The Influential Power of Frienship

This will be long. Read it when you have the time.

We never really know how we are helping people when we are good friends to them.  You guys don't know how much you helped me through your reaching to me, accepting me, teaching me about all the stuff you guys love to do, inviting me, and supporting me.  Reaching out, acceptance, teaching, inviting, and supporting all just seem like pretty standard things you need to do in order to be a good friend, but I just think we don't realize how much those things can do for people. We have a very solid group of friends that is constant over the years, and it consists of people loving each other for exactly who they are and always lifting one other up through invitations, praise, and celebration. Even though we may feel like this is a regular aspect of life that everyone has, it's really important to recognize that that is not the case. So many people in this life don't come across people as genuine, accepting, and good-hearted as you guys, but instead deal with a lot of bullying, social anxiety, and loneliness.
Being a good friend to someone who has had a lack of good friends in their life can change them. Change their behavior, change their attitude, change their outlook, change their beliefs, change their fate, change everything. To experience being reached out to, being accepted, being supported, and being loved for who you are when you don't feel like you have experienced that much in your life is, in my opinion, one of the most powerful and uplifting things you can ever experience. And I'm talking about this from first hand experience.
What I am trying to say is, we can do so much for others by being their friends. More than we can ever comprehend. Through genuine acceptance and friendship you show people how valuable they truly are, which is pretty amazing when they don't feel that they are valuable at all. We should strive to always be a good friend to those we come in contact with. We should invest time and effort into accepting and loving the people around us. I know that as we do that we will be humbled by the blessings we receive, but more importantly, we will be humbled by the beautiful realization that we have become a blessing in the life of someone who really need it.

At special request, here is the essay I wrote last year focused around the theme of the influential power of friendship. Consequently, this essay is about my induction into the brotherhood known as the Bearries.

Love you losers,
Billy

Barefoot Boys

In the summer of 2013 I became a man.  You’d think that would have happened at some point in the 22 years leading up to that summer, but I guess it never really did.  Of course I was born with a male genetic makeup. My chest hair attests to the possession of my Y chromosome along with testosterone and all that other good stuff that swims around in a man’s body.  And I’ve participated in many manly activities: I played football, had girlfriends, and lost my temper over competitive stupid video games.  But my shift into manhood that summer had nothing to do with a physical or behavioral change; it was much more than that.  A group of barefoot boys, a rope swing, and an old ax with some dry wood was all that I needed.  Oh, and Rambo.  He had a hand in this too.

            While I am sure there is no boy on earth who would ever wish to have three sisters and no brothers, I would not have traded my upbringing for the world.  My three sisters and l lived imaginative and raucous lives.  I can still picture 8-year-old Brooke on the swing right next to me, pumping her legs with all of her little girl strength and watching her fly right past me straight up into the cloudless blue sky.  Her blonde hair whipped behind her as she threw back her head grinning and giggling.  Playing “Teacher” with Lauren, the eldest, pacing around the basement with her hair pulled back into an austere bun and her lips perfectly curled into a condescending frown, instilled nervous excitement and fear in us three younger siblings.  She abruptly smacked the table with her yardstick, the ultimate symbol of her authority, as she dictated random assignments to Brooke, Hannah, and myself, or as she punished us for bad behavior.  But that, of course, was when we always burst into uncontrollable childhood laughter ensuring that we would play again.  Whatever my sisters played, I played with them.  And the same went for the music they listened to, the movies they watched, and the hobbies they found and pursued.  If they did it, I was going to do it too.  It may not have made me very manly, but it did make me very happy.

            Pretending this upbringing didn’t result in some negative consequences at school would be foolish.  There always have been, and there always will be, bullies and the kids they bully.  I just happened to get the short end of the stick in that situation.  As it turns out, singing all the time, quoting your sisters’ jokes and movies, and being opinionated and outspoken on subjects that most boys don’t care about will result in being told that you’re not manly, that you’re girly or gay.  A lot of that bullying pushed me to do things that were considered manly, even though I hated them.  I played tackle football from 6^th through 9^th grade.  I tried out for basketball multiple times and never made it.  I started wearing jerseys of famous sports players and I didn’t have any idea what these players even looked like.  And those jerseys were complimented by my new manly hairstyle of all my hair sticking straight up in a prickly atrocious mess.  I’m sure I looked like a porcupine--a chubby awkward sporty porcupine.  

Luckily the sports phase passed.  I grew more confident and the bullying lessened in severity as the years went on.  But no matter how old I got, and no matter how far I moved away from sports, I still adopted things into my life that I didn’t even like just to make me manlier: motorcycles, vulgar jokes and language, even bullying other people.  With all of these new hobbies and this manly style that I forced on myself from ages 11 to 21, I never became a man.  I might have fooled others into thinking that I was a man, but I definitely was not.  And I knew I wasn’t.  And what was worse, I had no idea how to become any more of a man; because I had tried everything I could think of.

