On my twenty-first birthday, my mother gave me a small book of manners, written by George Washington, and a hardcover book called "Mount Vernon Love Story". In the first, she wrote a note, "Always remember your propriety," and in the second, "Go write your own love story, like George and Martha." I suppose it was at that moment she believed I was grown, and so it was time to pass on a few pearls of wisdom about love. What she hardly realized was that the greatest love I could ever know I had already experienced, with an ancient breathing city on the other side of the Atlantic: Paris.
I can only imagine the number of eye-rolls that last phrase conceived. People either love Paris, or they hate her. The state is a rare and clean binary. Three years after I first set foot on French soil, the images continue to haunt me. Around this time of year, we approach our anniversary, Paris and I, and she tugs on my heartstrings for hours on end. Even though I consider myself a writer, I have never (nor will I ever) been able to express my adoration for the only place I have ever truly felt at peace. There is simply nothing as marvelous as a drizzly Parisian morning, the people who mill about in it, or the richness of culture that seeps from the cobblestones and into your bones. There are not many things in life that happen in perfect timing. My happening upon Paris as a disenfranchised artist and a lost little girl was one of them.
Like all incredible romances, however, Paris and I are complicated. I was born in the wrong country, at the wrong socio-economic state, and the wrong century to live with her for more than a semester. A year after I left to teach English in France, my irreparable psyche is reeling still of failure. My half-baked attempt to return to what once was, made for a string of grave mistakes that reduced me to financial and emotional ruin. And still, tucked far away, in that little fold of my brain where I keep all my aspirations and ambitions, she lives, Paris, glittering in the twilight where I knew her best. To someday or never return? This question pervades my thoughts. What happens, in fact, to a dream deferred, to unrequited love?
There are only so many quiches I can make, museums to visit, and Hepburn movies to watch before my heart rips from my chest. Standing on the precipice of my young and indeterminable life, I watch twenty arrondissements float away, shrouded in a silver haze. The question was never whether I would return to Paris; for this is of course inevitable. Rather, it is whether I will live there again. The answer, unfortunately, has no easy resolve, because reality is a grim and fickle mistress. And the inexorable truth is that I stopped believing I was capable of any kind of love the moment I left Paris. While I feel I must go back, I know full well I cannot.
Life here in DC is, my definition, normal. I have a normal job that I hate. I have normal acquaintances I hang out with. People I know get engaged, married, and pregnant. We suffer. We laugh. We get stuck on the metro on Sunday mornings. But it is a far cry from the extraordinary. It is far removed from the French joie de vivre I learned and captured and lived so well when I studied abroad and again when I lived in Nantes. I could fill this blog with should haves and should nots. The mistakes of course are clear. My fear is that I shall never move beyond what was once to pursue a world that could be. After too many attempts, I feel I have exhausted all avenues. What I desire, more than anything in the world, is to go home. This simple pleasure, however, is denied to me.
I can only hope I will find it in me to fix my heart and soldier on, to a time when Paris and I will live together again. Until then, true happiness for me is toujours, toujours Paris.
Wednesday, September 10, 2014
Saturday, July 19, 2014
7 Highly Effective Habits of Young Washingtonians
I've been living in Washington for about three months now. Ninety or so days is an adequate amount of time, I suppose, to judge the musings and behaviors of a given citizenry. Frankly, calling Washingtonians anything but a citizenry registers as a bit of a demerit. We in Washington are a different breed. We don't live in a state. We don't have representation. Taxes are levied rather heavily. And our driver's licenses are often judged by other states as poorly faked (or so I hear). How do we deal with all this, and other challenges? I've compiled a silly but honest shortlist of truths. While they don't encompass the entire experience that is living and working in the DC metro area, they're definitely the top seven.
2) We HATE tourists. When we see them on the metro, we slap on an irritated face and avoid contact at all costs. They interrupt our morning commutes, don't know how to use public transit, wander loudly through the streets with their fanny packs and fat asses and are a general nuisance. We don't really have issues with mice or cockroaches. Another infestation instead occurs: tourists. They go to the markets and chat up vendors, preventing true Washingtonians from buying groceries. They constantly get lost and beg for directions (really though, really? in an era of smartphones?). We have to weave around them on our morning runs (see above) and they take obnoxious pictures in front of our most prized possessions: our monuments. They loudly walk around at 8 am in enormous tour groups with matching t-shirts. Ick. Gross. We hate them. And if a bunch of us get together at any time, we all commiserate in our distaste for them.
3) We drink. In #1, I pointed out that our jobs are HORRENDOUS. There are a multitude of ways to change and/or forget that reality, but they all involve one thing: alcohol. Whether you're networking to find a new job, unloading about your week to your friends, or trying to impress your coworkers, all the important career moves are made over beers and vodka tonics. At this stage in life, we know how to hold our alcohol (at least when it matters) and thus make our best impressions when we're a little buzzed. The best nights I've had here have involved peach-cinnamon moonshine or Kir Royales on rooftops. If you aren't still at work between the hours of 4 p.m. and 7 p.m., you're missing out on everything important. And everything that keeps you sane.
4) We are bilingual. Just about everyone I've met is fluent in Spanish, French, or Arabic, AND is learning another language as part of their professional development. With the federal government located here, almost everyone is a contractor, works for the state department, the CIA, or the FBI. And if that isn't the case, they're somehow, someway, someday interested in foreign affairs or international development. As part of all the networking we do, saying a few words in Russian, Malay, or Swahili can go far. Really far. Landing the dream job far. However, our interest in language isn't purely for advancement's sake. We can all talk for hours about our love of languages, even if everyone isn't absorbent to them. We were raised in a world that globalizes more with each passing second, and detest the stereotype that all Americans only speak English or expect everyone to speak English. The best foreign relationships are the ones that are maintained by intercultural communication. We'd like to be a part of the solution. Case closed!
