109?

The white fabric was stretched across the counter-top beckoning for us to begin the daunting task that lay before us. Our stencils were hand-made and had been meticulously designed, laminated and cut. (And for the record, Cooper Black would not be my recommended font from which to cut numbers and size 45 type.) Several brands of permanent black markers were strewn across our workspace which had been lined with pencil drawn 6”X 8” grid blocks. It took several trial runs to get it right – finding the markers that bled the least, remembering to put scratch paper underneath so we didn’t leave a colorful graffiti gift on the counter – sure to incense the accountants, figuring out if we doubled up the fabric we could take advantage of the bleeding ink and work twice as fast, and determining the right configuration of bodies so that all three of us could work at the same time. We had it down to a science by the time it came to the 900’s and were perhaps a little high from the fumes to even joke about going in to business! By the end of the night we went from a blank sheet of fabric to a multi-colored array of 60 race bibs ready to soak up miles of sweat, dust and triumph.

For a few months now, Xavierites, and high-schoolers all over the island have been training for one day, one event – one moment in which to exhibit their athletic prowess – Track and Field Day. (Ironically, a competition spread across 3 days). For 6 of my runners, their opportunity presented itself in the wee morning hours of April 20^th. Just like the glory days, we had a team pasta party the night before and exploiting the resources we had available, we employed the efforts of the sophomore boys to climb trees and retrieve natural sources of hydrating perfection – coconuts! Even though the distance team runs farther, works harder, puts up with more orders from me and complains louder, for that night of luxury, it was all worth it. They were treated royally – dinner up in the faculty lounge, a rowdy pep rally in their honor and the girls were invited to stay in the female faculty house…

We sent them to bed smug and content, and anxiously awaiting their 3:30 am wake up call. I now know what my coaches must have felt – nights of nervous slumber filled with tossing, turning and dreams about the possibility of what might be and the fear of what might not. For about a month, the assistant coaches and I had been getting up at 5:15 to run with the girls before school, so waking up without the sun was nothing unfamiliar, though the reminiscent feeling of race day made this morning, or middle of the night, different.

We woke up the girls and I went up to the kitchen to pack water and bread in the hopes of avoiding the misery of last year’s mistakes. With a truck full of athletes and a flatbed full of fans, we made the descent down the hill towards the course.

(Pre-race jitters - Nikki, Sarah, Rose and Coach...click on photos to enlarge)


What seemed to be an unorganized mess at 5:15 somehow pulled itself together in time to have about 40 athletes on the starting line by 5:30, bearing their hand-crafted, individualized by school, race numbers. It was a beautiful sight…(if you’d like to see for yourself…) and a moment that couldn’t make a coach any prouder.

The race went well. Xavier took 8^th, 12^th and 13^th for the ladies and in an impressive finish on the guys side, one of Xavier’s seniors won the race, another took 10^th , and in a courageous effort to fill the spot of a last minute drop out, the Japanese ‘Beast from the East’ ran his heart out and took 15^th. When the runners had recovered, the course had been swept of any stragglers and the road cleared, the coaches met to discuss results.

(My lovely lady marathoners in recovery - Nikki, Nessa and Sarah)

(Nessa shows her Xavier Pride!)

(Texter leading the pace and his protege J4 a 14 year old unattached rising star)

(The referenced 'Beast from the East,' Toshiki and his infamous partner returning from some unfortunate mishaps in the '06 marathon to give it another go - Thaine)

The rules only allowed for 3 runners from each school to participate, and the bib numbers were designed in such a way to indicate school and gender. For example, Xavier was designated the 900’s, so male runners wore 901 – 903 and females wore 904-906. We thought it would expedite the scoring process which in the absence of electronic timing chips, is done by hand.

As I’m perusing the list of results, I notice 4 runners had been listed as finishing the boys race for Chuuk High. I turn to the coach, point out the mistake and ask why he ran 4 runners…102…101…103…and 109. Offended by the accusation, he claimed he didn’t. He double checked his records and said that #109 wasn’t his athlete.

“Wait, you’re right…109 isn’t even a legit number. The males are numbered 01-03. That’s impossible.”

We started double checking the names, asking the official who recorded the finishers…maybe it was 901? No, that’s the Xavier runner who won the race. Maybe 106? No, that’s a female athlete. Who was 109? Then a light bulb goes off and in a moment of detective genius I exclaim…

“The kid pinned his number on upside down! He was supposed to be 601! The runner is from SDA!”

Ngunupin

Perhaps one of the greatest accomplishments in my altogether unaccomplished Chuukese language career would have to have been my blissfully ignorant consent and follow-through leading about 70 “serafou” (youth) on a Lenten retreat. Piis, perhaps the smallest an inhabited island can be before qualifying as a misplaced coral deposit, is located on the outer reef that protects the north face of the lagoon. After having been to and fallen in love with this haven several times over, Marcos asked me if I might accompany him to experience and share in his passion. With a little faith in God and a lot of trust in my fearless veteran, I jumped in the boat that carried us through the sunset and to a vantage point that reflected my life on Weno in a distant haze. Knowing full well that my subpar Chuukese skills were not going to get me very far, it did not take long to develop a sincere appreciation for Kathy, the bilingual native, and her efforts to merge our two languages. Inevitable frustrations furthered my insecurity – feeling the weight of the language barrier crippling my ability to reach any deeper faith connection. Idiotic or impressive, fumbling or fluid, cringing or confident, abashed or assured, Marcos and I tried our best. We prayed in Chuukese, sang in Chuukese, read from the Chuukese translated Bible and even offered impromptu speeches. In our most sincere attempts, we would write down the prayers that we wanted to share and Kathy, in her abounding patience would correct our translations. I put on my best “r” rolling, syllable slurring, authentic Chuukese accent and plowed through St. John’s version of the washing of the feet. I concentrated so hard to translate and then string words and phrases together in an unnaturally fast yet still miserably inadequate pace. In all honesty, I felt more like a retreatant than an effective leader with anything substantial to offer, but perhaps that was the weekend’s hidden purpose.

Early in the weekend, the retreatants paired up with someone to build a partnership that was used in several activities. Unfortunately, a darling teenager by the name of Antel “drew the short straw” and got stuck with the “fin Merika” who “ese sinei fossun Chuuk.” I floundered through a few activities, all along with the guilt of ruining this kid’s retreat experience weighing on my conscience. He certainly could have garnered so much more from a solid conversation with someone of a higher intellectual level than that of a 4 year old. Fortunately the reconciliation service that we did on Saturday night required little vocal communication. The activity involved taking a paper cross and a pen, and writing all of your “tipis” on the “irapenges.” Then, two at a time, each partner pair walked to the candle and the canister in the center of the room to symbolically light and burn the cross filled with sins. Though the activity seems like a retreat standard – it takes on new meaning when blessed by the fire of the Holy Spirit.

