Freaky goings-on.

Most of you will probably know (because I whine about it constantly) that I spent a week at Barefoot Republic Camp in Tennessee during the summer. However, I have just realised that there is still one story from Barefoot that has, as yet, gone untold, mainly because the whole thing is so ridiculous that I didn’t think anyone would believe me. So, anyway. Here it goes.

Barefoot was a bit like some kind of school for those who don’t want to learn. Before we went, we had to sign up for a class, which we would attend each morning throughout the week. I arrived too late on Monday to go to my chosen class, songwriting, but I was not looking forward to being branded the “new kid” on Tuesday.

When I finally found the Songwriting classroom, I knocked on the door and opened it. I found myself in a sweet-smelling room. A lady, obviously the teacher, was sitting, cross-legged on a cushion on the floor. Two teenagers sat on smaller cushions, listening intently to what she was saying.

I cleared my throat. “Errm…is this songwriting?” I asked.

“Yes, yes, dear!” came the enthusiastic response. “We’re so glad you could join us. Grab a cushion and sit down. I want to talk to you about feelings.”

Hmm. I wasn’t sure I wanted to take this class, after all.

“Y’know what?” I said. “I’m not sure about this. I don’t really want to talk about feelings, you know? Erm, I think I’ll just switch to Creative Writing.”

“Creative Writing? Oh, no, dear!! You can’t switch to Creative Writing! Why would you want to do that? Sit down, sit down. Of course you want to talk about feelings…we all do - don’t we, kiddies?”

The teenagers nodded. Brainwashed, both of them. What could I do?

“I mean, it’s nothing personal,” I heard myself say. “I just don’t want to talk about feelings. I haven’t got any, if you want to know the truth. I mean, at the minute I just feel hungry. Umm…so, if you could just point me in the direction of Creative Writing, I’d -”

“You can’t do that!” Squealed Songwritng Lady. “You chose your destiny when you filled that form in. You can’t change your destiny!”

This was getting slightly embarrassing. I hadn’t realised that filling the form in was such a big deal.

“So…what would happen to my destiny if I went to Creative Writing, right now?”

Songwriting Lady was livid. “If you want to, go ahead. But you can’t thwart God’s plan. You’re going straight to hell!!“

“Right-o!” I replied, relieved that she wasn’t going to take matters into her own hands.  The Almighty and I are tight. “I’ll see you there, then, okay? ‘Bye.”

The Creative Writing classroom wasn’t at all difficult to find – right across the corridor, in fact. There were more people in this class, and they were sitting at those American – style school desks. It was pretty cool. I was greeted by a pleasant-looking young teacher, who introduced herself as Melissa and invited me to join them. I sat down, and she gave the class a task: to write a story about the secret life of a bus driver. I knew I could do that, so I got to work, writing about a busdriver who lived with his alcoholic dog and secretly collected pencils from school children when they weren’t looking. We were asked to read them out. I was, quite frankly , appalled at the standard of writing in the class. Everyone else had basically written, “I am a bus driver, and every morning I drive a bus and then I drive it back to the bus station”.  How, exactly, does this describe the secret life of a busdriver? Melissa made a big deal of these pieces of “creative writing”, praising the students and telling them how talented they were.

I could feel every eye in the room glaring at me as I read. I was getting slightly embarrassed, actually. When I finished, there was a stunned silence. I couldn’t work out what the big deal was, until, at the end of class, Melissa asked me to stay behind for a moment. I could tell I had done something wrong, but I had no idea what that might have been. Melissa glared at me angrily through her rectangular spectacles.

“What made you write about alcohol?” She asked.

“Erm..I didn’t,” I replied, stunned. “It was just his dog. I thought it would be funny…”

“Alcohol is NOT FUNNY!!” She roared. “You do realise that people who drink alcohol go to hell, don’t you?”

“No, they don’t,” I retorted. “That’s stupid. I mean, I just thought it would be a good story. Burn it, if it offends you that much. See if I care.”

I strongly suspect that Melissa did burn that short story.  I spent the rest of the week skipping classes and refusing to run laps of the green.  I actually think I may have caused some of the leaders permanent psychological damage.  But, as Mr Kipling says, that, my friends, is another story…

Man, that is so uncool…

I suppose today kind-of marked the end of an era for me.

Don’t get me wrong, now. Don’t assume that I’ve finally decided to grow up. Please don’t think that I’ve decided to give up on playing guitar, in favour of spending more time in self-reflection. And, for pity’s sake, don’t decide amongst yourselves that I’ve taken up rugby, or swingball, or any other kind of sporting activity.

No. Today, for the very first time, I allowed my dad to drop me off in front of Slemish College in his yellow transit van.

This may not seem like a very big deal to you, but it is to me. You see, for some time, I attended a lesser academic establishment in a different part of town, where being dropped off in a transit van could have gotten you a very nasty black eye. It wasn’t much of a problem, because my dad’s not the kind of person to offer lifts regularly – but there came a morning when the roads were simply too icy to walk, and so my mother insisted that he take us. After my brother and I had attained said black eye, we vowed never again to let dad take us to school in the van, insisting instead that he should take us in his car. We realised our mistake when, the following morning, a dozen children pointed and laughed as we climbed out of our dad’s beat-up Peugeot 309. I think my brother came home with a broken finger that day.

Thankfully, the bitter weather soon cleared, and we reverted back to walking to school. From then on, whenever it was too snowy or too foggy to walk to school, our father would drop us off at the top of the Broughshane Road, and we would run like madmen to the school gates. Well, Michael would run. I would walk at my usual leisurely pace. I was rarely as keen as he was to get to school.

In fifth year, I went to America for a fortnight with the Friends Forever Project, and when I came home, our cosy little house in the ‘Clug had been sold. This presented a challenge. Not only would I have to move house in the middle of my GCSEs (actually, it ended up being on the very day of one of them), but I would also have to be transported to and from school by my dad. Apparently, Translink didn’t send buses our way, and it would be September before they could alter the bus route to accommodate us. You know what it’s like during exam time – you sleep so little that you hardly know which way’s up. More than once, I dozed off in the passenger seat of the van, to find myself directly in front of the school’s front doors. I was always absolutely mortified, but was generally able to slip off to the Lecture Theatre for some last-minute revision without being noticed.

It all seems very petty, now that I think about it. I knew I would leave the place without saying goodbye, or exchanging contact details with most people. What did I care if they saw me jump fall out of a van, no matter how “uncool” it may have been?

Anyway, dad took me to school this morning. As usual, we didn’t exchange a single word during the journey, but when he drove through the school gates and right up to the front doors, I didn’t beg him to stop. I could see two teachers and a classmate watching, but I didn’t care. I managed to keep my balance as I got out of the van, and I even kept my dignity by smiling and saying “good morning” to all of them. Yes, I think I turned a corner this morning. And at this rate of going, how hard can university be?

PS: I was actually carrying a rather large Dejembe (African drum) this morning – and it was snowing. Sorry if I gave the impression that I was being brave. I wasn’t. I just value my instruments over my life.