Tela, and Hello Friends (episode 3)

The bus ride to Tela was an adventure itself. From Cofradia to San Pedro Sula, I sat next to a young man on his way home from school. He was dressed neatly, in a clean uniform, probably belonging to some private school. My gringo travel companions and I had crammed ourselves into the back of the bus, and we were by far the loudest bunch on the bus. The boy next to me kept looking at them strangely. Finally I said
-pshhh...esas gringas locas
Which seemed to break the ice enough. He (like almost everyone I spoke to) immediately asked me where I learned to speak spanish (-Spain) and asked me what I was doing in Cofradia. I told him I was on spring break and helping out at one of the bilingual schools. He knew which one.

We were dropped of on the corner of the road in San Pedro Sula. Immediatly an old man approached us and pointed the direction to the bus station. He pulled me aside
-Don't walk there
-Why not?
-You are a large crowd, and its dangerous
So he hailed a cab for us and we all got in. We probably got ripped off, but I didnt care. We arrived at the bus station and boarded a bus to Tela. I stared out the window during the majority of the two hour ride. The mountains in Honduras seemed to pop out of nowhere- we would be driving past fields and fields of sugar cane, and all of the sudden a great monster of a mountain would emerge. Just like that- no warning, no foothills.

We arrived in Tela and went to a beautiful hotel. Although all 7 of us were crammed into a smaller room, I was quickly impressed by the quality of the room. Cable tv, running water, hot water. It was pretty great. We immediatly climbed into our swimsuits and caught the last few hours of daylight. The water was warm and the beach was almost empty. It was perfect.
My travel companions did their thing, and I after a good swim I crawled up onto the sand. Instantly, a wave of loneliness hit me. It's like that sometimes, things get so perfect and beautiful that I just wish someone else was there to appreciate it with me just the way I do. I've never been one for best friends- i've always had good acquaintences. Maybe I should've joined a sorority (then again, maybe not). Maybe I shouldn't have isolated myself so much. I thought of Jack Kerouac's comment about having his poems and novels as children. Maybe that's me too. Who knows.

There is a strip of small stores that line the beach and we decided to wander through. We passed a pair of the most beautiful hippies in the world. They looked like Granada hippies. I nearly died. They were selling turquoise jewelery. The woman with braids and dredlocks in her hair greeted us "Hello Friends". Her boyfriend stood nearby, having his hair braided by a beautiful older woman. At his feet rested a drum and bells. I instantly thought of Benjamin, the israeli boy who would walk around barefoot with bells on his ankles. From the restaurant nearby I heard them playing the drum and singing and laughing. And for a moment I was tempted to create an adventure out of it, to go over to them and sit with them and sing and ask them where they were from and learn about their past. That exact scenario has happened in my life many times, and has always ended with an interesting story. But I was too afraid to leave the group of people I had traveled with, too afraid to mix the person I was in spain with the people I know from school. It's a completely different side to me that I don't think I've ever expressed at Hamilton, so I have absolutely no idea how they would react. And with only 5 weeks left of school, I'd rather just allow people to see me the way they're comfortable seeing me. I guess what counts more is knowing that underneath all this, there is another side of me, another facade that I can pull on when things get too dull.

After three blurry days in Tela, we took a ride back to San Pedro Sula. I was sad to leave Honduras, and sad because I felt I had only a tiny glimpse of the life and the people there. It's strange how nice people are to you when they believe you're traveling alone. it's a phenomenon that I"ve only just begun to notice, being that I don't really travel completely alone very often. But when I was walking on my way to customs/immigration in the airport in texas, I was approached by a beautiful older man with a thick Honduran accent. He asked me where I was in Honduras and all about my work there. His motions were large and energetic, like a grown up child. He mentioned his home town, and said that the next time I'm in Honduras, I should go there because it's very simple and nice. We parted ways at the Customs office, when he walked of into the line labeled "Visitor" and I got in line labeled "US citizen". The officer looked at my passport and asked me how I pronounced the name of my hometown. When I told him, he replied "Its different than it looks. that's really cool." As he let me pass, I thought about the last time I had walked through customs, and how the officer didn't say anything to me except "Welcome Home" and how it gave me chills.
Welcome home.

San Jeronimo and el espiritu humano (episode 2)

-"Miss Jess! Miss Jess!!- Como se dice seguir en ingles?"
I looked up from my notebook at a set of two chocolate brown eyes staring back at me
-"Oh I'm sorry, I don't speak spanish" I replied
-"Mentira!"
Silence
_"OOKKKAYYY How do you say seguir in english?
-"To pursue or follow"
Digna returned to her seat and stuck her tongue out at me
- sí, me entiende!
-no, no entiendo espanol. Soy gringa pura- No tengo ni idea!
giggles

It was just about time for lunch and the kids were getting rowdy. I was in a room decorated with bright pictures and maps, the english alphabet pasted above the chalk board and surrounded by 12 5th graders. The kids asked questions often, and I was more than once surprised at their capacity to quickly grasp the english language.

The school was small and modest, but incredible to consider. Everyone in the community was somehow involved in the creation of the school. The land the school was built upon, the materials of which the buildings were made, the administration: it was all planned out by parents in the community. At San Jeronimo Bilingual school, socio-economic class is not a big issue. Everyone in the community is able to apply for the opportunity to study at the school. Being a private school, payment is due in two ways: traditional monetary payments are available for those students who can afford it, and a payment through service to the school is available for those who cannot afford the tuition. This means that the majority of the staff at the school are parents.