The physical properties of burning paper would ensure that a few square inches of your typical Xerox paper would burn for no more than a few seconds before the flames receded into the pile of smoldering ash. Couple by couple, the crosses were offered up to the Lord, and as would expect, the light in the can extinguished itself just as quickly as it flickered its warm glow. Antel and I were the last couple to approach the center to make our sacrifice. He bent down on his knee and I prayed over him as he placed his cross in the flame of the candle, just far enough to char the corner which proved unable to withstand the contagion of fire. After he placed his cross in the can to burn, I did just the same, left my “tipis” in the middle of the room and we both returned to our spots on the perimeter of the circle.

The pervading silence in the room drew our attention to the center canister, now leaping with flames. The light continued to blaze dim yellow and soft orange tongues of fire. Quiet murmurs indicated that Antel and myself were not the only ones who found the divine humor in the situation. At first I turned to him with a childish grin and said, “Kich, mei wor chommong tipis.” He giggled a little and we both turned our attention back to the glowing can. Minutes passed and the fire continued to light the room full of flabbergasted faces. Under normal circumstances, paper would not burn like that unless there was something else fueling it.

After our reconciliation service, the youth gathered for a closing prayer service in which the mic was open for personal reflection. Speeches are an important part of Chuukese culture. It is proper etiquette to express thanks, congratulations, apologies etc… Therefore, as someone they mistook for a leader, I was, in a way, obligated to stand before the congregation and offer my own words of broken wisdom. As people began to take the podium, I prayed their speeches would last all night, or they would talk so long we would run out of time, but of course time in Micronesian culture is practically nonexistent and thus running out is never a legitimate concern. I thought maybe they would be merciful and let me off the hook, or forget I was sitting there, but of course, good luck trying to inconspicuously blend a white girl into a crowd full of Micronesians. Among the “leaders,” Kathy got up first and spoke so eloquently about the time of preparation and the value of the weekend in making time to prepare. I was secretly hoping Marcos would be as chicken as I was feeling, but of course he jumped at the chance to address the audience, and in broken Chuukese nearly broke into tears trying to express how grateful he was to the people of Piis for giving him life, a desire to share his faith and a reason to learn their language. As he sat down, I could have closed my eyes and still heard the subtly obvious noise of a roomful of bodies turning to stare at their hopeful expectation for the next speaker. Reluctantly, I walked up - praying for assistance in getting through the next minute and a half and quite disappointed that the podium was much closer than I thought. “Tiro ami meinisin, Nepong annim. Kinisou Chapur ren letting me be here with all of you.” I thought sweeping hand gestures might have helped my cause, but I think ended up being interpreted more as a flailing cry for help. “…and for letting me share this weekend with you. Nepwinei, ewe Ngunupin mi nonnomw ikei.” I began trying to explain what I saw that night. I tried to tell them that the Holy Spirit was there that night. The Holy Spirit was present in that room. “Ami mi kuna ena ekkei….you know the fire – you saw the fire in the middle of the room? You all saw it?” Half of a nod would have sufficed, but I couldn’t turn around now, I had to finish. I tried to tell them how I turned to Antel, somewhat embarrassed because at first it looked like the both of us combined had enough sins to fuel a forest fire. “Ewin, ua takir. Nge esop tipis. Esop tipis – It wasn’t sins, it was the Holy Spirit. The Ngunupin.” I had successfully lost them, and lost myself – I didn’t know anymore words, I couldn’t further explain myself without further confusing them. Shaking, voice quivering I thanked them again, perhaps the one expression I’ve mastered, and sat down. I turned to Regina sitting next to me, and through her response to my question “Mi wewe? Did you understand?” was a mere “Ekis – a little.” Her warm smile was enough commendation for my pathetic efforts.

I gave what I could, and as is true in most situations I find myself in….sometimes words just get in the way. Some moments are better left to indescribable emotion. And even in this attempt to recount the details of that weekend in my native language, I am still convinced there is meaning lost in the weekend’s hidden purpose.

You Don't See This Everyday...

I thought I had it rough taking on the open seas aboard the Caroline Voyager. I felt sorry for myself. I felt nauseous. I may have even squirted a few tears over my dismal state….That was until I met face to face with a few current navigators of the Hokule’a and the Alingano Maisu. Approximately 30 crew members under the direction of the legendary Mau Piailug left Hawai’i in January and en route to Japan, made a scheduled stop here in the Chuuk Lagoon in early March.

(Aw that happens every day - luxurious ocean cruise liners touring the Pacific. But it’s cute she’s so excited about it.)

The Hokule’a and the Alingano Maisu are traditional outrigger canoes.

(A canoe!? Impossible)

Impossible right? One would think. But I saw the crew in person. I saw the canoes. I heard their story. Possible.

(She’s full of crap)

I didn’t think most people would believe me, and to be perfectly honest I’m not sure I was completely sold when I first heard, but once I saw the red thuu and the few patches of golden dark skin peering out from behind thick dark navigational tattoos, I knew the canoe had arrived to refute my doubt. Due to geography, among other reasons, navigation has always been a hallmark of island culture. The wood for the canoes was cut and hand carved, the glue gleaned from sap of local trees and rope made from the husks of dried coconuts. Generations and generations of males have passed down the remarkable skill of entrusting their fate to nothing more than stars, water currents and wind patterns, resulting in “the exploration and settlement of islands in an area of over 10 million square miles during a period of over 1,000 years.” (PVS website) Perhaps you were not the only skeptic of this colossal endeavor. The doubt of fellow disbelievers is what actually spurred the construction of the Hokule’a in 1975 in an effort to prove that the Pacific islands were not in fact discovered and settled by accident.

The Hokule`a “can be loaded with about 11,000 pounds, or 5.5 tons, including the weight of a crew of 12-16 people and equipment and supplies. It can make up to 10-12 knots sailing on a reach in strong winds.” (PVS website) How does an 8-ton, 62’ 4’’ X 17’6’’ vessel navigate the Pacific? When questioned about whether or not the crew carried a compass with them, they thought the question ridiculous. They said a compass was not necessary, and almost an inconvenience when they traveled by much easier, and more reliable methods.

