Leap frog as a way to build community. It began as an assignment, but I became excited. For me, this was an opportunity to fight back at distance—to bridge the miles between me and the people I love. When I went away to college, many of my friends, whom I had known for over ten years, stayed at home on the south side of Chicago. My girlfriend of five years (at the time) went to the University of Pittsburgh. Since then, I have devoted much of my time to alleviate the negative aspects of distance by talking to people as often as possible. Still, only so much comfort can be attained without actually seeing a person often.

My main goal was to transcend the average boundaries of communication with my friends and girlfriend by all playing leap frog on the same night in our separate locations. This would be my way to feel close to everyone despite the hours of travel dividing us. That was the original plan, and I was quite enamored by it. Apparently, though, no one else was.

When I first told my girlfriend about the plan, she seemed excited and willing to play leap frog with her friends. I decided the best night would be Halloween, since everyone would assuredly be out with each other. In the days leading up to that night, I continuously reminded my girlfriend about it, hoping she would understand that it was important to me for more reasons than it being a class assignment. I did not give such warnings to my other friends, expecting it to be an easy enough thing for them to do. I called them early in the evening.

“This is gonna sound really weird, but I need you guys to do me a favor tonight. I need you to play leap frog with everyone.”

“Uhhh,” he seemed disturbed, as if I had just asked him to kiss all the boys in the room, and then, “No.”

“Why not? Come on, it’s seriously not hard. Everyone’s out with you aren’t they?”

“Yeah, but why do you need us to do this? Have Kelly do it.” I explained to him my reasons behind the whole thing and told him that Kelly was doing it as well.

“Uh, I’ll see what I can do. I’ll keep you updated.” He spoke uncomfortably to me like I was an employee asking him for an absurd raise. Not five minutes after this exchange, he texted me (avoiding real contact) that I should call two of my other friends, whom I am not nearly as close to, because they were at a costume party and would “for sure do it.” Realizing the plan would lose its philosophical glimmer if my friends felt forced to do it rather than wanting to, I gave up on garnering their support. I complained to Kelly about their apathy, and she seemed sympathetic. I would be happy sharing the experience with just her anyway, so I shrugged off the snub from my friends.

But she spurned me too. I was at a Halloween party with about fifteen people when I decided to organize the event. Despite only knowing a handful of the people there, the game was incredibly fun. We began in the narrow hallway of the apartment and found ourselves out the door, heading down the stairs by the end. There was laughter, screaming and frantic leaping, of course. Even though the party had been enjoyable before we played, it felt much more intimate afterward. People who had been sitting alone or with only a couple people for most of the night erupted in conversation with one another. I was glad that on my end, the leap frog was a smashing success.

Not so for two-thirds of my plan. Kelly later told me she had not wanted to watch a movie with her usual group of friends, electing to haunt a couple parties instead. She did not forget about the game, she most likely felt uncomfortable, just as my friends from home had. Distance never stops teaching you some things.

M. Carmody