Mostly everything at the school is donated by people who care. And that's what makes it such an incredible place: because you can see the progress materializing before your eyes: the physical embodiement of social change. All the sweat and labor of the school is poured right back into the community. We were working to create opportunity for social growth. And it seems to be working.

I wonder if a system like this, a co-operative and completely democratic system, a system where all the money is poured directly into the community and then back into the school, a system where the teachers are there because they care, and everything is working based on the pure idea of education for the greater good- would a system such as this would ever work for a school in the united states?

I moved to another homestay, this time with a beautiful 23 year old woman named Sadie and her adorable little boy. Elouisa and Gerrison often visited and drank beers with us outside on the porch. Elouisa tried to teach us gringas how to dance, a process that was both hilarious and embarassing. It was the ideal laid back location in which I was instantly comfortable, even despite the oppressive heat.

The house itself was beautiful: bright colored walls- deep pinks, tangerine oranges, cool greens. I loved it immedietly when I saw a vase of yellow daisies and a buddha statue guarding the water pila. There was a window in my room which looked out onto the beautiful view of the cement of the building nextdoor. So although the house was perfect in and of itself, its location was odd. It was as if someone had plucked this house out from some country town and plopped it in a cramped lot behind a chinese restaurant. But it was still beautiful, and it's hidden location added a level of character that I could appreciate.

Ah, the water situation. The water situation is a bit tough to explain. It's not that there is a shortage, it's more of a distribution problem. So there were some days when we were without running water. But like all challenges in life, people learn to adapt and overcome. So to overcome, each house came equipped with something that resembled a mix between a sink and a bathtub, which was filled with water and kept on reserve for those times when the water wouldn't turn on, or for washing clothes. And so I quickly learned the beautiful art of taking bucket showers.

It's always interesting to me how people change depending on their situation. Sounds stupid, sounds obvious. But seriously, I'll be the first to admit that I get really pissed off at school when the hot water doesn't turn on, or get freaked out whenever I see a spider. But for some reason, in my situation at that simple and cozy house with orange walls, I was content with limited running water, and no hot water whatsoever. The thought of spiders or any kind of bugs didn't phase me- I even tried to capture a roach and set it free outdoors. (but alas, someone's shoe got to the poor thing first!) I was doing manual labor. I was mixing cement by hand. I was digging ditches with a broken shovel and a pick-axe. My parents don't believe me. I almost don't believe me. But it happened.

The ability for the human spirit to overcome even the most devastating experiences was humbly presented to me one day when I learned that the mother of two little girls in the school was murdered. That same day, I learned that many of the students at our school were abandoned by their parents at an extremely young age and left to live and be raised by their relatives, while their parents sought a stable, however small, income in the united states. Most of the time, I was told, that plan doesn't work so well. But there those kids sat, inhaling the thick humidity and pronouncing english words with accurate, quasi-american accents. Writing stories in their notebooks about monsters and devils and adventures. Just like any "normal" 5th grade child. Incredible.

I now know how to make cement. And mix it by hand. To be there, kneeling in dirt and cutting rusty metal wires with rusty metal saws was intensely humbling- a realization I had one morning while drinking 90 degree humidity into my lungs: this would all go by much faster and much easier if we actually had tools that worked. Playing soccer with the 9th graders was another moment of realization: it would be so much easier to play soccer with balls that weren't flat, and real standing goals and pinnies so that we can distinguish between the teams. A realization in class when I asked a boy where his science notebook was and he replied that he didn't have one. They make due with what they have, no complaints, no "why me's" or "it's not fair's". They deal with it like they deal with everything in their lives, day by day.

An old man asked me how I liked Cofradia
I told him it was a beautiful town
He replied: Yes beautiful. But very dusty!

Agape and the beginning of my adventure...

I've been thinking very hard these past couple of days about the stories I will tell you upon my return from Honduras. The people I've met through my travels, the sides of my self that I still uncover- shocked at their newness and previous inexposure to my own self-concept, it's all so jumbled in my mind and I don't know where one discovery ends and a new one begins. All the experiences fill me up, swollen like a balloon about to burst. Fill me up with what exactly? It's love. Not romantic love, not friendship love, not even joyful love. It's this ecstatic love that constantly reminds me of the interconnectedness and amazing nature of humanity. There's a word for it: Agape.

So now that I have returned, here are my adventures. Where do I begin? At 1am on March 18th, I suppose. The adventure began with a slightly crazy drive to the Philadelphia airport. My driver: a middle aged man, awkwardly quiet and distant named James. It was 1am on a snowy sunday night, and I lay flat on the back seat of the car. I looked out the windown to the dark path that stretched out before me. It was my future, dark, narrow and unknown, like the dirt country road that we followed toward the big city.

Fast forward to the plane ride from Philadelphia to Houston. To my left was a beautiful older woman, reading a magazine. To my right: a young woman with wavy blonde hair, colorful wool socks, no shoes and a flowing robe. She was curled up on the seat, looking out the window. Immediately I noticed a strand of tibetan prayer beads around her neck. We smiled at each other, and I took out my copy of The Pilgrimage by Paulo Cohelo. (side note: I have just finished this book and it is amazing. It has inspired me even more to walk the Pilgrimage to Santiago de Compostela. Any potential travel buddies??). When she saw the book, she giggled. Softly at first. Then louder. I looked up.
-I just love Paulo Cohelo, don't you? She said, readjusting her curled body to face mine.
-Absolutely. What have you read of his?
-Oh just the alchemist. It really changed the way I see things.
-You should read The Zahir. It's my favorite of all his works.