The crew stopped long enough to stroll around Weno, and a few came up to the Xavier Campus to tour the attraction. I was walking behind one of the female crew in the hallway, in sheer amazement at the broadness of her shoulders. When I picked up my jaw long enough to ask her about her experience so far, she told me of how the crew works in 4 hour shifts, navigating, paddling, watching, observing. Unless of course there was a bad storm – then all of the crew would be employed to help maneuver the swells. I got the feeling that she was making fun of me in her head at my fawning over something she considered quite ordinary.

Unfortunately, I had classes to teach and could not accompany the juniors as they got to actually board the docked canoes and see first hand the intricacies of life in the hand-crafted vessel. I’m still in disbelief at how a sea-craft so small and delicate can travel such vast expanses of ocean and withstand the fury of the ravaging seas…

(Yeah me too, you fibber)

But hopefully the pictures substantiate my claim and further expose the beauty of the island cultures, and the stories they conceal prove the impossible possible…

As if that wasn’t eventful enough for one week, no sooner had the canoes left, than the next efficient means of transportation dropped off yet another spectacle to the Chuuk Lagoon. Perhaps you might be familiar with the World Youth Movement initiated by Pope John Paul in 1983. The movement has made it’s way to Micronesia and on March 15, Continental Micronesia opened up the cargo door to reveal Pope John Paul’s gift to the “serafou” of the world – the World Youth Day Cross and Icon. Someone, somewhere felt that Chuuk was important enough to receive something that has been a symbol of unity that millions of eyes have gazed upon, fingers have grazed and lips have kissed. “It has been carried by commercial airline, light aircraft, dog sled, pick-up truck, tractor, sail boat, fishing boat and on shoulders. From parish churches to youth detention centres, prisons, schools, universities, national historic sites, shopping centres, nightclub districts and parks.” (WYD website)

Just to be a part of it made me feel connected to something greater. It is hard when you’ve been living on an island that you can run around in under 2 hours, an island whose entire lagoon barely appears as a speck on the map, and an island whose size is dwarfed by the enormity of ocean that surrounds it - to feel empowered…to feel as though your efforts are part of anything beyond the geographical limitations of the reef. But that day, Chuuk was the center of the world. Christ’s cross came here, and for the 48 hours that it circled the lagoon, this tiny speck of nothingness was visible from outer space.

Catholic faces pressed against the fence awaiting its arrival. As the gates opened for the cross bearers, the expectant believers reverently slipped into the growing procession of followers. Trailing behind a pickup truck holding speakers and the Chuukese lady whose repetition of about 562 rosary decades was the blessed mantra that guided our every step, was an endless line of waddling mu mus. I don’t think that we could have walked any slower, which was the perfect pace to simply exist in the moment. Time stopped. The island, Catholic or Protestant, paused - all eyes on the shoulders of the cross bearers.


















The procession ended two miles further, two villages over and two hours later at the Cathedral in Tunuch with mass and nightlong veneration. It began it’s trek to the 5 other islands in the lagoon at 6 am the next day and completed it’s Chuukese tour with mass at Saraamen Chuuk before it was hauled onto the plane to be received by the Guaminians. It will continue to travel throughout the South Pacific until it finally returns home to Sydney in 2008 in preparation for World Youth Day.


When you think about it, it’s just wood and nails. It’s fascinating how something so seemingly plain can bring you to your knees, or how something so small can radiate so much passion.

www.wyd2008.org

JVI Retreat

March 9, 10, and 11 marked our quadrennial JVI retreat. Instead of opting to go off-island, hiking or camping, we collectively decided to engage in a fast downtown at Saraamen Chuuk Academy, the other Catholic high-school that employs 2 of our fellow JV's. A much needed break, an embraced sense of hunger and intentionality, a welcomed time of recommitment during this Lenten season and when you put the 7 of us together in one apartment for the weekend, a heck of a lot of fun!!

(click on photos to enlarge)

AJ and Trunce making some fishy tuna salad sandwiches for the "Last Supper"

Special guest appearance from... Barack Obamba

The creative genius of Mr. Marcos Gonzalez

Believe it or not, this picture was not staged. Onlookers gaze over yonder at the arrival of the airplane making its daily stop in Chuuk.

The view from the roof atop Saraamen Chuuk Academy

Simplicity

And what retreat would be complete without a courtesy ride on the Police Jet Ski (Special Effects:Chris Dwyer)

The Hungry Crew (Trunce, Colleen, AJ, Lincoln, Marcos, Ellen, Dwyer)

All in a day's work...

Voter Registration

We tend to get isolated in our own little world here at Xavier. It is up on a hill in the rural “countryside” of the island. Thus, we often find ourselves disconnected with the rest of society. Fortunately Lincoln (a Canadian who hails from the New England state of Vermont) and Marcos, (born and bred on the outskirts of LA but identifies more with his strong Mexican roots) the two JV teachers who work at Saraamen Chuuk Academy, (the other Catholic High School downtown) serve as liaisons between our sheltered existences and the life that we never knew existed beyond it…

This past week, while we were revolving in the cyclic routine that keeps us sane, the rest of Chuuk was steeped in voters’ ballots and campaign signs. Throughout the FSM (Federated States of Micronesia), this year marks the quadrennial election for district and national leaders. Now, I don’t claim to be a political scientist, but I do know that a democratic government is intended to provide its citizens the opportunity to offer their input in choosing a qualified leader. Candidates are supposed to campaign on platforms that promise of a brighter future, and voters either align with those whose promises sound most convincing, or those who best reflect their own political views. That’s how it works, right? It’s a political structure whose longevity has been substantiated by its effectiveness in placating the masses of people longing for a say in how the country is governed. Unfortunately, the comparative newness and ineffectualness of the Chuukese democracy is evident in the failure of the system to thrive in this familial oriented society.

Again, my naivety and philistinism leaves me with no room to draft and disseminate my own political theories, however a degree is not required to be able to recognize the inherent problems specific to the Chuukese branch of government. While the value Chuukese place on the family is the essence of what makes their culture so beautiful, it seems to contradict the intended purpose of a democracy. Thus, platforms that might offer ideas on concentrating efforts to improve the public school system, or conserving fuel consumption and finding alternative power sources are inutile because officials are not elected based on their qualifications so much as their familial affiliations. Election time breeds violent tension between families who are torn between two candidates, whose marriage relations oblige loyalty to one, but whose village demands loyalty to another…and the corruption cascades from there…Aside from the inevitable nepotism that occurs to reward dedicated supporters, there are no checks or balances to question the point at which someone might think depositing half of a 2 million dollar donation into a personal account and actually getting away with it was a good idea, or nothing to ensure family members pay for their electricity bills so that the power company can operate on anything other than 4 hour interval schedules, or nothing to protect funds allocated for paving projects from being used for extravagant inaugural celebrations.

