This weekend I’m taking a two debaters from Boston to the J. B. Fuqua Urban Debate League Celebration in Atlanta. The two debaters, Charles and Peter, are a great team. Charles is a hefty black man, smart but reserved, very friendly and with a charming sense of humor once he warms to you. Peter is a spunky little Chinese kid who looks younger than he is. He’s generally outgoing and confident, quick to give you his opinion, firmly but innocently stated, in a rapid, clipped manner of speech.
Coming with us is Mandy, a sophomore at Tufts University and volunteer coach at the Josiah Quincy Upper School where Charles and Peter debate. She’s sweet and smart, once you get past her occasional moments of blondness.
JQUS’ other coach, Noah, picked me up from my apartment and then swung by JQUS to grab the kids when they got out of school. We headed straight to the airport and hopped in a quite long AirTran security line. It was at this point that Peter removed from his carry-on luggage the small, clear plastic container in which he’d placed his travel-sized liquids. Among the shampoo and toothpaste were several needles. “What are those?” I asked.
“Oh, I’m allergic to peanuts.” Wow, good to know, since I’m about to be responsible for you for three days. Peter had never flown before, in fact never been more than one state beyond Massachusetts, so he was excited but nervous. I walked him through the process of organizing his luggage for security, unable to shake the feeling that this was the exposition to some sort of narrative, and that I’d soon be experience rising action, a climax, etc. I remembered the advice of a playwright who visited my high school creative writing class: “If you hang a gun on the wall in the first act, you’ve got fire it in third.” If you give a kid a peanut allergy….
Once we’re through security, it dawns on me that airlines often serve peanuts. Peter looked me in the eye and swore up and down that only eating peanuts would trigger an allergic reaction and that it wouldn’t bother him if they were just served on the airplance.
This proved true. I fell asleep during takeoff, woke up about half an hour into the flight, and worked a bit on my laptop until the battery gave out. The flight was about as smooth as you could ask for, and Peter seemed to enjoy it, looking out the window whenever cloud cover broke to admire the view.
We landed without incident and met the folk from the Rhode Island Debate League, who had also been on our flight, at the baggage claim. Our hosts in Atlanta had sent me an e-mail about a shuttle service that would bring us to the airport, but Will, the director of the Rhode Island league, did not have his information with him, so I suggested he follow us and just hop on our shuttle, if possible.
As I attempted to lead my growing pack of ducklings to the shuttle area, I saw another familiar face: David Wiltz, director of the Los Angeles Debate League. I’ve worked with David for several short but intense periods of time during summer debate camps, and he’s one of my favorite people in the world. He’s kind, laid-back, and incredibly genuine, a great teacher and role model for the kids with whom he works.
David’s a grown man with a lovely wife and a brilliant little girl, but he’s still very genuinely in touch with West Coast hip hop style. He’s explicitly told me that, as a black man, he wants to show his students that people who look, dress, and talk like them can get married, start families, and hold ‘respectable’ jobs as well as anyone. It’s a great philosophy and one that I’ve seen work well in action: the LAUDL has attracted the most diverse pool of students I’ve seen in any UDL, drawing in All-American football players and LA gangsters alike.
Responsibility and preparedness, however, and not David’s strong suits. “Andrew, you know how we’re supposed to get to the hotel?” Aaaaaaaah, how do you people just show up in a foreign airport with high school students and no plan for how you will get to your hotel? He and his debaters join the pack, and together we find our shuttle. The driver won’t take more than ten, so the Rhode Island crew ends up waiting for the next one while the rest of us get to the Marriot Courtyard and check in.
My college debate partner, still one of my best friends, currently lives in Atlanta but is about to move to Tanzania. I’m excited to see her one last time, and she’s excited to meet some people from this Boston Debate League I’m always talking about. After we get settled, Emily swings by to pick up Mandy, Charles, Peter, and me and take us out to dinner. Looking for something cheap and quick, we settle on the Steak and Shake.