She wrote the name of the book down. We got to talking and instantly I realized that she was an apparition of what I want my future to be. An English professor with a masters degree in Psychology, she gave up teaching at universities to travel the world. An aspiring writer, she had just returned from teaching English to Tibetan monk refugees at a buddhist temple in Nepal for a few years. She was on her way to her next adventure in Mexico. She told me stories of the monks, of living simply and mindfully without desire. I told her about my travels through Europe, and the way I felt the universe guides those who know how to listen. She agreed. She told me to submit my stories to her book: she was compiling travel stories written by women who have traveled the world alone, despite all warning. Maybe I will.

Switched planes in Houston and sat next to a loud man with a very pronounced southern accent and an orange t-shirt brighter than anything you've ever seen. At first I was annoyed: he was the type of american tourist that I hated, the kind that seemed to show no humility or respect for the culture. But as we spoke I realized I was completely wrong about him. He was a Christian, on a mission to Honduras to perform surgery on soldiers in San Pedro Sula. And as wary as I am of radical protestant missionaries, there was something about him that made me feel he was a good man. Maybe it was the idea of selfless service, which reminded me of my youth with the Jesuits. I don't know what it was, but in that moment I was grateful for his faith in his God, because it was faith that was creating, rather than destroying a part of the world.

Arrived in Honduras and got in a car with a Honduran couple: Elouisa and her boyfriend, Gerrison (I have no idea if I spelled that correctly). Extremely giggly and bubbly, I immediately felt right at home. Gerrison's driving reminded me of driving through Boston or playing Frogger, except we were a car instead of a frog and if we got hit we couldn't try again. And in this way, to the sound of spanish pop-music, they introduced us to the streets of Cofradia. How do I describe Cofradia? There is nothing special about that town. And in it's plain-ness, it's nothingness, it's absolute small town-ness, is something extraordinary. Dusty narrow streets with children and wild dogs running about and maybe a bird or two, small houses with tin roofs painted in the brightest colors you've ever seen. Music on every corner. Laughter. Dancing. Dust. Cofradia.

I spent my first night alone in a house full (FULL) of people. It was a simpler house compared to those of my travel companions: a large room with bare white walls, divided into smaller rooms with walls made of flimsy plywood and cloth. The air was thick with dust and humidity, but was tempered by the sweet smell of food and coffee. I had never lived in a house quite like that before, and I was open and grateful for the experience. Upon arrival, I was immediately greeted by a small girl with a long thick braid which fell all the way down her back. She must've been 10 years old. Her name: Diosa (Goddess). She had large brown eyes that took everything in eagerly, and a smile which lit up her serious face. She introduced me to her little brother, Tigo. They would be attending the San Jeronimo Bilingual school, where I would be working for the next few days.

I crawled into bed early that night, exhausted from my trip. But I couldn't sleep. All around me were the sounds of a new country. I was angry with myself for falling victim to my own fears, retreating into myself instead of reaching out to others. I was afraid they thought I was cold, or rude and incapable of speaking their langauge. I was overwhelmed with culture shock, a feeling I've experienced many times but simply could not deny myself of it's grasp. I lay in bed and accepted it, allowing the discomfort to hang over me, heavy like the humidity in the air. It began to rain. I fell asleep to the sound of children laughing and rain pouring on a tin roof.

I woke up around 12am suddenly. There was someone else in my bed. A heavy body lay beside me, breathing softly. I didn't knowhow long he had been there, or if he was asleep. I quickly assumed he was, however, judging by the rhythmic patterns of his breathing. I didn't know what to do. It was extremely inappropriate for a boy and a girl to be sleeping in the same room, let alone the same bed. Furthermore, I didn't even know if the boy was a member of the family, or had just wandered into the room from the street. I froze, terrified. The boy let out a soft groan, rolled over, and smacked his head on the floor. I quickly closed my eyes and pretended to be asleep. He got up, mumbling something about being crazy, and wandered back through the curtain into the other room. A few moments later, a bright cell phone light shone into my eyes. I let out a soft yelp. Another boy was standing beside my bed. I don't know if it was the same boy, or his older brother. The boy squatted down on the floor next to my bed and asked me some questions. In my groggy state, I answered them shortly and rudely. I just wanted to go to sleep without having someone else in my bed. He eventually left me alone, and although I felt horrible about being so rude, I fell back asleep. The next morning I packed up my things. it was time to move on to the next homestay, the place where I would stay for the rest of my time in Cofradia.

Edna St. Vincent Millay

gets me. She just does. It's kind of freaky how well she gets me. Three favorites:

"God's World"
O world, I cannot hold thee close enough!
Thy winds, thy wide grey skies!
Thy mists, that roll and rise!
Thy woods, this autumn day, that ache and sag
And all but cry with colour! That gaunt crag
To crush! To lift the lean of that black bluff!
World, World, I cannot get thee close enough!

Long have I known a glory in it all,
But never knew I this;
Here such a passion is
As stretcheth me apart,--Lord, I do fear
Thou'st made the world too beautiful this year;
My soul is all but out of me,--let fall
No burning leaf; prithee, let no bird call.


"The Philosopher"
And what are you that, wanting you,
I should be kept awake
As many nights as there are days
With weeping for your sake?