5) We LOVE cupcakes. Baked and Wired. Georgetown Cupcake. Hello Cupcake. The Sweet Lobby. Buzz. Tout de Sweet. Sprinkles. According to Yelp, there are over one hundred different chains of individual cupcake shops in DC, not counting Maryland or Virginia metro areas. ONE HUNDRED. Everyone has their preference and refuses to entertain divergent opinions on who makes the best cupcake. Cupcake culture thrives here more than any other city in the US (although, I concede that New York City is probably a close second or rival). Why? We love working out and eating well, and a cupcake is the perfect size! It's an acceptable indulgence, doesn't cost much, and the best way to finish off a meal. Office party? CUPCAKES! Birthday celebration? CUPCAKES! I've recently seen baby shower cupcakes and wedding reception cupcakes on Facebook, not to mention that most swanky events and networking happy hours I've been to have featured at least three dozen of the things. Before I moved to DC, my cupcake preference was to take them or leave them. They can be messy and melty, right? And yet...
6) We read. On our morning commutes, about half of the professionals are reading The Economist. And if we're not reading that, we're leafing through Elizabeth Barrett Browning's poems or Garcia-Marquez' One Hundred Years of Solitude. The metro and bus rides are long to get to work, and a lot of us make that sacrifice to live where we want to live (or are compelled to live because of budgeting and leases). But it's more than the commute; it's a lifestyle that I imagine accompanies intelligent, driven people. There's no such thing as a day you don't learn something, and if you aren't learning anything in your deadbeat job, your thirst for knowledge grows each passing hour. Book clubs are the second biggest Meetup category in DC, and there's no wondering why that is. Whether we're trying to recapture college's best moments in literature analyzation or just looking to meet other people, book club is where it's at!
7) We are transient by nature. My wonderful friend, Rachel, told me on my first weekend in DC that hardly anyone who comes into this town stays here for longer than five years. Being internationally minded and highly ambitious means we're used to moving around and don't typically put roots down for a long time. When you work for places like State and the CIA, you're constantly asked to move at a moment's notice, for an unknowable length of time. Sometimes you get lucky and stay. Sometimes, not so much. I thrive in this kind of environment, and most Washingtonians do. What's better than meeting new people with new experiences every time your friend group goes out? Next to nothing. We're the young adult world's melting pot, even if it can make long-distance friendships a little strained.
After what has been a long and horrible week in this city, this morning I woke up early and ran the length of the National Mall (which, I confess, was inspiration for this post). Something struck me rather heavily in those moments of quiet solitude, where all I could hear was the sound of my breath and the patter of other runner's feet on the gravel, and it was this. Entry level work is abysmal. It's dirty and thankless. The pay is horrible. The vacation doesn't exist. Regardless of intellect or superior education, you are a nobody. A scum. No one looks at you with respect and nearly everyone hates you. In order to survive, you have to have two things. The first is that you must live in a place that makes you happy. The second is that you need to be surrounded by people who are similar enough to you that you can commiserate, and know they'll love you no matter what. A new family, as it were.
When I "unplugged" from work and technology this morning, I realized that the indescribable and amazing feeling that comes with living in the District of Columbia never really goes away. It hibernates when you're caught up in the daily grind from hell, with long commutes, silent offices, grimaces, and terrible food. That experience can be had anywhere in the world. But not all entry level nobodies get to spend quiet early morning moments at the reflecting pond between the Capitol and the Washington Monument. Important, beautiful, monumental things happen in this city. And somehow, waking up in the middle of it all makes me feel like I, too, and a part of something greater.
Monday, June 23, 2014
Space Between
I was eight when my Dad first taught me his famous airplane
counter game. It wasn’t a game so much as something to keep a paranoid girl
occupied during the most frightening stretches of long flights: take off and
landing. He would dare me to begin counting when the plane engaged its engine,
preparing to fly, and then stop when we got off the ground. “The bigger planes
take forty-seven seconds,” I remember him explaining, clear and strong. His
voice was the only one that mattered to me, amidst the fluffy cumulous and the flight
attendant’s crackling, overhead announcements. Sometimes, eager to beat him at his own game, I’d
count fast, or I’d hold my little breaths between “seconds” to make them
longer, adding in extra time where there shouldn’t have been any. Dad saw right
through me, though, as in most things, and he murmured, “I bet you I’ll get the
number right every time we fly together.” He’s been right for fifteen years and
counting.
I bring up this little anecdote not because it’s just after Father's Day weekend, or because the image of my burly father with a skinny, fearful
little girl is cute (though both are in fact true). Every time I’m on a plane,
I count. And so I am constantly aware of how time feels as it passes us by.
Travel makes one infinitely nostalgic, since we are usually exploring our
futures and pasts at the other end of the runway. For once, I’ll spare you my
usual melodrama. Where I would normally say that last weekend, the one I spent
at Lawrence University, was infinitely nostalgic and sad, there is absence. My
experience was not tainted by that familiar, weighted reminiscence. Instead I
was filled with elation.
Nearly a year ago, I gave Lawrence a long, drawn out
farewell. I thought I knew where I was headed. Like any college graduate, I was
filled with empty cockiness. Yes, I know me! Yes, I’ve made this decision! Yes,
it’s going to work out! I packed up my things and all my love and gave them to
the world with fearless risk. Too far, too soon, too much to lose. I misplaced
the central parts of Katie and forgot the way home. I returned, recouped, and
renewed. And here I sit, a woman whose personality has undergone so many
changes in the past year she is all but unrecognizable to those who know her
best. In my new life, I’m smiley Katie. Energetic, enthusiastic, endearing –
the girl who takes chances and reads short stories and falls hopelessly in love
with her godmother’s beautiful children between sunsets and renditions of Let it Go. I’m exhausted. I’m broke. I’m
fit to be tied. I rarely have a moment to catch my breath. Lawrence never knew this version of me, but it was a place that more than shaped her. My darling, dear friend Lawrence, where I learned how much I could handle at one time, what I was capable and incapable of doing, which kinds of people I needed in my life, the passions I hold most dear, and those things that are disposable, too.
I love Lawrence. I think I always will. But my experience there pervaded knowledge, dissertations, and voice recitals. In three, ten week segments per year, I put my heart and my brain on the line to be tested, just like every other Lawrentian in attendance. There's this saying we have on campus that everyone knows but never really defines: The Lawrence Difference. Capital letters, shock and awe. Those who have never walked the halls and grounds as Lawrentians have do not know what it means. When I tell people in DC I've gone to Lawrence, they think it's a school I've made up in my head. "St. Lawrence? Sarah Lawrence? Wait, it's a conservatory? Do you mean you went to Oberlin or Northwestern?" Sigh. No, no, no, and no. Not only have a gone to a school in a place nobody has heard of, but I then insist that the experiences we have as Lawrentians are unique from other liberal arts colleges and top-notch conservatories, which alienates whoever it is I'm speaking to. "Everyone's time in college is unique! They're all the same that way." No, indeed. There's just something about Lawrence.