Peter has mentioned that he’s never heard a southern accent before, and our waitress provides a great introduction. She’s the picture of southern hospitality, a middle aged woman with hair as wide as her smile.
Peter orders a hamburger, fries, and a chocolate milkshake- no peanuts there, right?
The waitress returns and compliments us all on clearing our plates. “Everyone’s hungry tonight, no leftovers for the dog,” she tells us. “My husband keeps saying, ‘save something for Butchie, save something for Butchie.’ I told him, ‘You’re the cook, make a mistake or something!'” With a deep laugh, she drops off of her check and scurries off to a bus a nearby table.
“You don’t look so good,” Charles tells Peter. It’s true: Peter looks like he’s going to be sick and is swaying a bit on his chair.
“I’m going to go to the bathroom,” he announces.
“This kid. You know what he told me at the airport today? He’s got a peanut allergy. Good to know, right?”
“Andrew, he might be having a reaction now,” Emily tells me in a serious tone that has me worried immediately.
“He didn’t eat any peanuts.”
“I don’t know, maybe the fries were made with peanut oil or something? He doesn’t look good.”
Peter emerges from the bathroom, looking worse. His face is kind of swollen, and he’s still staggering.
“What’s the matter, Peter?”
“Nothing. Just a little disagreement with what I ate.” He starts darting his tongue about his mouth, like a dog who’s just been fed a spoonful of peanut butter.
“Peter, you alright?”
“My throat just feels a little tight. Like, my- what’s the dangly thing? Uvula?”
“Is this what happens with your peanut allergy.”
“Um, I don’t really know,” he says dismissively. “I should just drink some water.” He quickly downs a glass.
“We should get you home.”
“I’ll pay the check.” Emily grabs the slip of paper and takes it up to the register, refusing to take any cash from me.
We get Peter back to his hotel room, and he’s still not looking or feeling well. “What are we supposed to do, Peter, if this is an allergic reaction?”
“Uhm, I don’t really know. It usually passes.” He says this like it’s no big deal at all that he doesn’t know what to do, but I sure as hell don’t, and someone should.
“When are you supposed to take your epipen shot?” My familiarity with this kind of thing is limited to the scene from Pulp Fiction where Uma Thurman overdoses on heroin and John Travolta has to jolt her awake with a shot of adrenaline to the heart. In other words, my perception of needles administered by non-professionals is that they are a drastic, emergency measure only.
Peter’s clueless, who can I call? Of course! His mother. It’s well after midnight now, and I’m afraid she won’t answer a call from my unrecognized number, and would be freaked out anyway if I started telling her her son was having an allergic reaction. Peter was born in the US and speaks with English without any accent, but for all I know his mother might speak Mandarin exclusively.
So I instruct Peter to call her. He explains the situation in the same lackadaisical way he’s been talking to me. It doesn’t sound like she knows any more than he does. I meant to ask to speak to her, but he hung up too quickly.
Almost immediately after setting down the phone, Peter rushes into the bathroom and vomits loudly and repeatedly. I’m paralyzed with worry and indecision now. Thankfully some sort of maternal instinct kicks in and Mandy rushes into the bathroom after him to calm him down and clean him up. He rinses out his mouth and tells us he feels better now that it’s out of his system, then goes to take a shower.
I’m still not convinced, and Emily keeps telling me that we don’t want it to get any worse. Finally I decide I need to talk to his mother myself and call her again from Peter’s phone. I introduce myself and tell her immediately that her son is alright, lest she freak out, as I’m sure my mother would be doing in the same situation. She is remarkably calm, and, thankfully, speaks and understand English with near-perfect clarity.
“He just threw up, and his face is looking swollen. He says his throat feels kind of tight, also. I just wanted to speak with you myself and get your opinion on the situation. I’m happy to take him to the hospital if you think that would be appropriate now.”
