Bridges

Joe Giallo - Ecuador


September 28, 2010

One day, probably about a week ago, we were doing an activity where we had to speculate and journal about our identities. It was an exercise in self-examination, and how identities affect the stories we tell. I was ranting, as is my habit in private journal entries, but that’s not really important.

What is important is that we were allowed to go anywhere we wanted to write our entries, so long as we were alone. I settled down on a little bridge that crossed a small gap, a little ways into the woods across from the amphitheater where we meet for classes.

I ended that particular journal entry with a sort of odd contemplation: I felt like there was some sort of irony or significance in me sitting on a bridge while writing about who I was, but at the time, I hadn’t realized what it was. It was like forgetting the name of a favorite author or slowly losing the details of a wonderful memory. More than anything else, I felt stupid, for missing something that I knew should have been obvious.

A couple of nights ago, just sort of sitting somewhere, I remembered, or rather, discovered what that greater irony and significance was. Why am I telling this story? Because it’s a silly moment of change, perhaps the tiniest and least significant way I’ve changed over the last week and a half, but one I feel has a bit of importance that I can’t even really articulate.

I’m taking a bridge year. Duh. When I figured it out, I sighed, leaned back in my chair, and laughed.

Joe Giallo