What is frustrating for both locals and outsiders is that a glimpse of this ideal (only in the sense that it is marginally effective) form of government is not elusive. While no state puts on a flawless show, the states Palau, Yap, Pohnpei and Kosrae at least appear to have their acts together and don’t experience a fraction of the economic instability from which my home state, Chuuk, continues to suffer.

With any election comes a hope, however minute, that things will change for the better and in the past few months I have been privileged enough to witness baby steps in what seems to be a positive direction. The Chinese government just donated the money and man power to refurbish the once passé island airport so that it not only looks beautiful, but complies with international regulations. Surveyors have begun assessing what we like to call “roads,” and for the first time in about 5 years Chuuk has come as close to 24 hours of power as is possible without actually having it, thanks to the donation of two new fuel efficient generators.

I don’t have solutions, only complaints, which I realize is an equally large part of the problem here, but thanks to Marcos, who can represent our community of JVI’s (Jesuit Volunteers International) here, I feel that in some way, I have done something proactive. One of the Chuukese teachers took him along to the “voting precinct” for what was supposed to be an experience in observing how elections work here in Chuuk. It’s not that Marcos could easily be confused for a Micronesian, and it’s not that he went with the intent of trying to outsmart the system, but when he was handed a ballot, what else was he supposed to do? Aside from long history of corruption, there has already been controversy over the number of people not voting and the failure of absentee ballots to be counted, “but,” as A.J. so eloquently puts it, “at least they let the Mexican vote!”

Haikus

(Courtesy of recent community nights and both freshman and sophomore literature classes studying poetry!)

Wandering settler

Calmly looking for a home.

Boys cheer, clouds beckon.

Heads down, hands write fast.

Faces of contemplation.

Growth is visible.

Unrest is hopeful.

Light is not the absence of dark.

Believe in what stirs.

Begin to prepare

A sacred space, focused heart.

Cleansing needed.

Hips lead matching steps

Passionate Latin dancing

Sensual rhythm.

Long John skin tight pants.

Who confuses shirt and slacks?

That’s Michael Patrick.

Kosapw akurang. (Don’t make noise)

En kopwe chok aussening. (Just listen)

Use tongeni. (I cannot)

Valentine's Day Reflection

Homily

“And they came to Bethsaida. And some people brought to him a blind man and begged him to touch him. And he took the blind man by the hand and led him out of the village, and when he had spit on his eyes and laid his hands on him, he asked him, "Do you see anything?" And he looked up and said, "I see men, but they look like trees, walking." Then Jesus laid his hands on his eyes again; and he opened his eyes, his sight was restored, and he saw everything clearly. And he sent him to his home, saying, "Do not even enter the village." (Mark 8:22-26)

So I was sitting in my office yesterday trying to think of what the Lord might want me to say in this reflection here today…when Vincia walked in….I didn’t doubt that it was the Lord’s way of inspiring me as she sat down and asked what I was doing… I had the Bible open and I told her I was trying to think up something for this morning…Something to do with Noah, the blind man and perhaps St. Valentine

She asked me….”who is this St. Valentine guy anyway??” and I was like “??? Maybe that would be a good place to start…”

So I go and look it up expecting to find this great, heart-warming story about this guy who really loved a lot of people…..and I search and search and search and find……nothing…..

There is literally NOTHING known about St. Valentine…..all that they can tell us is that he was an ancient Christian Martyr…and that “men respected his name but only God knew his actions.” They don’t know his birthdate, when he died or what he did to become canonized a Saint…..in fact the Church officially removed the feast day of St. Valentine from the calendar in 1969 because he was celebrated more as a legendary figure than an actual religious icon…..

So then how do we come to arrive at this world renowned holiday?? Interestingly enough – LITERATURE – and I’m not just saying that... cause I teach Lit – but legend has it that in the late 1300’s, Geoffrey Chaucer, in one of his writings made this SLIGHT mention of birds coupling off on the feast day of St. Valentine and from there it evolved into the way it is celebrated today….. It’s amazing right?? How Valentine’s day literally evolved from nothing ….it sounds ridiculous – but I think that Valentine’s day is the manifestation of this human need within us to make love tangible….to make love something we can see and touch…..to give love a color……..purple, pink, red…..to give love words – cards, poems, songs…..to give love an object we can hold on to – candy, teddy bears, flowers, valentine cards….

And I think that it was the same for the Blind man in this Gospel….It said that he reached out and touched Jesus – he needed to feel him standing before him …. And he needed to see – He needed his sight…..

What is so hard to understand - is that love is simply NOT something that can ever be seen – you can’t describe it, define it or hold it………..but you just know it’s there – you can feel it………and it’s the same with our faith…….you can’t see it or touch it – but it’s there – and you believe it…..

But God also knows that we’re human – he knows that it is not so easy to believe without seeing….and so that’s why He gives us days like this…….. to celebrate the tangibility of love………and that’s why he gives us Gospel readings like this – where Jesus physically takes mud and touches the man’s eyes……..puts his hands on Him and performs this miracle…………and that’s why God gave us Jesus – to be this living, real – see able, touchable embodiment of love.

Happy Valentine’s Day!! :)

Naked Hope

“What continues to fascinate me is that those whose whole mind and heart were directed to God, had the greatest impact on other people, while those who tried very hard to be influential were quickly forgotten.”

Perhaps I am too stagnant to find my own original muse, but the words of Henri Nouwen find a way to continually inspire new thought patterns in my ever so narrow-minded perspectives. I know what you must be thinking – that even so much as pondering the above quote must have required some form of prior reading. Whether I should be ashamed or proud that I am actually reading an adult-reading level book with real words, no pictures and over 100 pages - I’m not sure, but a friend was generous enough to allow me into some of the personal reflections of Nouwen which touched him so deeply. I am grateful that my aversion to reading was not strong enough to deter me from finding beauty in the steps of his journey, which consequently, has profoundly affected mine.

