This hat has history. I couldn't find my hat today, while I was packing. It's my hat because it's the only one that has ever fit me well, so well, in fact, that when my dad, with a similar problem, offered me $50 for it, I refused. But the hat I have on me has history. I got it at my first Mariner's game, with Luigi and his family, back when the King Dome was still standing. We won that game 17-4, and were leaving right as a grand slam was hit. I got to see it, but everyone else with us left prematurely and missed the indoor fireworks. I remember before the game, Luigi's dad insisted that we get candy at the store. I tried to refuse, but he almost seemed angry. I later learned that's just how he acts.

We're on the plane to Charlotte right now. Why we have to go all the way across the country when Costa Rica is only halfway across, I'm not sure. Houston or Dallas would make a lot more sense to me.

It still has yet to really hit me that we're actually on our way there. That's just how I am, but it's certainly a lot closer on this trip, than it was at the airport (or on the plane) on the way to Jamaica. I think it mostly was the last meeting we had, last Wednesday. We got a secondary education professor from Western, who was also a trauma specialist, to talk to our group. He was really down to earth, and you'd probably think he talked weird if you didn't realize the gravity of the whole situation. I walked in ten or fifteen minutes late. Traffic on the way up from Redmond was a bit worse than the last two times. So, it took me a few minutes to fully grasp what was being talked about.

What I say next is ... hard. I can't remember if I blogged about it or not a year ago, and I know that if I did, it wouldn't have been the full thing. A year ago, though, a couple women from LatR and I went to see a "Rockumentary" about human trafficking. I guess I'll just out and say it. I wanted to kill the slavers and the people who used their slaves. How can man have sunk so low? Sunk, past tense, is probably the wrong word. It seems like this has been an issue since the beginning. But how in this day and age, with all our talks of equality and freedom and liberty, how can we allow this to go on?

In the fifth season of the West Wing (skip this paragraph if you plan to watch it and haven't gotten there yet), Donna is on a trip to Gaza, and on her last day there, her car gets hit by a road-side bomb. She almost dies, but makes it to the hospital in time. Meanwhile, Josh is distraught, and while senior staff and national security are talking outside the oval, they're all talking about possible retaliation. Josh says, "We need to kill them. We need to kill the people who made the bomb. We need to kill the people who planted the bomb. And then we need to kill everyone who was happy about it."

I hadn't realized at the time that human trafficking was just another humanitarian fad. It makes me sick. How can we sit idly by? I know it's easier. I'm guilty of it. But why is this not a high priority in Washington, where we hire people to do hard things with our hard-earned money? The thing is, it's not even just an issue abroad in "remote countries" in Africa. It happens here. It happens in the liberal, well-adjusted city of Seattle, and in Tacoma. I'm sure it happens in every port, which I guess means it happens in Bellingham, and possibly Port Orchard. You can't hit more home to me than those four cities.

Anyway, human trafficking was not intended to be the focus of this post, not that my posts ever really have a focus. Except the last one.

Since that night and until Thursday, I'd never felt that urge to kill again. Then one of the guys, we'll call Jeremiah, who went to Costa Rica this past summer, told a couple stories about the kids we're going to "help." The first was a kid who was reading a book while sitting on his lap. Then one of the adults came in and said something in a raised voice (in Spanish), and the kid scampered off to his room. Evidently that kid wasn't ready for physical touch yet, after his abuse. He couldn't yet associate any touch at all as non-sexual. In the next, a girl of five, her first night at the orphanage, woke up in the middle of the night, stripped, and walked into her foster parents' room. She got up on the bed, and woke the man, and said, "I'm ready." At the age of five. Trauma, by definition, cannot be put into words, and clearly mine have failed. How can we, mere privileged kids in and just out of college, help these kids? There's some small, though it ought to be large, comfort that it is God who is helping, and we are merely his vessels, or vassals.

It didn't really hit me until the next day, but on the way to my mom's to drop off my cats, I began to think a bit more about these stories. I thought about what kind of people could do this to these defenseless children. And I decided they should die. This is a disturbing thought coming from someone who professes himself a Christian. If this isn't the first post you've read of mine, you know that I've had some pretty dark thoughts. This was not these. This was not tainted the same way bipolar thoughts are. I was listening to Brave Saint Saturn, and especially during the Anti-Meridian songs (Starling, These Frail Hands, Invictus), I just burst into tears on the freeway. These are just two stories from one guy, while still in Washington. How much harder will this be among the actual victims?