“Hmmm, well his allergist did say we should take him to the hospital next time he shows any symptoms of allergic reaction.”
“Then that’s what I’m inclined to do.”
“OK. Just a moment, I’ll get you his insurance information. Oooh, I almost gave him his insurance card, but I thought, ‘It’s just a few days.'” Yeah. I guess a more responsible chaperone wouldn’t have taken a minor across state lines without that information, huh? I reassure her again that he seems fine but I want to be safe and make sure it doesn’t get any worse. She’s still calm and helpful, and I assure her that I’ll have Peter call once we’ve got anything new to report. After giving her my name and number, I hang up.”
“I’ll go get directions and the car,” Emily says as she walks out of the room.
Peter emerges from the bathroom in shorts and t-shirt, hair dripping. “I spoke with your mom again. You need to get dressed, we’re going to take you to the hospital.” He doesn’t look happy about this, but my tone makes clear that it’s not debatable.
“Charles, unless you badly want to come, I think it’s best for you to stay here. Mandy, Iwould like you come with me.” Both agree, and I leave Chris with Will’s phone and room numbers in case he needs anything. I call Will to tell him what’s up and ask him to check in on Charles, then Mandy and I take Peter out to the car where Emily is waiting.
The roads are empty and the directions simple, so we find the hospital without incident. I’ve never been to the ER (actually once as a baby but I obviously don’t remember that), but I’ve heard all kinds of horror stories about how long one might wait with a non-emergency condition. Consequently, I’ve come prepared with my laptop, notepad, and book. Thankfully, however, the place is empty. We sign in, Peter beelines for the bathroom, and they are calling his name before he’s out.
A very friendly nurse takes his vitals and asks about his condition. “What are you allergic to, sweetie?” Though he’s a 17-year old junior, Peter’s a tiny guy with a baby face that seems to trigger the maternal instincts of every woman he meets.
“Peanuts.”
“How long you been allergic to peanuts?”
“Um, a long time I guess.”
“Well, how’d you end up with peanuts?” she asks in a half-nagging, half-teasing tone.
We explain the situation. “Do you have any prescriptions?”
“Um, no. I carry epipens.”
“Did you take one?”
“I didn’t have it with me.”
“I have an allergy myself, so I know. You gotta keep ’em with you,” she says sternly, then cracks into a guilty smile. “Do I have one on me now? No, but I’m bad. You should keep them on you.”
“I know.”
“OK, a room just opened up in back, so we should be able to take him in a few minutes. Let us know if he starts to have trouble breathing,” she tells me. I thank her and take Peter back to the waiting room where Emily is.
We barely have time to tell her what’s happened before a nurse calls Peter’s name. Mandy and I both stand up and start to follow. “I can only take on of you.”
“Only one?”
She sighs and smiles. “Alright, come on,” gesturing to both of us. She’s moving quick, so I don’t really get a chance to talk to Emily, but I know I don’t need to. She’s waiting, without a book or anything, for as long as she needs to, and she’s not going to leave even if I tell her to. This is such a stark contrast to many of the volunteers and others I work with for the Boston Debate League. There are a lot of people who want to help, but everyone wants to do the fun or interesting stuff rather than the stuff that really needs to get done. Really helping is sitting in a hospital waiting room with nothing to read and no idea of how long you’ll be simply because someone needs you to be there at that moment.
A different nurse, also very friendly and gentle, gives Peter a gown and sets him on a bed. She looks him over again, asks a lot of similar questions, and says a doctor will be in soon. The doctor is a middle-aged Asian man with a heavy southern drawl. It’s a very strange combination of features, sufficiently so to be distracting even under the circumstances. The nurse returns quickly with a needle and tells Peter, with a bit of an embarassed smile, “I’m going to need to see your bottom.”