The speeches at graduation this year were wise and prophetic. The student who spoke delivered a one liner that I think will forever stick with me and the graduates of 2014: "Do not pursue a career. Pursue a life instead." When I heard her speak these terse phrases, a sharp intake of breath seized in my lungs. I felt as though she'd read my mind. While other professors and deans and counselors and networking contacts have insisted the contrary, here, on this chilly Sunday morning on the campus green, a bright-eyed slip of a girl gave everyone all the advice I've been dying to dole out. In that moment, it was perfection. Seek a place, seek a life, seek love. Above all, never ever deny yourself happiness because of a job.
For all the graduates I saw that day, I repeated this well-kept secret. Less than two months after making that decision myself, I've never been happier. I want them to put all their dreams in a bucket, pack it into their suitcases and fly through the universe, knowing that pursuit of a career comes second in this crazy adventure that is life. For how can we know what we love if we aren't first happy to experience the small things? I don't have much, but I have friends, family, and a future in this place I have chosen. It is terrifying and depth-defying but necessary. Get messy, class of 2014. Do something crazy and throw caution to the wind. Life is nothing without a good adventure.
When the other speaker took the podium, his discourse was dark. The universe we inhabit has become a fearsome place, and most of it is cause by our race and our race alone. Poverty, ineffectual democracy, an earth that will not sustain us for another thousand years, and injustice between peoples run rampant. While his list was exhaustive, he did offer a simple solution: take all you have learned at Lawrence with you and use it every day of your life. Engage change, invent innovation, take the bull by the horns and decrease the quantity of all those things which make our world horrific. But for heaven's sake, waste not your talents in pursuit of money. Such things are foolish when you education means so much more and allows you better choices. Among the worst things to do is to go out in the world and cause more hell where you could have made something better with a bit more thought and care. The generations before you have served selfishly. Refuse to follow their path.
What I think he didn't realize, however, is that Lawrentians already know this. Highly altruistic, we like the idea of serving the greater good. The Lawrence Difference.
I loved seeing those people I hold most dear, but the whole time I felt like I was experiencing an acute combination of déjà vu and vertigo. My memories of the place, both vivid and lengthy, are no longer living. While the place is always sacred, what prevails are the people I love. That is the universal experience of college. At some point, we all realize that experiences, knowledge, and dreams are passing fancies, but that the people with whom we shared them are the greatest things we have in life.
So yes, let's stretch out the seconds! Let's simultaneously hope the plane will take off safely and get stuck on the ground. Let's listen to Dad. (Or not listen to Dad.) Let's redefine what matters in the world and how to really get ahead. But above all things, let's not discount the space between, for it is in those silent moments where we all grow up.
The speeches at graduation this year were wise and prophetic. The student who spoke delivered a one liner that I think will forever stick with me and the graduates of 2014: "Do not pursue a career. Pursue a life instead." When I heard her speak these terse phrases, a sharp intake of breath seized in my lungs. I felt as though she'd read my mind. While other professors and deans and counselors and networking contacts have insisted the contrary, here, on this chilly Sunday morning on the campus green, a bright-eyed slip of a girl gave everyone all the advice I've been dying to dole out. In that moment, it was perfection. Seek a place, seek a life, seek love. Above all, never ever deny yourself happiness because of a job.
For all the graduates I saw that day, I repeated this well-kept secret. Less than two months after making that decision myself, I've never been happier. I want them to put all their dreams in a bucket, pack it into their suitcases and fly through the universe, knowing that pursuit of a career comes second in this crazy adventure that is life. For how can we know what we love if we aren't first happy to experience the small things? I don't have much, but I have friends, family, and a future in this place I have chosen. It is terrifying and depth-defying but necessary. Get messy, class of 2014. Do something crazy and throw caution to the wind. Life is nothing without a good adventure.
When the other speaker took the podium, his discourse was dark. The universe we inhabit has become a fearsome place, and most of it is cause by our race and our race alone. Poverty, ineffectual democracy, an earth that will not sustain us for another thousand years, and injustice between peoples run rampant. While his list was exhaustive, he did offer a simple solution: take all you have learned at Lawrence with you and use it every day of your life. Engage change, invent innovation, take the bull by the horns and decrease the quantity of all those things which make our world horrific. But for heaven's sake, waste not your talents in pursuit of money. Such things are foolish when you education means so much more and allows you better choices. Among the worst things to do is to go out in the world and cause more hell where you could have made something better with a bit more thought and care. The generations before you have served selfishly. Refuse to follow their path.
What I think he didn't realize, however, is that Lawrentians already know this. Highly altruistic, we like the idea of serving the greater good. The Lawrence Difference.
I loved seeing those people I hold most dear, but the whole time I felt like I was experiencing an acute combination of déjà vu and vertigo. My memories of the place, both vivid and lengthy, are no longer living. While the place is always sacred, what prevails are the people I love. That is the universal experience of college. At some point, we all realize that experiences, knowledge, and dreams are passing fancies, but that the people with whom we shared them are the greatest things we have in life.
So yes, let's stretch out the seconds! Let's simultaneously hope the plane will take off safely and get stuck on the ground. Let's listen to Dad. (Or not listen to Dad.) Let's redefine what matters in the world and how to really get ahead. But above all things, let's not discount the space between, for it is in those silent moments where we all grow up.
Saturday, June 7, 2014
From Limits on Thoughts and Behavior
At the intersection of Florida, Massachusetts, and Q street northwest, it seems every building I pass is a testament to all things precious and lovely. I cross this grand avenue in acceptance of my disorientation. Yes, I am lost on this clear, luminous summer morning, as I wander the boulevards in solitude. I search, in all practicality, for my volunteer post, an old, historical mansion at the crossroads of Dupont and Georgetown, but given my systemic punctuality, have over thirty minutes before reporting. I am leisurous, undefined, perhaps a bit thoughtless. The point in fact, is that I hardly care.