Raise your souls up to the sky
Why must helpless creatures die?

I've never agreed with people who value children over adults. A life is a life. There's the notion that children are innocent, but none are innocent; all have fallen short of the glory of God. I would say, however, that sexual abuse, or really any abuse, against children is worse than it is against adults, because adults have at least some capacity to know they don't actually deserve this, to know that this is not what love is. Kids say, "I'm ready."

I don't know, don't think, that even with the opportunity, I would or even could actually kill someone. I think it would be easier to light them on fire with my mind, but 22 years trying (to light inanimate objects) with no success is a discouraging precedent.

There is no good segue to nicer things.

After the meeting, I ended up eating at Courtney's and her roommates' place for Saint Patrick's Day. I used to hate corned beef. This was rather good. I still abstained from the cabbage though. Bill and Scott ate quickly and then went off to their Bible study. After that began talking, card games, and drinking. It was just a genuinely good time. We listened to some good music, and a lot of bad music. (Such were the opinions of the other males in the room. I didn't really care one way or another, though if I were alone, I'd probably not listen to any of what was played early on. I did try to analyze some of the music theory -- common beats, sequences of notes, et cetera. If only I knew any music theory.)

There was a girl there, I gathered a foreign exchange student, who was quite funny in that awkward not quite used to our culture sense. There was nothing wrong with her sense of humor, but she had that and then the other thing as well. There was one point during the evening though, that we were talking about drugs (not the helpful kind), and she said that back in her home country, she did some. It's not like she went on and on about it or anything, but I could tell she was trying to explain it all because she was feeling judged, and in fact, at the end, apologized for it because she "didn't want [us] to judge [her]." At that point, every Christian in the room erupted, broken from our trances, with "we're not judging you." Yeah, we were. It wasn't deliberate but, well, let's face it, we've never been in that situation (at least I haven't), and it wasn't a healthy situation, and I have some amount of pride that, by choice, I've never been in that situation. I don't think any of us straight out thought, "you bad person you," and truthfully the reason we were in the trance was because we couldn't relate. For me, though, it was something else entirely. It was like we responsible Americans were her parents or moral superiors somehow. Like, we knew drugs were bad and we wanted to teach this poor person from another country how to live. That's something I have to continually work at. People who aren't as fluent in the language as I am aren't stupid, but subconsciously, I somehow see them as slower. Sometimes it makes working at Microsoft hard.

I got one of the guys there hooked on Seabird. Their second disk is as good as their first, if you've not bought your copy yet. Before we listened to them, we were listening to a group called the Black Keys, I think. What little I heard of them, I enjoyed, so I might have to test an album of theirs when I get back.

We're now at Charlotte Airport. Some of us are trying to sleep. I tried for a while and gave up. A bunch of us got Jamba Juice for like three times the normal price, but alas, I set mine on a chair, and it fell somehow. Then the bottom got punctured, and I ended up being able to drink about half of it. I suppose there are worse fates in life.

My knees are killing me. They just do that sometimes, but it's unpleasant. When this happened when I was younger, my mom said I was growing. I don't think I'm growing anymore, at least not top to bottom. A few hours later now, Leigh, after reading what was written before this point, gave me Tylenol and I feel much better.

It's completely irrational, but over the past couple weeks, I've had this sinking feeling that I won't be returning from Costa Rica. Again, just a feeling. The odds that it comes true are close to nil, and probably independent from the feeling entirely, like rolling two dice and ending up with the same number.

Another many hours later now. Maybe my irrational fear (though to be quite honest, I was never afraid; indeed I was quite at peace) had some merit. Shortly after the paragraph before this one, they announced that the plane (757) that had just arrived was undergoing some between-flight tests and had some mechanical difficulties. This meant they had to find a new plane and a new crew for us. The one they found, for two hours later, was an A320 which is a good fifteen seats fewer in capacity. They basically held a raffle, and those who couldn't fit would have to fly tomorrow. I believe six of us did not keep our seats, including our fearless logistical leader, Jeremiah. Meanwhile, they allowed the ability to volunteer one's seat for a night in a hotel, meals, and $550 in US Airways credit toward one's next flight. Some of these volunteers got on the next plane that day that had a stop in Florida. The rest had to wait until tomorrow. Twelve total volunteers came up, and all six of our people were lucky enough to receive the newly opened seats.