            It was four days after my 22^nd birthday when I met Jay and Cees.  Both of them were barefoot.  Spotting them dancing around a party, in their old plaid button ups and dirty jean shorts, caused my eyes to lock on them and they never left my sight.  As they bobbed their heads singing at the top of their lungs with their tan muscular arms flailing around in rhythmic motion, I felt the slightest twitch of envy jerk my body.  They felt no fear doing this in front of everyone. And it was clear that they weren’t dancing and singing in some lame attempt to make themselves look cool, because they honestly looked like idiots.  And that made me like them; it didn’t matter that we had never spoken before.  So when “In the Summertime” came blasting through the speakers I jumped right in with them, belting out every word and dancing with all the energy I could muster.  And that was all it took.  The friendship was born. A summer of adventures was underway.

            After that night in early July, it feels like I returned to their house, more commonly known as “The Hamster Cage”, every day until school started in the fall. The rest of the roommates and friends were quickly integrated into my life: Charlie, Tanner, Taylor, Mark, and Landon.  They were all barefoot too.  I never worried about being myself around them, because they were themselves all the time and never apologized for it.  But what was crazy was they seemed to think I was funny, interesting, and good to have around even though I’m not into all of the things they are into, like rock climbing, slack lining, hiking, and carpentry.  And what was even crazier was that they didn’t make fun of me when I told them my passion in life, and major in college, was musical theatre.  They asked me genuine questions about it, and expressed admiration for pursuing the thing I love most.  For the first time in a long time I knew I could say what I wanted to say, watch what I wanted to watch, and do what I wanted to do in front of other people and not fear even the slightest bit of ridicule or belittlement.  I was safe.

            One night that summer, I swung by The Hamster Cage in hopes of killing my boredom.  I happened upon Cees and Tanner planted in their usual spots on the couch opening a box of pepperoni pizza along with a 2 liter bottle of Coke.  “Billy get in here we’re just about to start Rambo. You’ve seen Rambo right?”  Oh no.  Cees’ question put me in an awkward situation that was all too familiar to me.  Apparently there is this list of movies that every man must watch in his life, and Rambo is rated number one.  I never received this list because I was at home watching Never Been Kissed with my sisters.  I used to always lie when put in this situation, but that’s only because I was avoiding the usual reaction of, “Are you kidding me?! What were you watching? MUSICALS?”  But I didn’t lie to Cees.  I frankly stated, “Nope.”  And in an encouraging tone without one drop of disbelief or mocking, he replied, “Well then come sit down and watch this with us! You’ll love it! Tanner and I used to watch this all the time.”  Before I even sat down, pizza was placed in one hand and the Coke found its way into the other. As the beginning credits began rolling, I noticed Cees’ big toothy grin out of the corner of my eye. I hesitantly turned to face him as he squinted at me and said, “Billy, tonight you become a man.”

I know he wasn’t implying that I wasn’t actually a man, but that I was fulfilling some required passage into manhood by watching Rambo.  But as we attentively watched and awed at the crazy war vet fighting everyone he saw in the woods, I did feel like I was becoming a man.  Cees and Tanner have been thick as thieves since elementary school, and this movie is a special shared memory of their youth.  But there I was, crashing in on their tradition after only knowing them for a couple of weeks.  Yet, they invited me to be there.  Their excitement and desire to share this manly thing with me was written all over their faces. And they were sure I was going to love it because they loved it.  And you know what?  I did.  And I didn’t have to pretend even a little bit.

            Unfortunately, all invitations extended to me after that night never allowed me to take part in something as harmless and easy as watching a movie. Instead every other invitation inevitably led to me fearing for my life.

Jay had been telling me about this rope swing for weeks.  Smiling and promising I would like to go one day usually got him to shut up about it, but my intention to go never actually existed.  When Jay figured that out, his disappointed eyes penetrated my soul and filled me with guilt. Stupidly, I allowed that guilt to force me into his car with a swimsuit and towel in hand. Four of us drove out to Mona, barefoot, to the secluded pond where the rope swing was hanging from a looming tree.  The pond smelled horrible, like sewage mixed with mud.  The murky water hid all threatening rocks, logs, and creatures that lurked beneath the surface.  Rain drizzled from the sky softening the bark of the tree, and the wooden pegs drilled into it appeared to be slimy and untrustworthy.  I insisted that I was not going to go first, but that did not fly with Jay.  He said waiting would just make it harder to go, and that he would chase me up the tree if he had to.