As I feel the foundation beneath me preparing for yet another momentous shift, I find myself at a loss for feeling, passion, words and growth…Looking back in retrospect, I cannot recall the exact point where I slipped into spiritual oblivion, but I glance down now at my outstretched hands motioning the nonverbal frustration of unanswered questions… “Where is my center? Who is my center…do I have a center? Have I spent the last 18 months imprudently seeking influential status in the lives of those with whom I have come to live? Have I nourished a narcissistic desire to assimilate into the Chuukese community not for their benefit, but for mine? Have I secretly harbored an egocentric aspiration to be some sort of prominent teacher? Have I puerilely and selfishly wanted to make an impact beyond the realm of my comfort?”

Each shameful question pulling me farther and farther away from what should have been my center….a raw, genuine desire to follow the Lord.

***

In a recent reflection given by a few of Xavier’s most gifted seniors, one of the girls eloquently encapsulated and then flipped upside down the Genesis story by claiming that Adam and Eve did not fall from perfection because they ate the fruit…The fruit really had nothing to do with it. The Lord could have told them they could do anything they wanted in the garden with the exception of dancing the Macarena. But the serpent turns up the bass, they’re feeling the beat and before they know it they’re hands are behind their head and they’re shaking their hips – does the world still fall from grace? There were no magical powers in that fruit. Quite honestly, I doubt there exists an earthly repository of omniscient knowledge. What mattered was the fact that it was forbidden. God tested His trust in them. He put His faith in them and they let Him down.

Jesus trusted me with this calling. It wouldn’t have mattered where he sent me, or what He sent me to do, but He trusted me to always keep Him at the center of my life, my day, my actions, my motivations – to lead a life of blind, faithful service. He trusted me to live with His passion. I’m left with nothing more than the naked hope that He loves me and is proud of me in spite of my frequent inability to do so. “After all, everyone shares the handicap of mortality…It is in the confession of our brokenness that the real strength of new and everlasting life can be affirmed and made visible.”

The Daily Grind

It is a routine…I look forward to the first two hours to get me through my day of bell. class. lecture. disinterest. bell. class. activity. lightbulbs. bell. class. inquisitiveness. bell. class. challenge. bell. lunch. bell. grade. bell. lesson plan. bell. track practice. bell. dinner. bell. incessant questions. bell. power. bed. breathe. 6:00am the alarm beckons the sun up and I roll over to catch the fading remnants of the sunrise that perfectly complement any tree-house view. Time only allows for a quick five miler, but it’s just enough to get the blood flowing. Stretch. Cold Shower in record time before the 1^st…2^nd bells ring for daily mass…

* * *

Sometimes I don’t know why I do it…to be able to run, I have to be in bed early, I have to wake up early, it’s the same out and back route every day, some days I’m just dragging and sometimes it is just monotonous…stumbling down the hill trying to keep my sleepy eyes open. “Nesor Annim” to everyone who lines the village roads. Laughing with kids who run alongside - mocking you because they think it’s funny that you do this every day….get to the turnaround and do it all again….But I need it…and God exists in that. He exists in whatever desire it is that possesses me to get up every day. “The only way I become aware of His presence is that remarkable desire to return without any real satisfaction.” ~Nouwen. Is there abundant fulfillment to be found each day somewhere between the turnaround and the Xavier Rec House? Not necessarily. And that is the beauty of it.

* * *

7:30am – give or take a minute due to human error and a manually tolled bell…mass begins…Again I prod myself for answers as to why I go. Is each day a new, exciting, spiritually enriching high? Is the pope Catholic? Wait wrong joke. (and such is the classic example of the naturally disjointed progression of my fleeting thoughts) Absolutely not….it’s the farthest thing from it. But my subconscious desire leads me there, religiously, everyday. I don’t think I have missed a day this school year. The very thought of not having it as part of the morning routine puts me on edge. Sometimes…no…often times my mind drifts from St. Paul’s Letter to the Corinthians or the Gospel of Matthew or even the body Jesus Christ being broken on the altar……to assignments to grade, lessons to plan, feelings, stray thoughts craving attention, distractions…but for some reason, they are not as random and extraneous if I am able to acknowledge them in the presence of the Lord… Perhaps it is a cop-out for my all-too frequent and irreverent state of mind, but I have come to find a very deep mindfulness to be found in mindlessness. To go to mass everyday not necessarily for the powerfully moving experience it provides, but to sit quietly in a prayerful peace alongside students and co-workers and not have to talk, or teach, but to simply be with Him in whatever state my heart is in... that is the beauty of it.

Nominee Question Form

Gates Millenium Scholarship Program Application.

21. Briefly describe a situation in which you felt that you or others were treated unfairly or were not given an opportunity you felt you deserved. Why do you think this happened? How did you respond? Did the situation improve as a result of your response?

A situation in which I believe two people were treated unfairly took place during a basketball tournament. Two of our best players were not allowed to take part in the play-offs as a punishment for their crime. Our whole basketball team was aware that they had broken the rules, but we still insisted that our coach change the punishment. We all greatly desired to secure our slot in the championship games. Unfortunately, our coach did not alter the punishment because she was told not to do so by a superior, the director of our high school. Every one of the players on my team was infuriated by the final decision because we knew we would not be able to make it to the championship games without our two players. Complaints and more complaints were all that the coach received from us. What we did not realize was that our coach had no choice and that it was really our two players that owed the team an apology. Our two players were not ignorant of the rules and punishment. It was their responsibility as members of the team to make sure they did not do anything to jeopardize our chances of winning.

During the actual game, all of us were upset with the coach and some of us even spoke unfairly to her. Half the members of our team refused to play during the game and our coach had to ask people to play. I felt awful every time one of the players said, in a very audible tone, that it was our coach’s fault we were losing. After a terrible loss to our rival school, I decided to talk to the girls as their friend and as captain of our team because I would feel guilty if I didn’t’. To ease my guilt, I spoke with the girls and explained to them that our coach had no fault in this. I told them to put themselves in her shoes and realize that she had no choice because the director of our high school had made it very clear to them not to break school rules. After a few minutes of silence, a couple of them said that they thought that I was right and that they knew very well that our coach wanted us to win just as much as we did. One after another, the team began to communicate and share thoughts and feelings. Finally, just as I had predicted, the whole team realized that we had treated our coach unfairly because we had all forgotten the real purpose of the games. As a result of my response, our coaches received the apologies they deserved and the team learned never to forget that we should always just play for the fun of the game.

