Guided by Experience, Moving Beyond It

I’ve realized I’ll never experience this journey again. Adventures come and go, but the first ones in life are always special. The lessons are so fresh you can almost smell them. Originally, I was going to pair each of them with stories, but I ran out of column opportunities. Here is what’s been left unsaid — shaken, not stirred.

Lesson number one:

When I was growing up, I didn’t understand America’s obsession with freedom. I guess I just didn’t understand the idea of freedom. Eventually, my caged-in teenage days ended, and suddenly there was a lot more open air to explore. God bless America.

I veered off course to see what this freedom business was all about. My journey down South was the big wheelie. Eager to test the limits of my freedom, I came to feel that freedom and power are sparring partners, yin to the yang. I became familiar with the different powers limiting our freedom: the laws of physics, the facts of history, the authorities, the rules and the fear of failure. And there we are, caught in the middle.

We always repeat, “God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference.” As for the first part, serenity is what tough people have. Working in the oil field, I see lots of tough guys and lots of wannabe tough guys. I have completely redefined my understanding of what makes a person tough. When I was young and still dreamed of being a ninja, I would purposefully expose myself to cold and discomfort. I thought I could train my body not to care. My original logic, however, was all backward. Cold will always be cold. There’s nothing wrong with avoiding pain and suffering. Toughness means that when suffering finds you, you’ll take it without flinching. Everybody knows complaining won’t help, but it's a hard lesson to internalize. This is why we can’t all be tough guys. It’s amazing that many men can work outside for 45 hours straight in the winter without a peep but will whine and moan to no end when they get stuck in traffic going home. It is a rare individual who has enough serenity to sit calmly in traffic.

We all want the courage to change the things we can. The act of changing things is a habit. Spending eight months as an oil mechanic has taught me that when something is in my way, I should move it. (Yeah, it took me that long.) If a socket won’t fit, try a box wrench. If you can’t do it right-side up, do it upside down. If you need more leverage, use a pipe. And nine times out of 10 — if all that doesn’t work — hit it with a hammer. If that hammer doesn’t work, use a bigger one. You can tell who the more experienced hands are because they spend less time trying each method. No matter what, there is always a final solution. Even the trash bin can be a solution if it is the best way to go in the end.

The same approach can be applied to other aspects of life. We can change ourselves at will. Here’s where the courage part comes into play. We often trip over ourselves because we think we know who we are. Like once you say, “I’m afraid of heights,” it’s written in the stones of eternity. Before you know it, your daughter is hanging from a gutter and you’re standing there saying, “I can’t go save her, I’m afraid of heights.” No you’re not, you’ve just said it too many times.

When I took on the job at the oil field, I was worried that I had spent so much time wallowing in academic abstractions that I couldn’t take a practical, hands-on approach. Honestly, I had a lot of trouble making the transition, but I do better and better every day. The truth is, you can reshape yourself at any time. It's not transformers; it's kung fu. When it comes to your habits and propensities, likes and dislikes, everything is at your fingertips. So if it’s in your way, move it.

The missing piece is “the wisdom to know the difference.” This last line should really be the first. You’ll waste a lot of energy on serenity and courage if you don’t figure out how to know the difference; we neglect this step too often. A man can wear himself out trying to accept the fact that he’s overweight, or he can lace up a pair of sneakers. Likewise, he could strain every muscle honking his horn in Manhattan traffic, but it won’t do a lick of good. We grow old quickly that way. Less energy should go to fighting and more energy should go to deciding when to fight.

Lesson number two:

Love is not a delicate flower; love is a tough beast to kill. You can kick it and drop it and leave it out in the rain for 11 months and it will still come back hungry for more.

Lesson number three:

You can't act as if life isn’t leaving its scratches on you. All my life, I avoided doing anything permanent — no tattoos, no addictions, no mistakes. I have a cousin who collects guitars. He told me he is always relieved when he puts the first scratch on a new guitar. So, I got a tattoo. Now I have my first scratch.

Lesson number four:

Lessons come in layers. My bottom layer is the people I love. (Yeah, I know. Bear with me.) This journey taught me what’s important and what’s not — the only education worth getting. When you pan for gold, you have to keep shaking the pan to see what falls out. I gave up everything familiar when I came to Louisiana. I left every scrap of my life to date behind. But I didn’t miss math or philosophy or judo or Leo’s dining hall. I missed my friends and family. From now on, these are the only things I care about. It’s wonderful but tragic. I cringe to think of all the wrong turns I had to take to find the right road. A word to the wise: Be careful you don’t shake the pan so much that the gold falls out, too.

Lesson recap:

I learned a lot but I also learned that these lessons aren’t life. You can’t drive them to work; you can’t share a beer with them; they won’t catch a Frisbee. The lessons are a door. Once you go through, you have to let go of the knob and enter the room.

Desmond Rawls is a senior in the College and is taking a year off to work as a mechanic for an offshore oil company. He can be reached at rawls@thehoya.com. This is the semester's final installment of Wheelie.

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