And what are you that, missing you,
As many days as crawl
I should be listening to the wind
And looking at the wall?

I know a man that's a braver man
And twenty men as kind,
And what are you, that you should be
The one man in my mind?

Yet women's ways are witless ways,
As any sage will tell, --
And what am I, that I should love
So wisely and so well?


"Travel"
The railroad track is miles away,
and the day is loud with voices speaking,
Yet there isn't a train goes by day
But I hear its whistle shrieking.

All night there isn't a train goes by,
Though the night is still for sleep and dreaming
But I see its cinders red on the sky,
And hear its engine steaming.

My heart is warm with the friends I make,
And better friends I'll not be knowing,
Yet there isn't a train I wouldn't take,
No matter where it's going.
---
On that last note, I'm going to Honduras for a week. The malaria pills that my parents insist I take are giving me strange dreams, where I will characters into being (like the one last night when I thought, I'd like to dream about my dear friend who is in Washington... when will he come home? and there he was! Great to see him, by the way)They are also kind of making me into a big bitch (a bigger one than usual? you may ask. If I were there I'd punch you... how's that for an answer?) All I have to say is thank god I'll be out of the country for a while. Perhaps this adventure will last me long enough through my final month of college.

Plastic Chic

So I was sitting in a cafe today (because god knows that's all I ever do, really) and this girl walks past me. Not just any kind of girl, I mean, a total smokeshow. And as she walks down the aisle between the tables, every single head turns to follow her: guy, girl, animal- whatever. And I'm looking at her, and I'm trying to figure out what it is about her that makes her so perfect looking. Really, there wasn't anything wrong with her... but to me, something was a bit off. And then it dawns on me: she looks exactly like all the other hot women I've seen. Seriously. The same perfectly toned, curvy (but not too curvy!) figure, the same light brown hair with platinum streaks, the same suspiciously bronze tan in the middle of winter. The same perfect perky nose, offset by the same dark eyemakeup and the same full lips covered with the same shiny plastic lip gloss. The same low cut shirt, and the same skinny jeans with the same matching shoes.

For a moment I fear as if I'm sounding like one of those girls who rejects fashion and criticizes all the models because she's jealous. Let's clarify: I'm not one of those girls. I happen to like fashion, and I was an aspiring model for a few good years. Let's just say that to me , beauty- real beauty- is having something that makes you stand out. Too many freckles, a slightly crooked nose, large eyes... anything to break the mold. And women like that, they're not considered smokeshows. But they're beautiful.

It's funny, I can think of the perfect woman. Everyone can generally agree that women like the woman I saw in the cafe is attractive. But I can't think of the perfect man. Because I know what I look for (slightly awkward and nerdy, eccentric artist types, unpredictable etc) but that's completely different than say, what my roommate looks for. And furthermore, I don't have a preference about eye color or hair color or noze shape or waist size or anything like that. Most women don't.

Let's put this another way: Close your eyes and picture the perfect woman. I bet you all of our images were pretty similar. But now picture the perfect man. The differences are endless...

I'm not saying men don't have ridiculous standards to live up to. We all do, both men and women. But I feel like the standards are more relaxed for men. Whereas, no one really gives a hoot what size pants a man wears, when I tell my girls and metro-guy friends that I wear a size 5 (ok I used to... god knows college food + stress = rapid weightloss) they freak out: Nooooo you don't!!! When did it get to this point? Whereas, no one really cares if a guy has freckles, I feel really self-conscious because mine cause people to think I'm 3+ years younger than my actual age (the lovely and most recent example of a visit to the doctor's office. Nurse: so how's college Me: almost done, thank god. Nurse: What?! How old are you? Me: I'll be 22. Nurse: Nooooo you're kidding! You look 18!) Yeah, someday I'll like it, but why should I? Why is it not OK for women to look their age?

Maybe its a result of us watching all those marathon sessions of Americas Next Top Model. Seriously, I don't understand the fascination with those shows. Watching them is like watching a car wreck. I can't watch those shows unless I've got a pint of Ben & Jerry's and a bag of Mint Milanos next to me. Because otherwise, I'll just stop eating altogether. That's my reaction to those shows: I see a model, and I either want to eat an entire bag of Milano cookies, or throw up and run on a treadmill for 4 hours. Either one isn't healthy. Since when do women actually *look* like the airbrushed models we see everywhere? It's terrifying, really.

And then I go to facebook. Ahh facebook, the epitome of our generation. I've turned into a real facebook junkie lately, mainly because Pennsylvania, though beautiful, is incredibly boring when all my friends are "adults" and have real jobs (ie: no spring break). It's the same sort of deal. All the groups of "future MILFS" and "hot sorority chicks" (ok that's not a real group to my knowledge, but you know the groups I'm talking about...) have girls who look exactly the same. And I'm wondering if beneath those blonde highlights, beneath the bronzer and liquid eyeliner, beneath the designer size zero jeans and Paris Hilton vapid expression lurks a truly beautiful woman. With freckles. And maybe a crooked nose.

World Tour? Or maybe...

So I heard back from the Watson fellowship today. As is everything in my life lately, it's not a no, but it's not a yes either. I have to wait another month or so to see if my plans for meeting kickass slam poets worldwide will actually be realized. I think the universe is playing tricks on me. I guess I will be paid back when the time is right. Or maybe not.