Blushing, Mandy and I duck out for a minute. When we return, Peter is zipping up his fly and then fidgeting uncomfortably while trying to sit on the bed. “We’ll need to give him one more shot, but we’ve got to get it ready first,” the nurse says as he leaves.
Peter needs to go the bathroom, so I follow him and wait just outside. While I’m waiting, I get a call from an unfamiliar 617 number on my cell phone. Figuring it’s Peter’s mom, I answer and update her on the situation. Her son emerges, and I pass him the phone. While we’re talking, the nurse signals to me that she’s ready with his shot. I tell Peter.
“Mom, they want to give me epiphedrine [sp?], should I take it?” Um, Peter, I didn’t get the impression this was optional. He asks again, and starts explaining something. I ask for the phone back.
“Hello? Yes, this shot wasn’t really presented as an optional thing.”
“Yes, I thought that was strange, but Peter kept me asking me, like a question.”
“Yeah, that’s why I took back the phone.” She laughs.
“OK, thank you for taking care of him.”
“No problem, I’m just glad I got a hold of you.” So true. I would have been very uncomfortable taking Peter to the hospital and authorizing shots without his mother’s permission.
They give him one more injection and tell us they’ll check back in half an hour. If his symptoms have gone away, they’ll be able to discharge him. He doesn’t look good at the moment: there are hives all over his neck and some on his inner arms as well. Mandy keeps telling him that he looks like hell, which is making him nervous. He starts shivering uncontrollably, but when I ask, he says he isn’t cold. I don’t want to worry him, but I’m starting to worry myself. Fortunately, the doctor is just outside and happy to check in. “Nervousness is a very common side effect of benadryl. Nothing to worry about.”
After twenty minutes, the swelling is down, but apparently not as far as it should have been. They give Peter another shot, and after another twenty minutes, we’re good to go. There’s Emily in the waiting room, smiling to see Peter walking around and looking better. She’s been sitting for like two and a half hours now, what a trooper. She drives us back to the hotel, unable to resist asking whether anyone wants to stop at the Steak and Shake.
Mandy takes Peter upstairs, and I stay outside for a moment to talk to Emily. She’s spent summers and even a full year once in Africa, but now she’s going indefinitely. We were very close in college, and even though I’ve only seen her a handful of times since we graduated, it’s very strange looking at her now, thanking her for being such a good friend tonight, and thinking that I don’t know when I’ll see her again.
“I’ll be in the DC area Christmastime.” Good to know. “Sorry we didn’t get to hang out much tonight.”
“Well the hospital was fun, too.”
“Yeah.”
“Good luck in Tanzania.”
“Thanks. Good night.”
I walk back inside. Mandy’s on the hotel phone. I shoot her a quizzical look. “Charles has the deadbolt on their door, and we’re trying to wake him up. Peter’s calling his cell.” Finally Peter answers the phone, meaning he’s made it into the room.
I’m about to head up myself when I hear “Brokos?”
“Holy shit, Aaron Davis.” Aaron is one of the best debaters I’ve ever taught. He’s also one of the most annoying, because he knows he’s one of the best. Don’t get me wrong, I love and respect him, but I HATE watching him debate. He’s arrogant and patronizing and rude and it’s so frustrating because he could be so good but he always tries to win on cheap shots. But I’m thrilled to see him, I really am, and I give him a hug.
I should say that Aaron is a rare breed, a black man who was openly gay at a rough high school. I have to respect that. But he’s in college at Pomona now, which seems to have given him license to flame it up. He’s got a ball cap pivoted about 130 degrees around his head, t-shirt tied up around his mid-riff, and a hint of a straggly, black goatee decorating his chin.
Apparently Chicago’s Payton High School, which is ‘urban’ in the strict sense of being in a city but not really educationally or financially disadvantaged in the sense that people tend to think of when they hear “urban public school,” has hired Aaron to coach their team at this event. Good to see him, but it’s 3 AM and I need to get some sleep.
David left the hall light on for me. Awwwwwwwwww.