~#2 Senior Captain

The Caroline Voyager

~December 18^th, 2006
“Hey, we heard the boat was coming tomorrow and leaving tomorrow.”

“WHAT? What the filth foul filth foul! Are you kidding? We have a day left of finals. The students haven’t studied. The teacher’s haven’t graded….We’re not going to be able to go if it comes tomorrow.”

“It’s just a rumor, but we wanted to let you know.”

~December 19^th, 2006 8:00am
“Hey, there’s no boat here yet, so don’t worry. It’s still leaving on schedule – December 20^th in the morning.”

~December 19^th, 2006 1:00pm
“Hey, the boat is leaving at 4:00pm today – be ready to go.”

~December 19^th, 2006 2:30pm
“Hey, the boat is now leaving at 6pm - be ready to go.”

~December 19^th, 2006 5:30 pm
“Hey, the boat isn’t leaving until tomorrow morning. Be there at 10:00am.”

~December 20^th, 2006 10:00am
Arrive. Wait.

~December 20^th, 2006 12:00pm
Wait.

~December 20^th, 2006 2:00pm
Wait.

~December 20^th, 2006 4:00pm
Wait.

~December 20^th, 2006 5:00pm
Board.

~December 20^th, 2006 6:00pm
Depart.

We sailed off into the sunset as we began our journey towards Pohnpei – the state neighboring Chuuk on the eastern side. The scene was so picturesque that it makes any descriptive attempts sound cliché. A fairly large ocean liner (at least compared to your typical fiberglass motorboat) optimistically sailing towards the horizon, escorted by shades of rose, violet, fire and about a million and two stars competing for attention. Having a jejune understanding of transportation via the sea, the Xavier and the Saraamen Chuuk squads naively secured front row seats on the open deck of the bow of the boat. With childish anticipation we leaned over the railing to watch the docile waters carry Weno farther and farther away and we giddily awaited our chance to break through the threshold of the over-protective outer reef which tends to cradle our innocence inside the halcyon lagoon.

But there is a reason why you don’t go from rolling over to walking without first learning to crawl, you don’t go from diapers to toilets without training pants, you don’t go from breast milk to bbq chicken without baby food and there’s a reason roller coaster rides aren’t 3 days long. No sooner did we cross the barrier than the once imperturbable ocean grew incensed and left us at its mercy – lifting the bow until it vertically touched the sky and then nonchalantly releasing it to plunge back into the thrashing waters. For the 2 minutes that roller coasters are fun -that’s how long this was fun. It was even kind of fun when the entire front of the ship was soaked by what seemed to me at the time to be a massive tidal wave…. Yes, a lot of fun until I realized that any hope for changing into a dry pair of clothes was stowed away below the deck. With the color green washing over our faces, we knew it was going to be a long night.


Even after sledding, building snow forts and making snow angels until my extremities were numb, I really cannot recall a time that I have ever been colder. It was not the same type of icy chill brought on by the fury of winter, but rather the chill of being soaked to the bone for about 16 hours with no refuge from the constant ocean wind and occasional sea spray that re-saturated my clothes at regular intervals. As I laid down on my soaking wet orange towel, next to a stranger whose empathy made us instant friends, I prayed that it would not rain, I prayed that my shivering fits of frigid convulsion would not further agonize my new best friend, I prayed I would fall asleep to make the time go faster and I prayed I would not vomit over the side. It was truly an act of mind over body to stay focused enough keep my stomach settled and to keep my eyes closed so I wouldn’t notice the spinning sky above me. During one lapse of consciousness, I dreamt that we had arrived in Pohnpei. I had slept through the worst of it and we had made it safely. Even though I opened my eyes to the reality of the tantalizing illusion, I did notice the day beginning to break, meaning we had made it through the night.


From afar, we got to see the Mortlocks, four separate lagoons that compose the outer islands of Chuuk. Hoards of motor boats and outrigger canoes met the boat, which was anchored in the middle of the lagoon, (the shallow reef makes it impossible for boats that big to dock) in order to pick up or drop off passengers, food, coconuts, rebar and pool tables. After a day and a half of stop after stop after stop, we pulled up the anchor for the last time – not to be dropped again until the Pohnpei port. By now, since only few passengers were continuing on, as most had disembarked in the outer islands, and being the experienced and savvy navigators that we now were, we had claimed a prime spot under the green tarp on the deck. For the next 30 hours my butt did not move… because the very thought of getting up to stagger around a swaying boat made me sick. 30 hours of laying down, sleeping, or just staring into green nothingness. I got tired of sleeping, but it passed the time and made the turbulence easier to bear. 30 hours on hard wooden planks. My back ached from lying down. My hips hurt from lying on my sides. My arms were sore from using them as pillows. At night, bodies were just strewn across each other. In the middle of the night, I rolled over to find Riantho sharing half of my 1 square foot pillow, and I was about to get irritated until I looked down and saw my legs stretched across Dwyer’s stomach and resting comfortably on Jun’s head.

Though the experience of traversing the open seas by boat was absolutely amazing and equally gorgeous, never had we been so happy to spot land. Whether Pohnpeian or not, the faint outline of the landmark Sokehs Rock which welcomed us to the island was a glorious sight. It took all of us a few hours for the world to stop spinning once on solid ground, and it consequently took both teams the first few games of the tournament to get their land legs back…..

Team

Being part of a team has by far been among the most character building experiences of my entire life – the thrill of having a group of people sweating to achieve the same goal, living for the same passion, breathing the same sport, fighting together, rising together, falling together….It is an experience I wish for everyone to have but is perhaps an experience that is not for everyone…

Basketball here in the islands is different. Much more laid back. Your best is more often what it is, and not always what it could be. It is a difficult balance to find between having enough fun, but still being competitive…It was easy to do in Chuuk. The bar is not set very high. But playing to the level they play at in Pohnpei was a tough adjustment for the girls. There were all star teams who practice everyday, who work to perfect their game and who are committed to their team. After barely clinching the Chuuk High School Championship, the girls took a physical and mental break for about 2 ½ weeks to complacently celebrate, to study for finals and to finish the semester. Even so, I was hopeful that the excitement of going on a real travel trip, playing on a hardwood court with real scoreboards and real shot clocks would provide enough adrenaline to carry them through.

As part of me feared however, when they stepped out onto the court for their first game against Pohnpei Public High School (PICS), they were shell-shocked. It was like they forgot how to play. They were scared. They were nervous and perhaps still queasy from the boat, but when all was said and done, they got their butts kicked. People who had heard rumors of the indomitable Lady Navigators were left disappointed and did not hesitate to question, “What happened to your team?”