Talked to my dear Sara today, who sounds blissfully happy as she is about to embark on a road trip with a certain someone. Ahhh, how adorable. Talking to people who i've met through adventure always has this way of making me feel a bit more alive. It's good to remember there's life outside of college, and that there are some absolutely incredible people in this world.

So I'm thinking New Zealand. There's this program, BUNAC, that I think I might go through to get a year long work permit in New Zealand for next year. I've never been there, I've heard wonderful things, and besides, it's literally on the other side of the planet, so I'll be as far away from everyone I know as possible. Excellent.

Another option I've been thinking about is Ireland. It's through the same program, but the work permit is only for 4 months. I imagine i can find a way to extend it if I want to. Ireland isn't so far from everyone, and that way if I get the random need to visit some Hamiltonians abroad, I know a handful that will be in Europe, and even a few in my beloved city, Granada.

I don't know if I could ever go back to Granada. It will be different, completely, I'm sure. But maybe if I gather some of my friends we could return together, and create a new adventure story. It's definitely on my list of places where I must live before I reach age 40. Maybe I need more time... or less time... I don't know which one it is.

It's so strange being home. I'm glad to be away from everyone at Hamilton, this has been one hell of of a month. And I'm starting to wonder if things will ever get better. I don't want to think upon my experiences at college negatively, I've had some absolutely wonderful moments with people. But perhaps it's painfully true that familiarity breeds contempt. Why have I had a different group of friends every semester for the past 4 years? Why can I still not find my little niche, a tiny spot for me to just sit and be and feel welcome always? Do those people and places really exist? Or does it just seem like everyone else has one, when infact we're all just bouncing around aimlessly, too self absorbed to notice that everone else is going through the exact same thing?Even in moments of what seems like god-sent clarity, i still have this plaguing feeling of loneliness, a strange aching within me to be somewhere else.

My childhood best friend is getting married. What is that, like 4 people now who are getting married? I fell out of touch with her a long time ago, but I saw the wedding invitation in the mail. It was addressed to my parents. Truthfully I dont even know if I would be here for it anyway. I can't believe so many of my friends are getting married. I can't believe I'm that old already.

But I digress. There's always Denmark, Italy, France, Northern Spain... I've got friends in so many places, and I'd love to see them all again. So many wonderful places in the world that it's hard to believe people go for their entire lives without leaving their hometown, or their state. There's always a comfort in returning to Pennsylvania, a deep unspoken understanding with the people here, like the old woman at the farmers market who smiled at me, as if she knew all about me. Or the doctors and nurses who know my entire life story. Sure, pennsylvania is incredible. It is home. And at the same time I feel like there's nothing left for me here, like it's time for me to pack up and go, a gentle nudge into the future.

Littlest Things

Oh stereotypes

I went to the Infectious Disease doctor today. No, I don't have an infectious disease(however after the results of my 6-degrees of separation through sex diagram, it's a wonder we're not all suffering from some flesh-eating plague. Ew.)I needed a perscription for some Malaria pills. Why on earth would I want to take those? Well, I really don't want to. I'm not looking forward to it. But I have to because I'm going to a rural part of Honduras on Sunday. Therefore, I must choke down these pills once a week for the next month, or, you know, get Malaria. Anyway, I arrive at the hospital, and go into the waiting room, where this adorable old man is sitting by himself on a bench. I sit down next to him and he asks "So do you have an infectious disease too?" I laughed awkwardly and told him my whole Malaria pill monologue. Turns out he's a farmer from a nearby town, who got an infection in his knee from exposure to chicken poop. Yeah that's right, infectious chicken poo. He's had his knee replaced 4 times already, he says to me, shaking his head. "At least I got a ride over here on the ambulance" he said "but that driver, he took the most roundabout route to get here. And I yelled at him from the back- where ya goin?- and he said -they pay me by the mile!- So I scolded him. - You drive like a fucking woman!" I giggled. I hate sexism, but man it sure is funny when it comes out of an old man's mouth.

So I got my perscription for the pills, and on my way home stopped at the grocery store. Picked up some cat food, a pint of ben & jerry's, and two bags of mint milanos. And as I'm checking out, I realize how ridiculously stereotypical I must look: definitely a single twenty-something female. I might as well have it stamped on my forehead "Hello I'm single: Save me before I turn into a cat lady!" Damn.

I'm doing the stereotypical "i've-got-6-weeks-of-college-left-until-the-real-world smacks-me-in-the-face" job hunt. The "oh-fuck-what-now?" job hunt. I've been looking abroad, I'm thinking Ireland or New Zealand at this point. Maybe Spain. I just can't stay on the east coast any longer. To be honest though, I'll probably end up in NYC just like everyone else. Thats one thing I love about going to a small liberal arts college- it's getting to this point where everyone's like "oh whatever, i'm never going to see you again" but you just wait! We'll run into eachother in the checkout line at Whole Foods, or in a bar somewhere downtown. Happens every time.

Whatever. Manhattan is fine, as long as I don't get one of those financial analyst consultant blah blah blah jobs. Seriously. I'd rather do manual labor than sit at a desk all day, spacing out.The sad thing is, though, so many of my talented friends have those jobs. The idea behind it: to get enough money to support me while i'm doing something that i really want to do. I say, just give it up and do what you want. Seriously, we're at this time in our lives when we can risk it all, because we don't really have anything to risk. I'd rather be 22, living in a shithole and eating leftover chinese food than 45 and miserable.

