a lifestyle doesn't equate up North where the religious majority already frown on a young man playing with his balls. Those who told me that inspiring awe and happiness in children wasn't a niche market and didn't pay, will be pleased to know that we've legitimized ourselves and diversified to accommodate adults with income. To those same people I would like to inquire where I could find a currency conversion chart between a full tank of inner bliss and the U.S. dollar. I don't mean to be caustic or smug, but one can only take so many comments before a literary lash-out.

True to his word Charles Renfroe, the Senior Manager of Professional Affairs for Lifescan and one of the kindest, down-to-earth souls I've ever met, arranged a seamless journey over to the Children With Diabetes: Friends for Life Conference in the only state I had sworn off ever visiting again. Florida is home to Disney's "Happiest Celebration on the Planet," and the nation's first law pioneering legal homicide. Not only is it now legal for anyone to carry a firearm, but one can shoot-to-kill with a clean conscience if one feels threatened. No legal loopholes here; "threatened" has as bulletproof and clear-cut definition as any term I've ever come across.

Wary not to tread on any gun-touting trigger-tickler's toes, I boarded the plane to the state with the shoddy recount that sealed the country's accelerating tailspin last election. I awoke mid-flight to find that my immediate neighbor had switched seats, possibly in an effort to distance herself from my growing drool stain. Her replacement was none other than Eric from Novo Nordisk's Fearless Four contingent, who was bound for the conference. We met up with my Chilean chauffer in the Orlando airport and rode past every warehouse-sized restaurant franchise lining the freeway to congratulate tourists on hatching the family nest egg. I declined the Chilean's offer of a sports car and nightlife checklist as I had already completely lost my bearings on the acres of Disney property alone.

I checked into the Coronado Springs Resort and began giggling uncontrollably as I deposited my luggage, safeguarded by the bright, unblinking eyes of Mickey adorning select pieces of my room's décor. I stayed in the dim confines, polishing my act while the humidity and sun begged to get a sneak-peek. I scurried between air conditioned facilities when clouds' shadows signaled me, but it was impossible to prevent my Chronic Sweaty Nastiness Syndrome from reliving its glory days from Brazil.

The following day Mr. Renfroe showed me the stage set-up, which validated all the time I spent practicing. A large speaker capable of shattering glass panes in an adjoining room stared out across a black raised platform at the front of the cavernous exhibit hall. For once I didn't have to climb on my soapbox; I was being placed there and amplified. This one was for the people...

As Jimi Hendrix plucks the first notes of his instrumental version of Bold As Love, the juggling balls sail skywards and all else falls away. It is one of those moments where one is aware of an entire lifetime of events that have weaved into an opus that no foresight could have predicted. My theoretical "Now" doesn't even come to mind because time has stopped and even Jimi's wailing guitar is drowned out by the act of becoming the balls, their trajectory, gravity and a limitless amount of variables that no longer require effort to interact with. This is the elusive Satori, the Now, Quality, the Tao... this is It. The show is over, time rushes in like the walls of the Red Sea after an impossible parting, and to my surprise I am drenched in sweat.

I completed five 20+ minute shows in under 48 hours incorporating ball juggling, devil stick, poi, contact ball, capoeira and break dancing. The most important and rewarding part of all the shows was the message I could share with a receptive audience. Living in the moment as it pertains to diabetes, exercise, psychological and physical wellbeing, and proactive lifestyle changes was the propaganda I interspersed throughout my acts. Lifescan generously sponsored the production of handouts about how to make poi sets and the Instruments of the Now manifesto. Mr. Renfroe turned my narrow minded perception of corporate America upside-down and inside-out and had more of an impact on me more than I could have had on any young diabetic audience member.

I was awed at the commitment by the DESA organization of monitoring the diabetic children AND their siblings in a huge, multiple court gymnasium. The presentation about international advocacy by Clare Rosenfeld the Fearless Four (featured in the new book Young Voices) was one I cannot forget and fortified my same conclusions about diabetes abroad. Seeing and hearing Jay Hewitt, a diabetic Iron Man Triathlete (and member of the High Council of real-life superheroes), give a keynote banquet speech was the most moving and intensely motivational experience of my life. If none of these names are registering with the reader... SHAME ON YOU. Diabetic or not, minor research into the people mentioned or the Children With Diabetes organization will leave anyone dumbstruck at the phenomenal accomplishments possible by every individual.

With the hurricane approaching and threatening the Orlando airport, my speeding chauffer and I had a heart-to-heart duplicated in so many films. I must do my part in exposing the flagrant and malevolent ego trips exercised on my good-humored chauffer, so let it suffice to say he only refuses future work with two clientele: Martha Stewart and Steven Segal. As we hugged at the departure terminal he offered that rare bit of optimistic encouragement that can get beat out of every one of us when we're blind-sided: "You keep puttin' smiles on those kids faces and you'll do great." I had found myself again.

"What's this? Moore is lifting himself off the mat. Shock can't believe it. Shock is in the corner and he's actually climbing through the ropes. He's knocking over fans as he flees the arena! What a surprising turn of events at this Tysonesque, dirty fight. Will Shock ever be able to show his face in this circuit again?!"