My life, if measured in unextraordinary happenings and experiences, hardly amounts to much on paper. I participate in those normal things that people of my age enjoy: drinks on the town, concerts, language classes, yoga, 9-5 jobs, shopping, and galas. But because I have been denied these and other happinesses for so long, the depth of my contentment is utterly boundless. I am slowly but surely making my mark here. Most mornings, my first thought upon waking is, "I am among the happiest people alive." I say this with the most sincerity I can. I've never felt so at peace.
Again, I'm sure it sounds ridiculous to many, as I have no career prospects, no furniture, little food, and an unfortunate amount of student loan debt. But I am surrounded by amazing friends and family and my life is full of adventure and opportunity. In this moment I am nothing but bliss. I have made my social and professional faux pas, like flirting when I shouldn't, destroying my favorite dress from coffee at the office as the CEO walks by, trusting people who don't deserve it, and generally being a fool. On days when I'm embarrassed by these and other mistakes, I'm now confident enough in myself to laugh. I don't think I've ever had more courage than in the past month, and I was already known for my boldness. Liberation is far too weak a word to describe the way I feel. I am unafraid to be who I am, for the first time in three long years. Perhaps it is the first time at all.
I confess I do not have much free time, so these quiet mornings with coffee in hand, wandering about aimlessly, are all I have. I attempt to soak all of it in with attention. I love mornings. They are naught but tranquil moments between myself and the breeze. Specific seconds where nothing matters but the sound of my breath.
I think it would be more than safe to admit that I've learned more about being alive in the past month than I have in the twenty-two years of months that preceded this one. Or perhaps I understand more about myself. I am passionate, dramatic, intelligent, kind. I am the one who defines my worth. No person or group of people decide my identity. Rather, those here who I name my greatest friends accept, without question, support, without judgement, and bring out those qualities that are the best. It is a rare gift to be surrounded by such wonderful human beings.
Passionate people are limited in a way, for we have so many interests and opportunities that we are forced to choose one at the expense of the other. The extraordinary thing about this town is that the majority of its citizens describe themselves as passionate, so finding something you love to do is easy and it leads you to connect with similarly passionate people. We all want to change the world somehow. We just have no idea how to go about it. And while this city lives and breathes by the practice of networking the magnificent part of it is that everyone is willing to help. We Melchior girls are a little notorious for being damsels in distress at the worst possible time. Yet not once have I felt alone, unloved, or without prospect. The magic of this place lies somewhere between its historical mortar and warm residents. Unexpected and special, it all runs like a well-oiled machine.
I would wager to say I am lucky, but I know this is not at all true. I have never been one of those individuals with exceptional timing. No indeed, this happiness has been earned from years of struggle. And so, as I meander through these brick boulevards in moments soft and crisp, I reflect on all that has happened to have brought me here. I can hardly remember the suffering, but I know it was long. I was unhappy for a very extensive period of time. Regardless, the desert has given way to a little paradise. My glowing mantra is that of unending gratefulness.
I've no idea, of course, where the next year of my life will go. But my intuition tells me I am at the right place at the right time. This knowledge is half the battle. With this in mind, I feel delivered, empowered. I discuss the philosophy of education with some of the smartest people I know on summer nights warm and silvery. I explore dark paths under stars with gentlemen and soldiers. I forge ahead, fearless as I look to the future, in tango orange gowns on military bases. This is the purest form of Katie there is: enthusiastic, fearless, thoughtful. Every moment, planned or unplanned, is cherished.
The point of all this rambling is to say that I not only see myself in this way, but that I feel I am listening to other people for the first time, too. I invent their stories and listen to their conversations, and by their interactions alone I am able to improve and learn. This sort of understanding cannot exist on a college campus, where practical knowledge is often deemed subversive. So this year away from higher education has taught me more than I expected and through it all, I have nothing but gratefulness.
Next weekend, I will return to Appleton, Wisconsin with a kind of bittersweet reminiscence. As I stated nearly a year ago, that place, while dear to my most contrite heart, no longer belongs to me. I wonder if my mind will race as it once did in desperation for acceptance. Now it has no reason to do so. I have now found more fulfillment than I ever thought I would here, on a tiny spot of earth neither state nor city. The district. With all its faults and criticisms, it is home.
A fellow Lawrence alum shocked me one evening when he said he was overwhelmed by my sense of intuition. "Most 22-year-olds believe intuition to be something of myth. They don't have it. So they wander in life without goals or plans. And then there is you."
Until this move, I always had a plan. Taught well by my paramilitary upbringing, I am good with minutia and details. It made me an excellent worker but a poor human being. I had to learn how to trust things that are beyond my control. A hard lesson.
They say no one likes change. Yet here I am, reveling in the knowledge that the greatest changes are yet to come. To the universe that arranges them, I say this and this alone: bring it on. I am who I am, diligent and excited to face that which comes.
And that, dear readers, is the truest definition of the word "liberation".
My life, if measured in unextraordinary happenings and experiences, hardly amounts to much on paper. I participate in those normal things that people of my age enjoy: drinks on the town, concerts, language classes, yoga, 9-5 jobs, shopping, and galas. But because I have been denied these and other happinesses for so long, the depth of my contentment is utterly boundless. I am slowly but surely making my mark here. Most mornings, my first thought upon waking is, "I am among the happiest people alive." I say this with the most sincerity I can. I've never felt so at peace.
Again, I'm sure it sounds ridiculous to many, as I have no career prospects, no furniture, little food, and an unfortunate amount of student loan debt. But I am surrounded by amazing friends and family and my life is full of adventure and opportunity. In this moment I am nothing but bliss. I have made my social and professional faux pas, like flirting when I shouldn't, destroying my favorite dress from coffee at the office as the CEO walks by, trusting people who don't deserve it, and generally being a fool. On days when I'm embarrassed by these and other mistakes, I'm now confident enough in myself to laugh. I don't think I've ever had more courage than in the past month, and I was already known for my boldness. Liberation is far too weak a word to describe the way I feel. I am unafraid to be who I am, for the first time in three long years. Perhaps it is the first time at all.
I confess I do not have much free time, so these quiet mornings with coffee in hand, wandering about aimlessly, are all I have. I attempt to soak all of it in with attention. I love mornings. They are naught but tranquil moments between myself and the breeze. Specific seconds where nothing matters but the sound of my breath.