One of my friends who graduated a while back sent me this thing about the 30 people you will meet in college. There's people like "the broham", "sally activist" "the converter" etc etc. And I'm thinking about it and it's true, to a certain extent. I was the activist girl in college. I still am in a way. But I don't know if I'm different or if my school is different. But something changed my perspective along the way.

It's funny to look back and see how much I've changed. I'm sure a lot of the radical liberal activists think I've sold out. Maybe I have. But I realized that you can't ever convince anyone of anything by screaming or protesting or fighting. You have to have dialogue. You have to sit and wait patiently for some face time with the woman incharge. Petitions won't do it. Neither will threats. Protests won't do it, nor sit-ins and probably not fasts either (though I've never tried that one). Calling your representative over every little goddamn thing might help, but only if a lot of people do it. Because it's true, you are only one person. So what can you do? You have to work your way inside out. No one is going to take a radical seriously. It's simply too easy to be a radical, to put yourself up on a little soap box and lecture. It's too easy to be extreme, to cling to an ideology that only works on paper. It's harder to sit down and think. Tell me what you know. Not what you think you know, not how you feel, not a lecture on how this policy is awful and how that administration is corrupt. Tell me what you absolutely know for certain. You will find that you know very little.

I see the newer generation of activists at my college, and don't get me wrong, I think it's really awesome that they're at least trying to be heard. But I want to tell them that shouting and protesting and lecturing won't get you anywhere. Modesty will carry you farther than anger. In the end, you'll realize that all that energy you put into "fighting for the cause" could've been better used to negotiate. So many liberal activists don't even want to hear the otherside. They won't even let the other side speak. And when the other side does speak, the activists simply write down all the reasons they believe the other side is full of it. This is not dialogue or negotiation. This is two people jerking off behind a podium into a microphone. In case you couldnt tell, we want to avoid scenarios like this. What we need is fair and balanced debate, where both sides actually listen to eachother instead of criticizing eachother: "Ok we know you disagree. but what now?" What now guys? Nothing will ever be accomplished without the permission of both the minority and the majority. It's ok to be passionate about politics, but you have to have a bit of room to be compassionate too. It's ok to see the other person as "the enemy" but you have to understand your enemy in order to "defeat" them (mind you, defeat isn't really the goal, right?) You have to understand why your grandmother is so anti-abortion rights (hmmm maybe it's because she's catholic?) and respect that reason (saying someone is "wrong" because of their religion is ridiculous). I've talked with a lot of "conservatives" about "liberal activists" and I've found that's their biggest complaint: we activists don't listen, and we get carried away into extremist ego-driven lectures. It makes sense. I think about all those times I wanted to duct tape Pat Robertson's mouth shut- I don't have anything against his religious views per se, only that he says that I'm wrong and a bad person for not sharing his views. Because I feel like if he knew me, and understood what I stand for, he'd then understand that even though we don't agree, I'm not "the enemy" at all.

It's just one of those things you can't define for sure. I remember back when I used to protest, I went to a march in DC for women's rights. Some radical chrisitan groups were on the sidelines telling us we were "bad people". But then not two weeks later I was in DC for another march, this one against the war, and those same christian groups were there marching alongside me. Who is the enemy now?

Breaking your heart

"Breaking your heart is the best way to know you still have one"

God that's so freaking emo. But it's the line that I woke up with this morning, echoing in my head. It's bizzarre when that happens. I've heard it happens to musicians a lot, waking up with a musical phrase stuck in their heads.

In my hispanic studies class on tuesday, we were talking about love. Sometimes I think that class is out to get me: we either talk about how much capitalism sucks (which may be true, but hey, we're at a private college in upstate new york, and half of us have trust funds so what's the point of even discussing it....) or what true love is.

Tuesday's discussion was about love. This is not a good week/month/year to talk about love for me. Not good at all. hmph

The protagonist of the film that we watched claimed that he was only ever in love once, with a girl who wanted him to come with her to the united states. They were living in cuba at the time, pre-revolution, but he inherited his father's business after they got engaged. She moved to New York. He did not. For a few years he claimed that he was just trying to save enough money for them. But eventually he stopped writing to her.

Shockingly, the majority of the kids in the class said they would've done the same, they would've stayed and made money and a living for themselves rather than be with someone they loved. The professor went around the room getting responses from everyone. Student after student, everyone just said "i agree, he did the right thing". And finally when she got to me, I was so confused that I just burst out "I could be wrong, but if I truly loved someone, I'd go anywhere to be with them. I'd leave my life behind for them. I'd rather be broke and in love than alone and rich." Which of course gained the applause of the girls in the class, and lots of laughs from the boys. After class, at least 4 guys approached me about my repsonse. I think it threatened them. I don't really know. "Que italiana!" they'd say, trying to make an excuse for me. But I'm american just like them.

Breaking my heart was the best way to know I still had one. It sucks that so much pain was the only way to come to my senses. The deterioration of my heart took place over a long period of time. Not a sudden crack and it's done, but rather a long, drawn out process, each experience slowly chipping away at it. Monday i think it finally fell apart, and I just stopped feeling. Like the point when your nerves are stimulated so much that your neurons just don't fire anymore. What's that called again? Damn neuroscience ruined emotions for me.

I can't believe it's been a year. All I've done is isolated myself even more.