Of course, the new plane didn't quite leave on its newly scheduled time, maybe 45 minutes late. We got into the air, and then about 45 minutes into the flight, at 17,000 feet, the plane started a sharp turn. The turn continued 180 degrees, my stomach hating every bit of it. Then the pilot spoke over the intercom that there was a minor hydraulics failure, that it wasn't a big deal, but because the runways in Costa Rica aren't as good as the ones in Charlotte, we were turning around.

People were pretty upset at this point, as you might imagine. Surprisingly to me, I kept my cool. I guess I kind of figure that I donated this time, these eleven days, completely to God, and if God wants us to spend it in airports, that's up to him. Our group, mostly, was just tired, rather than angry. Some passengers, though, had booked non-refundable $3000 cruises.

The next, hopefully final, plane got in on time, but we started boarding when we were supposed to be taking off. I don't remember much after boarding, because mercifully, I found sleep. I do remember the pilot (a new pilot) saying over the intercom that we had roughly a 45 minute delay while still on the tarmac because two people hadn't reboarded. On international flights, by US law, if people don't board, but do have checked bags, they have to locate the bags and remove them from the plane. I agree that it's both safe and practical to do that, but today just wasn't our day for traveling. It turns out the people who got to Costa Rica quickest were the first ones to volunteer with the stop down in Miami. That last plane is where we are now, with about 90 minutes remaining.

One of the guys who was supposed to come on the trip felt very strongly, suddenly, a few weeks ago that he should not, and instead should spend spring break recording with his dad (he's a music artist). Before boarding the circular flight, Leigh talked to him on the phone, and his grandfather, long in coming, could possibly die today, so we prayed for that situation, and also thanked God that he did not come on this trip. From what little I heard, it sounded like the guy was fairly ready for this, but his dad was a wreck. A psalm came to mind, but I don't think it's very fitting for the situation. Joe disagreed though, when I told him about it.

The Lord reigns
Let the earth be glad
Let the distant shores rejoice
Clouds and thick darkness surround him
Righteousness and justice are the foundation of his thrown
A fire goes before him and consumes his foes on every side
His lightning lights up the world
The earth sees and trembles
The mountains melt like wax before the Lord
Before the Lord of all the earth,
the heavens proclaim his righteousness
and all peoples will see his glory!

Going back to before the trip, on Thursday I had to drop off my cats at my mom's place. Thursday night was lonely, and Friday morning, I kept thinking that my cats were the cause of noises, or that it was odd that they hadn't run across my keyboard that morning and woken my computer up from hibernate mode, or that their food dish was empty so I had better feed them. I hadn't realized how much I like having my cats. Sometimes I wish I had only gotten one of them, because they are a handful and a half, but to pick now would be incredibly difficult.

I told my mom about the murderous (or castraterous) thoughts. I guess I hadn't told her that the orphanage we're helping is for sexually abused kids. She kind of calmed my nerves a bit. I knew I wasn't psychotic--I didn't revel in the execution of their deaths--but the thoughts still worried me. The people whom I've had read this so far seem to have similar thoughts. They never outright said thoughts of execution, so maybe that's just me, but certainly of anger and grief. Thursday night, my mom told Jack what the orphanage was geared towards, and he pretty immediately said that the abusers should be castrated. He's a pretty dang liberal guy, too. That helped a bit.

On the way home, I stopped at Swood's to watch our weekly TV. At four o'clock on Friday, I was several hours done packing, just watching Law & Order repeats, and txted him, inviting myself over. We watched Dulalalala (a confusing, yet entertaining anime) and played some Smash Bros, before I headed to Minnie's to pick up another guy on our trip, onto my grandpa's, and finally to the airport.

I think that is probably enough for one post. We should be landing here soon. If I have internet access tonight, I'll post this after having Jeremiah read it. I haven't asked permission to retell his stories.