I felt my fingers and toes curl around the damp wood of every single peg until I reached the tiny, ancient, and slippery platform at the top of the tree.  I took one look down and immediately knew that this was where I was going to die.  I defiantly announced that there was no way that I was going to do this, and that I was coming down.  Before I could even lower myself to the first peg, Jay hopped up onto the platform and grabbed the rope from a nearby branch.  With a fat smile plastered on his face, he generously held the rope out for me to take, but I did not budge.  There was no way I was going to let Jay make me swing to my sudden death in a pond that smelled like a toilet.  It wasn’t going to happen. Shivering and wet, we stood on that old board screwed into the tree about twenty feet up arguing about if I was going to swing into the pond.  But I eventually gave in.  I noticed that as Jay was convincing me to swing, he never attempted to make me feel stupid or ashamed for being scared.  Accusations of me being a wimp never left his lips, and the fact that I had never done something like this before was not thrown in my face.  He was smiling and laughing.  His hands showed me how to grab on tight while his words promised it would be fun.  Jay wanted me to have this experience that he had already had because it’s something that we could share and laugh about and maybe do again sometime.  So I grabbed the rope really tight, sucked in a deep breath, and I swung.  It was terrifying, it was fun, I screamed, and I laughed.  And as I flew through the air into that disgusting pond, I never felt manlier.

A trip up to Cees’ grandparents’ cabin in Idaho was the only plausible way for us to wrap up our summer.  Jay, Cees, Mark, Landon, and myself all piled into the jeep and made our way up to the cabin for our last adventure before school would come in and ruin our free-spirited lives.  The rustic two-story cabin looked strangely majestic as we pulled up in the late afternoon sun. Cees was beyond ecstatic.  He burst out of the car door howling and jumping around from pure elation.  The rest of them joined, and then Jay exclaimed, “Cees look! No way! Look at all the wood!”  Cees’ jaw dropped and his eyes widened so you could see the white all the way around the blue.  Sure enough there was a heap of short logs stacked really high about 20 feet away, but I definitely did not understand the hype.  I mean, it was just wood.  Cees bolted inside the cabin and appeared seconds later with an ax in his right hand hanging over his shoulder like he was Paul Bunyan.  He had a vigor and fire in his eyes that I had never seen before.  As he marched past the car Jay quickly scurried over and carefully placed a log on a nearby stump.  Jay, Mark, and Landon all stood and watched as if this was the climax of a movie.  Cees approached the stump, fervently put both hands on the handle of the ax, brought it all the way behind his back, and then in one swift motion, raised it straight above his head and threw the ax down with all of his strength right in the center of the log.  Two wooden halves flew in each direction signaling cheering and laughter to fill the quiet air along with calls for the next chop.  They each took turns swinging away splitting the wood like it was butter, and I don’t think I’ve ever seen them happier.

The good times came crashing to a halt when Jay handed me the ax. “Your turn Billy.”  I told him that I didn’t want to, and with the genuine excitement that you only see in children he responded, “C’mon! It makes you feel like such a man!”  But I was positive it was going to have the opposite effect on me.  I would feel nothing like a man when the ax bounced off the log from lack of strength, or when I missed the log all together.  But experience taught me that arguing with these guys was pointless.  As soon as I took the ax all four of them were talking over each other teaching me how to chop, and Jay placed a nice dry log on the stump.  Their excitement for my first wood chopping radiated from their bodies, like I was getting my driver’s license or something.  While prepping my stance I said a quick and desperate prayer that this would not end in humiliation. I took in a slow breath, checked that my hands were in the right place, and then I swung the ax with all my might just how they taught me.  And I missed.  But panic didn’t flood my body.  I wasn’t overcome with embarrassment and shame.  And I didn’t try to make up some excuse for my lack of manly behavior like I have my whole life.  I just muttered, “Dang.”  They all shouted that it didn’t count, it was my first ever swing, and that I had to try again.  So I did.  And the wood split right in half.  Cheering and laughter filled the air again as we celebrated my personal victory.  I chopped wood.

And I had become a man.

            Life hasn’t changed much since that summer.  I still find myself at The Hamster Cage multiple days a week, and the adventures, the conversations, and the laughter has not dwindled even a little bit.  But every time I see those guys I am reminded of that summer and what they taught me, and that is that I am a man when I decide that I am.  Trying to meet other people’s definitions or criteria is about as effective as trying to paint a picture with no paintbrush.  Because being great at chopping wood or swinging off ropes does not make you any more of a man, just like wearing sports jerseys and styling your hair differently doesn’t.  And it never will.

In the summer of 2013 I became a man.  And it’s all because I met a group of barefoot boys who treated me like I already was one, and so I finally learned to do the same.  And much to Cees’ satisfaction, I do have to admit, Rambo helped a little bit too.