To make matters worse, my research lab got doused with 50 billion gallons of water tuesday night, wrecking all my data. Hopefully they can salvage the hard drive. Otherwise, I'm majorly fucked. But there is some kind of small victory in all of this. I went to the senior concentrator's dinner last night, proceeded to drink with my thesis advisor and half-drunkenly attempt to converse with the department chair. The dinner wasn't a dinner at all, it was a cocktail hour. Damn cheap school. Grabbed late dinner at Mcewen and met two very nice people, obviously not hamilton students (because we're not very nice). Turns out they were in Of Montreal. I think I babbled a lot over dinner. I should stop doing that. I went to the Of Montreal show later that night. I'm a new fan.

And so half way through the show I realize that life is so much more important than thesis data analysis and that stupid lab I have due friday that i haven't even begun to write. Because in the end, no one is going to give a shit about whether or not I can pump out an APA style research paper in 24 hours with perfect references and charts and graphs. People are what's important. Interpersonal connection is where it's at. And although these past few weeks have been rough, I've been so blessed to meet so many absolutely incredible people thoughout my life. Sure there are so many assholes, but it's necessary to meet assholes because then the beautiful people are that much more illuminated.

I hope some of that illumination I encountered tonight rubbed off on me. I want to glow like i used to.

Thawing?

Could it be? I think I'm just over it all.
we'll see how today goes.

I believe "wonderful" was the word used

At least the Bristol heirs think I'm cool. Here's a copy of the poem I read to them during my fellowship interview. It's a response to the Mali poem recently posted.

"Response to Taylor Mali
or
Here's to the world"

True poetry can be read softly on the page
But I’d rather be here up on stage
Not getting rallied up in an existential rage
Thinking that this is the poem that’s gonna end the war
Digging my heels deep into the floor
No I’d rather calmly describe to you
What exactly it is I’m for

I’m for love and compassion
And individual fashion and
Colors that mix and histories that clash and
Love stories not marketed for their passion
But their truth

I’m all for complete reckless abandon
And celebration in moments of spontaneity
And carrying around wine glasses in a box labeled
“Break in case of god-sent clarity”

I’m for sunny days and open roads
That stretch for miles and miles
With a full tank of gas and ambition to go
Anywhere with anyone with a genuine smile

I want open books and broken hearts
And the unbreakable human spirit which
Rises without fail from the grit and sweat
Of life bigger and badder and better than before

I’m for living deep and sucking the marrow out of life
I want people to know that last line was a literary reference
To Henry David Thoreau

I want an end to television evangelists
And cartoons as marketing tools
I’m all for religion and prayer
Just not in our public schools

I’m for intense sessions of personal reflection
On life long lessons and risks of rejection
Just to go out there and make a connection
Even if it hurts

I’m for poets picking up pens instead of guns
And parents not having to bury their sons
For interpersonal communication
And stopping international rights violations
And people causing the end of their own countries wars
A bit of human compassion
That’s what I’m looking for

I want unprecedented optimism
And inappropriate laughter
I’m for lying on the grass
And noticing that time goes by faster
Than we ever cared to acknowledge before

I’m for loyalty and independence
And all other traits we can learn from dogs and cats
I’m for becoming your own teacher
And questioning all the facts

So let’s break out those wine glasses
And give a toast to whatever life’s got in store
To love and friendship and living evermore
To mending broken hearts and healing soul’s sores
To train wrecks and hurricanes and confusing civil wars
To priests and nuns, to pimps and whores
To climbing through windows when life closes doors

Just a celebration of this very moment
That’s exactly what I’m for.

---
Whenever I post poetry on here, I always want to put a bit in about plaigerism. ie: it's not cool. Please don't. Contact me instead, and I will teach you how to write your own stuff. Who knows, you might be a better writer than me.

And then you...

This is just the icing on a big awful cake baked in hell. Honestly, I don't think I've ever felt this way before. i mean, I'm a psychology major, I'm supposed to be able to talk myself out of this. Not this time. I feel numb. I'm not even sad, or angry, or confused. I'm literally without emotion. There's this biting feeling inside me, kind of the way you feel right before you cry, but I can't cry. In other words, I'm constantly on the brink of tears.

And the thing is, I think I can't talk myself out of it, because I didn't do it. This time, I really didn't bring it on myself. So much has happened this year, so much that NO ONE knows about, so much that I wish I could tell people, but what's the point? For pity? If they knew, they'd all just be nice to my face and then mean when I'm not around. I'd almost rather it this way. At least now I know.

And besides that one big thing, that thing that's literally been stalking me all year, catching me off guard in a moment of almost tranquility and then biting me in the ass. besides that one big thing, there's been so many little things. It's like nothing I do is good enough. I can be nice and kind, not even motivated by anything other than wanting to be nice and kind (because after all who knows better than me that life is shorter than we all want to admit?) and I still get fucked over. Every time I turn around, it's just one punch after another. It's a losing battle. Why do i even try. I wish I could fight back. I wish I could show some kind of emotion. I wish I could be honest about everything that's happened. But I can't. I don't feel anything.

Why don't I trust you? Because you're one of them. And even though as an individual you're sweet and kind, you let a group of people define who you are. I say, never let someone else define you. I say, never be fully defined. Be a work in progress, be an unfinished masterpiece. The moment you ascribe yourself to a group, is the moment I can't trust you, and you can't trust yourself. You are one of them. Whether you know it or not. And I'm just stuck here, in an icebox, eating my cake from hell. Fuck.