I think it would be more than safe to admit that I've learned more about being alive in the past month than I have in the twenty-two years of months that preceded this one. Or perhaps I understand more about myself. I am passionate, dramatic, intelligent, kind. I am the one who defines my worth. No person or group of people decide my identity. Rather, those here who I name my greatest friends accept, without question, support, without judgement, and bring out those qualities that are the best. It is a rare gift to be surrounded by such wonderful human beings.
Passionate people are limited in a way, for we have so many interests and opportunities that we are forced to choose one at the expense of the other. The extraordinary thing about this town is that the majority of its citizens describe themselves as passionate, so finding something you love to do is easy and it leads you to connect with similarly passionate people. We all want to change the world somehow. We just have no idea how to go about it. And while this city lives and breathes by the practice of networking the magnificent part of it is that everyone is willing to help. We Melchior girls are a little notorious for being damsels in distress at the worst possible time. Yet not once have I felt alone, unloved, or without prospect. The magic of this place lies somewhere between its historical mortar and warm residents. Unexpected and special, it all runs like a well-oiled machine.
I would wager to say I am lucky, but I know this is not at all true. I have never been one of those individuals with exceptional timing. No indeed, this happiness has been earned from years of struggle. And so, as I meander through these brick boulevards in moments soft and crisp, I reflect on all that has happened to have brought me here. I can hardly remember the suffering, but I know it was long. I was unhappy for a very extensive period of time. Regardless, the desert has given way to a little paradise. My glowing mantra is that of unending gratefulness.
I've no idea, of course, where the next year of my life will go. But my intuition tells me I am at the right place at the right time. This knowledge is half the battle. With this in mind, I feel delivered, empowered. I discuss the philosophy of education with some of the smartest people I know on summer nights warm and silvery. I explore dark paths under stars with gentlemen and soldiers. I forge ahead, fearless as I look to the future, in tango orange gowns on military bases. This is the purest form of Katie there is: enthusiastic, fearless, thoughtful. Every moment, planned or unplanned, is cherished.
The point of all this rambling is to say that I not only see myself in this way, but that I feel I am listening to other people for the first time, too. I invent their stories and listen to their conversations, and by their interactions alone I am able to improve and learn. This sort of understanding cannot exist on a college campus, where practical knowledge is often deemed subversive. So this year away from higher education has taught me more than I expected and through it all, I have nothing but gratefulness.
Next weekend, I will return to Appleton, Wisconsin with a kind of bittersweet reminiscence. As I stated nearly a year ago, that place, while dear to my most contrite heart, no longer belongs to me. I wonder if my mind will race as it once did in desperation for acceptance. Now it has no reason to do so. I have now found more fulfillment than I ever thought I would here, on a tiny spot of earth neither state nor city. The district. With all its faults and criticisms, it is home.
A fellow Lawrence alum shocked me one evening when he said he was overwhelmed by my sense of intuition. "Most 22-year-olds believe intuition to be something of myth. They don't have it. So they wander in life without goals or plans. And then there is you."
Until this move, I always had a plan. Taught well by my paramilitary upbringing, I am good with minutia and details. It made me an excellent worker but a poor human being. I had to learn how to trust things that are beyond my control. A hard lesson.
They say no one likes change. Yet here I am, reveling in the knowledge that the greatest changes are yet to come. To the universe that arranges them, I say this and this alone: bring it on. I am who I am, diligent and excited to face that which comes.
And that, dear readers, is the truest definition of the word "liberation".
Wednesday, May 28, 2014
To Those Who Have Gone Before
This post is dedicated to those servicemen, both active and veteran, who have directly impacted my life. To my father, Roger, to my mentor, Jeff, and to my uncle, James, as well as those incredible individuals I have met in my life in DC thus far. These words are yours and yours alone.
It was hazy beneath the clouds and the hills stretched out in long, deep peaks. Somewhere among the wave of tourists, silent tears were shed and prayers were uttered. Before me lay an unknowable number of white carved stones of various hewn states; their presence a superficial afterthought from the identity of he who lies beneath. Their lives and loves are preserved here in timelessness. Flowers and nations bloom from their sacrifice, preserved on these mounds of uncontainable verdure. Inexplicably complex, untouchable and vast, this is Arlington National Cemetery.
I took this journey seemingly alone, but I was more than haunted throughout my walk by the pithy ghosts of warriors now and yon. I frequented cemeteries regularly in France, according to the Parisian custom of wandering into history. They are small in that place, with winding cobblestones and ancient tombstones. But here in America, nothing is done with subtlety and the landmarks to the deceased are no exception. Even so, the place is immense, glazed with gloom and severity. I walked endlessly from path to path, expecting at any moment to find the cemetery's edge and look once again into the skyline of Washington. No such thing occurred. I rounded corners in vain to find sprawling rows of headstones. I have never been to a place so desperately immense. Nor have I ever seen a marker of atrocity that plans for future peril, too.
It was a special place, too, yesterday afternoon, after the President left and the concert to memorialize these victims had ended. Each grave is given a small flag and a red rose three times a year: Memorial Day, July 4th, and Veteran's Day. And while I loved the symbolism it gives to an already iconic place, I couldn't help but question the tradition. Do we, as Americans, wordlessly apologize for the conflicts and conscriptions of our forefathers? Are we so ambivalent about the past that the best we can do is place a little cotton square on each burial marker? Can we look into the Virginian hills, not yet tainted with blood from the fallen, and know that thousands or millions more may join the ranks?
In my short story club this week, we read a classic piece titled, An Occurrence at Owl Creek. Said occurrence, it would seem, was the drawn out death of a confederate soldier, who was unsuccessfully hanged, then drowned, then shot. It is all written from his point of view, so the agony and curiosity of death litters each word and the color gray douses the entire tale in dehumanizing fashion. We may be black or white, but our skin is never gray.
I sat back and listened as the discussion raged on. Between this incidence, my day at Arlington, and my recent encounters with army veterans of varying ages, I've been forced to grapple with violence, death, and murder. My inability to deal with violence is a sort of sickness I inherited, albeit proudly, from my mother. I cannot watch Quentin Tarantino and I hide my face in my little sister's shoulder during movie scenes that feature graphic deaths. I've never seen someone die. All my family is alive. All my friends, too.
