Irwin Blood Center

Today I donated blood and some other blood-related stuff. Afterward, at the snack bar, I ate an old-fashioned chocolate donut.

Above: Red cells, plasma, and platelets that were formerly inside my body.

I think the first time I donated blood, it was because all the cool kids were doing it. A blood-mobile was visiting my high school, and all my hip, altruistic friends eagerly lined up to get stuck in the arm, so that they could anonymously share the gift of life with total strangers, not expecting anything in return. Well I thought that that was pretty cool, so I faked my mom's signature on the consent form and headed over to the blood-mobile during my lunch.

My phlebotomist was a middle-aged Russian woman. She seated me on a couch and started to prepare my right arm. "Excuse me, but I need that arm," I said. "I have classes later today and I need to take notes."

"Ha!" she said. "Always are students making excuses!" She continued to swab the inside of my elbow with an alcohol wipe. When it came time to insert the needle, I couldn't help but scream a little bit on the inside. As a child, my mom had to hold me down while my pediatrician gave me a chickenpox vaccination. One pint of blood and a cup of cranberry juice later, my limp arm and I sat through Mr. Shimmon's afternoon Psychology lecture.

Since then, I've become a regular blood donor. I kept coming back, partly to confront the terror of the needle and partly to help people in need. People need blood like neighbors need sugar, infrequently. Besides, do you really need all that sugar for yourself? It'd just be plain greedy to hoard all of that sweet goodness for yourself, now wouldn't it?

Day 119

I'm pretty awful at smalltalk. That's just how it is.

It was about two years ago, right around this time in high school that I was smalltalking with Griffin. We were both in AP English, and right before the exam, our school's English department hosted a miniature buffet of power foods. So there we were, standing in the lobby of our school's auditorium, waiting to take our test, amidst a press of people. I must have had a dixie cup full of fruit salad or something, but I distinctly remember that Griffin had a paper plate filled to the brim with rice cracker snacks.

Now, Griffin and I were never especially close (though at that moment, we were practically squeezed together), but it was senior year of high school, and everyone was supposed to be everyone else's friend. I have something of a bad habit of talking to acquaintances. It's a bad habit because I usually barely know the person and we have nary a thing to talk about. What ends up happening is that, in desperate recognition of this fact, I drag out my dusty old fact file on the target acquaintance, and I blather on about something vaguely pertinent to one of the scant facts I know about that person. Usually, the other person is polite enough to smile and nod periodically.

So here's a special peek at the Griffin Tyree dossier that I had on file that day:
1. Griffin is a really nice guy.
2. Even though he's a really nice guy, he played the villain in Le Miserables.
3. Griffin is in Best Buddies club (he mentors kids with learning/developmental disabilities; See fact #1).
4. Griffin is considering joining the clergy (99% sure he's a Christian).

All my life I've never been part of an organized religion, so I seized upon this moment as a golden opportunity to expand my knowledge of the Scripture. It went something like this:

Me: Hey there, Griffin.
Griffin: Hi David.
Me: Hey, what's that bible quote mean, the one that goes, "My cup runneth over"?
Griffin: The overflowing cup is supposed to be a symbol of God's bounty.
Me: Oh, that's cool.
(Pause)
Me: Well, I see that your paper plate runneth over... with rice snacks!
(Silence)

I'd hate to think that those were the last words I ever shared with him, but I have the gnawing suspicion that they were.

Day 113

Everyone loves a good villain.

Three years ago, I remember my high school put on a production of Miss Saigon, a musical adaptation of Madame Butterfly, but set during the Vietnam War. As you might imagine, the production fell a bit short of representing the complexity of the Vietnam War in its entirety, though I was secretly hoping for something more Rushmore-esque. Anyway, during intermission people were leaving in droves and not coming back. But I stuck it out. Was it for the hit-and-miss singing? No. Was it for the choreographed Viet Cong dance scene? No. I stayed for the Engineer.

Within the world of the play, the Engineer is a trafficker of sex slaves. The Engineer was also the most compelling character on the stage; the actor who played the Engineer had far more conviction in his role than anyone else. My point is, he was fascinating to watch.

Well, we're doing monologues in my intro acting class right now, and I've been assigned the role of a psychotic stalker-type. Though most people might simply write off my character as "evil" or "crazy," I've found that I've been forced to really think about what it is that pushes him to the edge.

The other night I spent some quality time with Anthony, my character. First he was in the bathroom mirror, and later he was staring at me through the window. There were some moments when I felt pretty uncomfortable making eye contact with him. That guy just gives me the willies.

Day 52

This week has been something of a roller coaster ride for me. So much so that I ended up writing an e-mail to Mr. David Hathwell, retired AP English teacher.

I think it's a good exercise: having an audience in mind to scrutinize my writing forced me to pare down my words using to the sharpest analytical tools I have available to me. I ended up answering a lot of my own questions because of the clarity with which I approached each source of frustration. I considered not sending the e-mail to him, since the process of writing itself helped me work through my problems. But I still want to thank him.

Thanks, Mr. Hathwell.