We sat down, regrouped and made a few adjustments. Maybe it was having Christmas day to relax or maybe they began to believe in themselves and their team, but Tuesday it was like a whole new team showed up to play. They went out and fought and battled and even though they were playing against the All-star team, they made a run for it and they played up to the Pohnpeian level of play instead of playing down to the level to which they had become accustomed. Game 2 of the day against Seventh Day Adventist School (SDA) was another battle that yielded more fruitful results – a little more positive reinforcement for their perseverance, ability to play under pressure and teamwork. For me, I got a glimpse of REAL coaching – depending on 5 starters, subbing, strategy, encouragement and most positively reinforcing for me was to see the measurable level of growth taking place.

Wednesday Night – Team meeting. I know I’ve mentioned it in earlier blogs, but substance abuse is a big problem out here, particularly in the form of what is called betel nut. Xavier strictly prohibits chewing betel nut and at this tournament, Fr. Arthur had made it very clear that if the athletes were wearing Xavier uniforms, they would abide by Xavier rules. Unfortunately a few athletes chose not to follow the rules and we found the evidence in the girls’ room.

My suspicions proved correct as I was not surprised when #3 came up to me and accepted responsibility for the spit-can found in her room. She was very apologetic, perhaps hoping that honesty would be enough to save her from her inevitable fate. She knew that she only had 1 more chance to screw up before she would be asked to leave and she had just used it up.

Looking back, her tongue and cheek apology was without remorse, as #3 and #1 (also skating on ice as thin as her cohort’s) were both caught sneaking around in the middle of the night with snuff when they thought everyone else was asleep and thus were too tired to make it to 7:30 practice the next morning… I was livid and I had a whole day to sit and brew. Unfortunately #1 and #3 were 2 of our strongest starting 5. At full strength we could definitely defeat SDA again, and with a little fire we could no doubt upset PICS to send us into the championship. The decision had been clear all along, but my question was whether or not I was strong enough to make it.

I tossed and turned all Friday morning and finally just got up and went for a run to clear my head. The last thing I wanted to do was go and play this next game. I didn’t know that my 40 most difficult minutes of my 2 years here would come in 4 - 10 minute quarters. I knew I was voluntarily standing before a firing squad and then being the one to give the lethal command….yet there was nothing I could do to avoid it.

The girls had heard rumors that #3 was not playing but I don’t think they believed I would do that to them…But out of tactical psychology or desperation, I didn’t tell them #1 wasn’t playing either….in fear that they would mentally check out before the game even started, or even worse, they would refuse to play at all.

I pulled the 2 girls into the locker room before the game and told them that I wanted to find any excuse that would make it morally right for them to compete, but I couldn’t come up with one. I told them that they owed their teammates a huge apology for letting them down though that suggestion was met with looks of confusion. In their minds – this wasn’t’ their fault, it was mine. I told them to suit up because they better cheer their faces off to make up for their absence on the court.

As only 10 players took the floor for warm-ups, they began looking around to find out why their lay-up lines were looking a little thinner. The referee’s whistle sent us into the opening huddle and the 2 girls apathetically wandered onto the bench, bringing looks of relief to their teammates – which quickly changed upon hearing the 5 starters. I heard the whispers. I heard the confused questions and I felt the team drag during the first few minutes. It was worse than the first game – way worse – like someone sucked the life out of them. Though we desperately needed a time out to regroup, I hesitated to call one because I didn’t want to face the girls. By the end of the first quarter, the questions had become more direct and the comments more obnoxiously rude. I explained that their teammates would not be playing not by my choice, but because of decisions that they made prior to the game. That explanation wasn’t satisfactory for any of them and I found myself in the middle of a near walk-out. 10 girls simply refused to play. Forget 2^nd string, plays, having a point guard to bring down the ball, or a forward to rebound – I had to ask girls to play. I had to ask them to put 5 bodies on the court and I had to wait patiently until 5 reluctant hands went up. There was no coaching involved at all, as they were too indignant to care what I had to say. The best I could do was support them and encourage them for whatever it was worth.

When they did straggle back to the bench, I couldn’t even look at their faces. They were filled with pure unadulterated hatred – as if the devil incarnate was asking for their soul….and I guess in a way I was – asking for some courage and passion in the face of adversity…but it was too far gone to be asking for such a favor. “1….thank you……2…thank you……3…..thank you…..I need two more…..I need two more……I NEED TWO MORE before I walk over to that table and tell them we don’t have enough girls to play.” There came a point in the 3^rd quarter where I thought I was going to have to go up to the scorers table and tell them that we couldn’t finish the game and would have to forfeit. Honestly, it would have been easier that way…but with a glare of death in their eyes two more girls raised their hands and took the floor. I had to thank them for volunteering to play.

With a little spark, more out of frustrated animosity towards me, they made a run in the 4^th quarter but ultimately lost 39-30. I wanted to find God in those 40 minutes and I know he was there challenging me, but I couldn’t see Him – or I didn’t want to see Him. He was there though – keeping me composed – preventing me from absolutely losing it or from breaking down. After the game, the coordinator of the tournament, Heinrich Palik, approached me as I was walking out and sort of caught me off guard. Heinrich is a diehard basketball fan and legend in Micronesia who has worked fervently to give the youth in Pohnpei a chance to excel in basketball. He coaches the boys and girls BCOPS teams (Basketball Club Of Pohnpei Stars) both of which dominated the tournament despite being stacked with 8^th grade rising stars. Heinrich is also one of the most competitive people you will meet, slaughtering teams by 50+ with the starters in a full court press. But off the court, he is the most gentle, generous man. He pulled me over, took my hand, looked me in the eye and said, “I heard what you did – disciplining your players…and I know it was so hard to swallow that loss…but I admire you for what you did.” His words were so simple but so poignant, and as I looked into his eyes and saw the eyes of Christ passionately staring back at me, my composure dissolved, I thanked him and excused myself.

It was a rough 2 days waiting for the closing ceremonies and the moment Dwyer and I could finally disperse and be relieved of our parental responsibilities. One girl out of the 12 apologized – the senior – who had maybe a few more months of maturity. Some still won’t speak to me and if they do, it’s with a look of icy contempt which I guess if you think about it is better than indifference, but it still cuts right through you. Some are civil. Some won’t even make eye contact – or maybe that’s just me deliberately avoiding their glance so as not give them the satisfaction of tearing me apart. Normally I hate endings and goodbyes, but this one was sweeter than Chuukese style coffee. Both Dwyer and myself were all smiles, and beyond ready to reclaim our freedom.