I suppose you could call me young, or just lucky, or perhaps even naive. Even so, as I mourned and absorbed our country's innumerable losses, I felt more pity for those who have seen atrocity and lived than those who experienced it and passed. I am and capable of many things the world affords me, but I confess that the strength of my spirit is not so great that I could function after such sights.
I believe this is the first time I have understood why so much respect and adoration is afforded to those who serve in the armed forces in America. The respect is not for the following of orders, the donning of uniforms, or the process of dehumanizing a people. We all do these things in our everyday life, in our own way - at work, at home, in our personal lives. No, this respect is gratefulness, really. Because of these brave, tenacious souls, we will never watch atrocity in action. We do not carry scars and secrets in the confines of our skin. We experience no burden of destruction and of the dead. They go to prepare and sustain this place for us. And for the republic, for which we stand.
May we never forget to place flags and upon the blades of grass beneath which you lay. May we never forget to place roses upon the pure white stones that bind you.
It was hazy beneath the clouds and the hills stretched out in long, deep peaks. Somewhere among the wave of tourists, silent tears were shed and prayers were uttered. Before me lay an unknowable number of white carved stones of various hewn states; their presence a superficial afterthought from the identity of he who lies beneath. Their lives and loves are preserved here in timelessness. Flowers and nations bloom from their sacrifice, preserved on these mounds of uncontainable verdure. Inexplicably complex, untouchable and vast, this is Arlington National Cemetery.
I took this journey seemingly alone, but I was more than haunted throughout my walk by the pithy ghosts of warriors now and yon. I frequented cemeteries regularly in France, according to the Parisian custom of wandering into history. They are small in that place, with winding cobblestones and ancient tombstones. But here in America, nothing is done with subtlety and the landmarks to the deceased are no exception. Even so, the place is immense, glazed with gloom and severity. I walked endlessly from path to path, expecting at any moment to find the cemetery's edge and look once again into the skyline of Washington. No such thing occurred. I rounded corners in vain to find sprawling rows of headstones. I have never been to a place so desperately immense. Nor have I ever seen a marker of atrocity that plans for future peril, too.
It was a special place, too, yesterday afternoon, after the President left and the concert to memorialize these victims had ended. Each grave is given a small flag and a red rose three times a year: Memorial Day, July 4th, and Veteran's Day. And while I loved the symbolism it gives to an already iconic place, I couldn't help but question the tradition. Do we, as Americans, wordlessly apologize for the conflicts and conscriptions of our forefathers? Are we so ambivalent about the past that the best we can do is place a little cotton square on each burial marker? Can we look into the Virginian hills, not yet tainted with blood from the fallen, and know that thousands or millions more may join the ranks?
In my short story club this week, we read a classic piece titled, An Occurrence at Owl Creek. Said occurrence, it would seem, was the drawn out death of a confederate soldier, who was unsuccessfully hanged, then drowned, then shot. It is all written from his point of view, so the agony and curiosity of death litters each word and the color gray douses the entire tale in dehumanizing fashion. We may be black or white, but our skin is never gray.
I sat back and listened as the discussion raged on. Between this incidence, my day at Arlington, and my recent encounters with army veterans of varying ages, I've been forced to grapple with violence, death, and murder. My inability to deal with violence is a sort of sickness I inherited, albeit proudly, from my mother. I cannot watch Quentin Tarantino and I hide my face in my little sister's shoulder during movie scenes that feature graphic deaths. I've never seen someone die. All my family is alive. All my friends, too.
I suppose you could call me young, or just lucky, or perhaps even naive. Even so, as I mourned and absorbed our country's innumerable losses, I felt more pity for those who have seen atrocity and lived than those who experienced it and passed. I am and capable of many things the world affords me, but I confess that the strength of my spirit is not so great that I could function after such sights.
I believe this is the first time I have understood why so much respect and adoration is afforded to those who serve in the armed forces in America. The respect is not for the following of orders, the donning of uniforms, or the process of dehumanizing a people. We all do these things in our everyday life, in our own way - at work, at home, in our personal lives. No, this respect is gratefulness, really. Because of these brave, tenacious souls, we will never watch atrocity in action. We do not carry scars and secrets in the confines of our skin. We experience no burden of destruction and of the dead. They go to prepare and sustain this place for us. And for the republic, for which we stand.
May we never forget to place flags and upon the blades of grass beneath which you lay. May we never forget to place roses upon the pure white stones that bind you.
Tuesday, May 6, 2014
Jefferson Lives
My favorite spot in Paris was never the café where Fitzgerald penned The Great Gatsby. It wasn't the flower market in the Marais or the staircase in Passy where one can view the Eiffel Tower in its natural state. The place I loved the most is an all-but-forgotten street corner two blocks from the Louvre on the banks of the Seine where a humble American diplomat stands, a declaration in one hand and a pen in the other. When I happened upon this modest statue of Jefferson that afternoon three years ago, it seemed to be the final omen that Paris belonged to me.
I've loved Thomas Jefferson since I was 13, when I had only begun to find my place in the world. He was the first American francophile, a statesman, a musician, a writer, and a dreamer. Of all the founding fathers, I have adored and related to him the longest. Flaws and all, I suppose he is my hero. If I live to accomplish only a fraction of all he did - our first ambassador to France, travelling anywhere and everywhere, writing, reading, and collecting exotic coffees - I think I could die in peace.
Before I moved here, to DC, I'd never been to the memorial that bears his name. Each time I've been to the city, this palatial rotunda was closed for renovation or too far to walk to. I've only ever stared at it from afar, examining its edges with a loving sort of sorrow. Today it was at last within reach.
While Lincoln sits on an immense throne, Jefferson stands to survey the river, the White House, and all those who pass between with soft iron eyes. I approached him with a shiver and fought back the urge to bow. It sounds ridiculous to you, I'm sure, and especially to those who neither love or respect him as I do. He is not remembered for his all but disastrous presidency, nor for his numerous sins. He is beloved instead for his ideas; for the eloquence with which he wrote. It is for those reasons we celebrate his memory. In America, ideas, not deeds, are paramount. After all, we came to exist because a group of middle-aged revolutionaries dared to dream.