Silver lined heart

I'm typically a happy person. And my optimism is usually hidden behind a layer of shyness and sarcasm. Just the way things are I guess. But I haven't been so happy lately. In fact, I hate how I've not been happy the past few months. Sometimes I feel like this is all scripted by a terrible screenwriter of some mid 90's chickflick. Sometimes I hate my life. But I'm a lucky person: I've got a life to hate.

So, I turn to the things that make me happy. Putting on my musician friends' cds and rocking out behind closed doors (they'd never let me forget it if they saw me dance to their music). Going for walks at 3 in the morning. Lunar eclipses (like the one yesterday). But here's one that I can actually share with you.

The author is Taylor Mali and the poem is "Silver Lined Heart".

'm for reckless abandon. And spontaneous celebrations of nothing, like the twin flutes that I kept in the trunk of my car in a box labeled "emergency champagne glasses"
Raise an unexpected glass to long cold winters and sweet hot summers and the beautiful confusion of the times in between.
To the unexpected drenching rain that leaves you soaking wet and smiling breathless here's to the soul expanding power of the universally optimistic simplicity of the beautiful.
See things you hate, things you despise, multinational corporations and lies that politicians tell, injustices that make you mad as hell, that's all well and good and as far a writing poems goes I guess you should. It just might be a poem that gets a Mumia released, bring an end to terrorism or peace in the Middle East, but as far what soothes me what inspires and moves me honesty behooves me to tell me that your rage doesn't move me.
See like the darkest clouds my soul has a silver lining which does not hearken to the loudest whining but beats and stirs and grows evermore when I learn about the things you are actually for.
That's why I'm for best friends and long drives and smiles, nothing but the sound of thinking for miles, for the unconditional love of dogs. May we learn the lessons of their love by heart for therapy when you need it and poetry when you need it and the wisdom to know the difference.
I'm for hard work and homework and chapter tests and cumulative exams and yearly science fairs and pop quizzes when you least expect them just to keep everybody honest.
For love and the fragile human heart may it always grow and heal stronger than it was before.
For walks in the woods and the woods themselves, by which I mean the trees definitely the trees, window seats and locally brewed beer and love letters written by hand with fountain pens I'm for all of these.
For Galway Canal and Rufus Wainwright and Mos Def and the Indigo Girls and getting closer to fine each and everyday.
For the integrity it takes not to lightly suffer fools, for god and faith and prayers, but not in public schools. I'm for evolution more than revolution unless their offering some kind of solution, isn't that how we got the constitution.
For charm and charisma and style without being a self important prick for cavalry and being a gentleman at the risk of being called a male-chauvinist pig.
I'm for crushes not acted upon, for admiration from afar, for intense sessions of self love especially if they make you a nicer person.
I'm for the courage it takes to volunteer, to say yes I believe in this and I will, I'm for the bright side the glass half full, the silver lining, for the optimists that consider darkness just another kind of shining.
I'm for what can be achieved more than what I would want in an ideal world, I'm for working everyday to make the world a better place, and not complaining about how it isn't, so don't waste my time with your curses on verses about what you are against, despise and abhor. Tell me what inspires you, what fulfills and fires you, put your goddamn pen to paper and tell me what you're for.

Swimming

I've spent the last year pushing people away, particularly those I most wanted to be close to. Not just physically but spiritually, in search of this freedom in solitude that I wanted for so long. And now that I've had it, for almost a complete year (I've never been good with exact dates)I've come to realize that perhaps solitude wasn't the answer. True, I'd rather be alone than with lots of people that don't get me, that try to change me into something I'm not- into something perhaps easier to understand, but I've come to realize over this past year that my mistake wasn't people in general, it was the type of people that i tried to be around.

I felt like I was talking to a wall with certain people because i was, in fact, talking to a wall. Certain people just don't get people like me. They try to change us, they try to make excuses for our behaviour. I forced myself to try to befriend those people, to show then that they're wrong for thinking i'm weird. But people like that, if they're used to one thing, and I am something completely different, there's no way to possibly change their minds.

And yet, although I'm kind of ready to get back on the proverbial horse, I can't help but wonder that maybe there really is something wrong with me. Where I can feel so much compassion for others, and yet still feel so alone. It's like, no matter what, I'm never going to be good enough. There's always going to be a girl who's got more of that *thing* than me. Be it friendliness, or sexiness or wildness or pensiveness or whatever. Why do I, at the end of the night, always feel like I come up short?

Maybe my problem is in trying. It's something that I've been avoiding. I've just stopped trying. But in this stopping, have I given up everything? Is that what the game is all about? What if I don't want to be part of this game anymore? What if I just want honesty? I want a connection, and I'm not finding it, but everyone else seems to have it.

Nights truly are the worst. When there's nothing but space between you, your four walls and the ceiling. I've been in my head for a year. It's time I let myself out. The question is, who do I open up to?

Compassion

Terror Management Theory: the striving for and creation of positive situations as a means to buffer a fear of being forgotten after death.

Positive illusions: sentiment of unrealistic optimism of one’s well being in face of a clearly negative situation. Typically coupled with ideas of control over the uncontrolable traumatic situation.

I once read about bodhisattvas who save others from suffering by physically absorbing their pain and negativity. Some monks take the suffering of others into themselves. Jesus died to save humanity from it’s self-inflicted death. I’ve got this self-destructive desire to absorb suffering. I’m sure I'm not strong enough. Maybe someday I will be. Or maybe the suffering is just too great, that of my own and that of others, and I’ll just melt away. Melt into the snow.