Though I’m well aware that the battle is far from over, the next week until school resumes will be spent in peaceful bliss until the imminent onslaught. I know I’m going to have to deal with the whole Junior Class again – the backlash of having 2 more of their classmates expelled. I’m not certain Lu-A will ever speak to me again – which hurts the most…..gossip spreads fast and students stick together and so if I’ve pissed off 1 student, it’s likely that I’ve pissed off the whole student body. I know the next 6 months are going to be difficult, but I also know in good conscience there was no other alternative. I’m certain that there is nothing I could have done worse, but frustrated not knowing what I could have done better. And so the best I can do is sit and pray that my heart can withstand the following weeks and months and that someday it will make sense to them. It will make sense that when you’re on a team, your actions affect more than just yourself and that a dream is not possible unless all 12 girls believe in it and sacrifice themselves for it. It will makes sense that as a team, you rise together and fall together and if you’re passionate enough , the harder you fall might also equate to the higher you will someday rise.

Brown Socks

You’d think the novelty would have worn off. I was also nervous that it might have - as most things do the second time around. Nothing is new anymore and it becomes easy to adopt the “been there, done that” mentality. The center of the field boasted six lanes meticulously outlined in gravel waiting to be claimed. The mangrove branches that protruded from the ground had been arranged at fixed intervals to form the inner edge of the track. The speakers were blaring island beats from the rec house. The tarps were strung from nearby coconut trees to keep out the sun and the rain. The tents were assembled in the exact same spots as last year. It was complete déjà vu as I scanned the empty field. I already knew how the teams were going to process onto the field. I already knew that all of the island nations would sing their national anthems and the flag bearers who had spent three and a half years awaiting the opportunity would step to the ledge and flaunt their patriotism with grace and grandeur. While there is always viridity in being surprised for the first time, the beauty of the second time around is having something to look forward to.

Even with so much to look forward to during Xavier Day 2006, there were still events that succeeded in turning over 200 people of varying ages into toddlers no older than 5. Hot Ramen and Ice Cream Eating contests, dizzy races, wheelbarrow races and my personal favorites….a moderator race that pleased the crowd as the female moderators “pantsed” (I’ve never had to formally spell that word) the two male moderators and proceeded to laugh hysterically as they tore off for the finish line with the guys struggling to overcome the handicap of running 100M with pants around their ankles, and the coin biting race where “athletes” had to (without their hands) find a coin that had been buried in a pile of flour, complete the lap around the field and then at the finish line be the first to whistle – it’s a lot harder and funnier than it sounds!

As the mounting tension was released in the final heats of the relays, I found myself eagerly looking forward to the closing ceremonies, the hug fest that marks the desegregation of both the Tigerz and the Tritorianz teams, the emotion of those who have just realized the finality of the event, and the circular chorus of Amazing Grace that spans the entire field. I thought I had learned a valuable lesson about expectation, but found myself again disappointed that I missed the former events while tending to an injured Tiger who needed to be immobilized and lifted into the back of the pick-up truck to be transported to the hospital (She’s fine! No worries) Just as we are about to get her into the truck, the clouds open up and wreak what most would consider havoc on anyone standing below. But as the truck pulls away I notice the rain did not dampen but rather enlivened the conjoined circle of 150. As the song finished, all who were brave enough released the grasp of the person next to them to make a head first charge into the puddle that had become the middle of the field.

The festivities that followed the conclusion of the competition could have been out of a dream…. Even though it seemed foreboding as we watched students, cooks and even the director take hard falls on the icy slope, muddy behinds and 2 overturned containers of food couldn’t stifle the buoyant mood. That slope only minutes later turned into a hopping dance floor – if you wanted to call it a floor – more a thick layer of mud dissolving the few remaining blades of grass. The lack of island power and sporadic passing showers weren’t even enough to clear the dance floor of its brown knee-socked party-goers. Teachers, Directors, Students – sloshing around without a care in the world.

After the mess had been cleaned up and the girls had departed for the evening, the faculty had a chance to kick back in our refuge – the faculty porch. A relaxed game of Yahtzee wasn’t enough to hold the interest of everyone – only a select few who you could imagine after a while started to get the late night munchies. While we had the strength to stay up past our typical 10 pm bedtimes, we could not muster up the same might to resist the pristine cake just sitting idly on the kitchen counter. For reasons unknown, (but a hypothesis that it was being saved for a special dinner the next day) it had not been cut and served and on numerous occasions that evening we could hear it whisper secrets of tantalizing indulgence. Finally, someone among the 6 of us made the executive decision to cut it….though after a good 20 minutes of discussion, we had decided on attempting the unthinkable….Yes we were going to cut the cake without anyone noticing. How you ask? Well, I thought horizontally would be best, but it seemed as though vertical was our best bet for a clean getaway with minimal injury to the writing on top. We decided we were going to try and cut the cake in such a way that we could slide the pieces together to make it look whole again. Brilliant- I KNOW!!! What first started out as a joke turned into an hour long surgical procedure...first we marked the cake in the icing -exactly where we wanted to slice- certain that our lines were parallel so they could match up again.

Then using boiling water to clean the knife of any colored icing contamination and residual crumbs, we made the incisions carefully sidestepping the iced roses in the corners. Small piece by small piece we lifted out what we had cut for ourselves to enjoy post-op. With only one minor mishap – dropping a foreign object onto the cake which after a good laugh required an immediate reconstructive ice job, the procedure went well. It was then time for the risky part – the suture. First we were going to try and lift the whole right side of the cake and move it, but it was too dangerous given that the cake had been iced to the bottom sheet of cardboard – it would have been a disaster. Instead one of my esteemed colleagues thought of the ingenious plan – to cut the foil upon which the cake had been decorated. So we cut through the foil and in our defining moments of glory, slid the extraneous piece ever so slightly to the left until it matched up perfectly. With a little touch up work on the icing and a missing “y” in anniversary (a mistake that could have happened to any good baker when spelling such a long and complex word), the damage was virtually unrecognizable. I’m quite certain that I have never eaten a piece of cake that tasted better – and though I realize how ridiculous the previously described scene must sound, I can assure you it was perhaps the most fun that I’ve had at Xavier on a Friday night!!