It quite befits Jefferson to be honored in a corinthian cylinder nearly a mile outside the city. A true introvert, I imagine he would scoff if he knew that thousands of tourists visit him every day. I listened to the park ranger rattle irreverent and unflattering facts about this paragon in the corner and watched the winds shift on the river. Yes, this place is indeed sacred to me.
My afternoon with Jefferson came full circle when I took a moment to go underground to the tiny museum boutique beneath his feet. There was a quote etched into the entrance wall that read, "Knowledge is Light" and a little emotional alarm went off in the back of my head, repeating "Light, More Light!" (Lawrence University's motto) over and over like a groove etched into a shoddy record. In a month, I will have been graduated from Lawrence a full year. Sitting here on the riverbank, I'm not waxing nostalgic, but rather confused and a bit hopeless. Eleven months ago, I biked to the edge of the Fox River and felt nothing but optimism, knowing that all options were open and that my future held nothing but success. I do not know how I could have been so very regrettably naïve. I no longer possess the energy to accept defeat, nor have I the strength to beg at opportunity's door. These nine months have been endurably unforgiving. I cannot help but feel that this place in all its flaws, is where I am meant to be and yet my doubts are numerous. I sit here in limbo, unable to move. My intuition has led me astray before - is it wrong again?
On a hot July day (the fourth, to be exact), in 1826, John Adams breathed his last and spoke the words, "Jefferson lives." Of course, logical historians find this hilarious, for Jefferson had already expired on the other side of Virginia more than an hour previously. But those of us who are romantics believe a different tale: that Adams knew full well the value of Jefferson's legacy. At least, I'd like to believe that, especially when nothing else makes much sense.
"Were I to proceed to tell you how much I enjoy architecture, sculpture, painting, music, language, I should want for words." - Thomas Jefferson
I've loved Thomas Jefferson since I was 13, when I had only begun to find my place in the world. He was the first American francophile, a statesman, a musician, a writer, and a dreamer. Of all the founding fathers, I have adored and related to him the longest. Flaws and all, I suppose he is my hero. If I live to accomplish only a fraction of all he did - our first ambassador to France, travelling anywhere and everywhere, writing, reading, and collecting exotic coffees - I think I could die in peace.
Before I moved here, to DC, I'd never been to the memorial that bears his name. Each time I've been to the city, this palatial rotunda was closed for renovation or too far to walk to. I've only ever stared at it from afar, examining its edges with a loving sort of sorrow. Today it was at last within reach.
While Lincoln sits on an immense throne, Jefferson stands to survey the river, the White House, and all those who pass between with soft iron eyes. I approached him with a shiver and fought back the urge to bow. It sounds ridiculous to you, I'm sure, and especially to those who neither love or respect him as I do. He is not remembered for his all but disastrous presidency, nor for his numerous sins. He is beloved instead for his ideas; for the eloquence with which he wrote. It is for those reasons we celebrate his memory. In America, ideas, not deeds, are paramount. After all, we came to exist because a group of middle-aged revolutionaries dared to dream.
It quite befits Jefferson to be honored in a corinthian cylinder nearly a mile outside the city. A true introvert, I imagine he would scoff if he knew that thousands of tourists visit him every day. I listened to the park ranger rattle irreverent and unflattering facts about this paragon in the corner and watched the winds shift on the river. Yes, this place is indeed sacred to me.
My afternoon with Jefferson came full circle when I took a moment to go underground to the tiny museum boutique beneath his feet. There was a quote etched into the entrance wall that read, "Knowledge is Light" and a little emotional alarm went off in the back of my head, repeating "Light, More Light!" (Lawrence University's motto) over and over like a groove etched into a shoddy record. In a month, I will have been graduated from Lawrence a full year. Sitting here on the riverbank, I'm not waxing nostalgic, but rather confused and a bit hopeless. Eleven months ago, I biked to the edge of the Fox River and felt nothing but optimism, knowing that all options were open and that my future held nothing but success. I do not know how I could have been so very regrettably naïve. I no longer possess the energy to accept defeat, nor have I the strength to beg at opportunity's door. These nine months have been endurably unforgiving. I cannot help but feel that this place in all its flaws, is where I am meant to be and yet my doubts are numerous. I sit here in limbo, unable to move. My intuition has led me astray before - is it wrong again?
On a hot July day (the fourth, to be exact), in 1826, John Adams breathed his last and spoke the words, "Jefferson lives." Of course, logical historians find this hilarious, for Jefferson had already expired on the other side of Virginia more than an hour previously. But those of us who are romantics believe a different tale: that Adams knew full well the value of Jefferson's legacy. At least, I'd like to believe that, especially when nothing else makes much sense.
"Were I to proceed to tell you how much I enjoy architecture, sculpture, painting, music, language, I should want for words." - Thomas Jefferson
Thursday, May 1, 2014
The Younger, More Vulnerable Years
Approximately four months ago, I left this blog with the sorry aftertaste of hopelessness, ending my twenty second year on the planet with a sublime sense of aggravation. I admit that the time passed between now and then seems like the longest 120 days of my existence, but I am excited to report that life is full of promise and opportunity once more. Readers, (if there are any of you!) I am moving to Washington, DC.
For those of you who are reading this and do not know me, I imagine you are bursting with questions. Why DC? Why now? What's there? Who is there? How will you get there, and live, and work, and not come home after three months? I confess I have no concrete answers to these questions except that I trust my intuition to lead me through everything. I've got a place to stay, friends and family surrounding me, plans for the future, and a promising job interview tomorrow morning. When I left Paris to go to Nantes, I had none of this - I was essentially going at it completely alone. This time around, I've learned a lot about moving someplace new, from the packing to the adjusting to everything in between. What's more, I've learned my value as a woman, an employee, and a daughter.
The graduating class of 2014 is filled to the brim with some of my closest friends. So, I am often asked the question, "Can you believe it's been a year since you left Lawrence?"
The honest answer is: Yes, I absolutely can.
I don't think it would be possible for me to compare the person I was a year ago to the person I am now. I cannot even begin to explain the magnitude of heartbreak and loss I've endured, but at the same time, I have never been happier with the person I've become. I learned self-respect, ingenuity, faith, trust, and self-love the hard way. When you hit rock bottom and are forced to start again, life has a surprising way of teaching you how to make sure this kind of low never occurs again.
I could go on and on in this post, and talk about how awful it was moving in with my parents, how my first "relationship" was the definition of clutter and poor decisions, how my job at LA Fitness plunged me into a pit of despair, and even more than that. Instead, I'll spare you the details. Today I'm full of optimism and acceptance - two qualities I've been praying to possess the moment this new adventure starts. Perhaps the most valuable lesson I've learned in all this is that life is completely, utterly about the one overlooked thing: timing. If the stars don't align the right way and something doesn't work out, accepting that it isn't meant to be is difficult, yes, but it hardly reflects on the person or people who screwed it up. It's about God's timing and the universe's will to respond. We are merely players in this incredible, crazy, magnificent life, and while our choices are our choices, a lot of them turn into mistakes.
I wanted to publish this post last night, because it would have been four months exactly since my last one. But I'm learning to let things go and accept what comes. Life cannot be a list. The people in it are objectified if you class them according to the qualities and timing they do or do not possess.
My little sister, in all her funny honesty, called me when she got back to Berry College after Christmas and said, "Why would you start your blog again? You're back in the states; nobody cares!" If she had told me that a year ago, I would have begrudgingly agreed and this whole thing would cease to exist. Why, you ask? Because I cared more about what other people thought - especially what other people thought about me - than what I thought. That was a huge lesson I had to learn, too. I cannot go around living my life with other people's intentions in mind. Some would call focusing on myself a little selfish, but because I am horribly altruistic and giving, that is hardly something I have to worry about. In any case, this blog is for me. I would be perfectly all right if it never exceeded 3000 views. The only views I care about are my own. And quite frankly, that's the way it should be. As my good friend Rachel said, "It's about damn time."
Throughout the four months that I've soul-searched and cried and questioned myself, I came to another huge conclusion about what I want in my life. When everything you know and thought you loved is ripped away from you like a huge bandaid from your skin, you're left with the basics and the chance to start again. I've realized that I love to write. And I'm good at it! I've done freelance review work for an app company, I've teamed up with a small travel organization to complete a project and am helping to write French curriculum. I love doing all of this because it stems from my truest passion - the one I have had since before I started dancing, playing piano, cooking, dressing fashionably; the one I had in my darkest hour when I wrote 10-year-old storybooks and 15-year-old novels. Writing is at my core, and from now on, I want to pursue it. I don't know how, but that doesn't necessarily matter. I found my drive. And the greatest thing is, it can be applied to just about any industry in any field.
Luckily for me, I'm heading to a place that needs passionate, motivated, bilingual writers of all kinds.
Here I sit, young and vulnerable at my kitchen table, staring out into the retention marsh behind the house. My circuitous path to this moment was long and maybe a little tragic. But the reward is just beginning. I'm me. On the right side of the ocean, with a suitcase that weighs less than 50 pounds and a plane ticket to the place I belong.
Until next time.
For those of you who are reading this and do not know me, I imagine you are bursting with questions. Why DC? Why now? What's there? Who is there? How will you get there, and live, and work, and not come home after three months? I confess I have no concrete answers to these questions except that I trust my intuition to lead me through everything. I've got a place to stay, friends and family surrounding me, plans for the future, and a promising job interview tomorrow morning. When I left Paris to go to Nantes, I had none of this - I was essentially going at it completely alone. This time around, I've learned a lot about moving someplace new, from the packing to the adjusting to everything in between. What's more, I've learned my value as a woman, an employee, and a daughter.
The graduating class of 2014 is filled to the brim with some of my closest friends. So, I am often asked the question, "Can you believe it's been a year since you left Lawrence?"
The honest answer is: Yes, I absolutely can.
I don't think it would be possible for me to compare the person I was a year ago to the person I am now. I cannot even begin to explain the magnitude of heartbreak and loss I've endured, but at the same time, I have never been happier with the person I've become. I learned self-respect, ingenuity, faith, trust, and self-love the hard way. When you hit rock bottom and are forced to start again, life has a surprising way of teaching you how to make sure this kind of low never occurs again.
I could go on and on in this post, and talk about how awful it was moving in with my parents, how my first "relationship" was the definition of clutter and poor decisions, how my job at LA Fitness plunged me into a pit of despair, and even more than that. Instead, I'll spare you the details. Today I'm full of optimism and acceptance - two qualities I've been praying to possess the moment this new adventure starts. Perhaps the most valuable lesson I've learned in all this is that life is completely, utterly about the one overlooked thing: timing. If the stars don't align the right way and something doesn't work out, accepting that it isn't meant to be is difficult, yes, but it hardly reflects on the person or people who screwed it up. It's about God's timing and the universe's will to respond. We are merely players in this incredible, crazy, magnificent life, and while our choices are our choices, a lot of them turn into mistakes.
I wanted to publish this post last night, because it would have been four months exactly since my last one. But I'm learning to let things go and accept what comes. Life cannot be a list. The people in it are objectified if you class them according to the qualities and timing they do or do not possess.
My little sister, in all her funny honesty, called me when she got back to Berry College after Christmas and said, "Why would you start your blog again? You're back in the states; nobody cares!" If she had told me that a year ago, I would have begrudgingly agreed and this whole thing would cease to exist. Why, you ask? Because I cared more about what other people thought - especially what other people thought about me - than what I thought. That was a huge lesson I had to learn, too. I cannot go around living my life with other people's intentions in mind. Some would call focusing on myself a little selfish, but because I am horribly altruistic and giving, that is hardly something I have to worry about. In any case, this blog is for me. I would be perfectly all right if it never exceeded 3000 views. The only views I care about are my own. And quite frankly, that's the way it should be. As my good friend Rachel said, "It's about damn time."
Throughout the four months that I've soul-searched and cried and questioned myself, I came to another huge conclusion about what I want in my life. When everything you know and thought you loved is ripped away from you like a huge bandaid from your skin, you're left with the basics and the chance to start again. I've realized that I love to write. And I'm good at it! I've done freelance review work for an app company, I've teamed up with a small travel organization to complete a project and am helping to write French curriculum. I love doing all of this because it stems from my truest passion - the one I have had since before I started dancing, playing piano, cooking, dressing fashionably; the one I had in my darkest hour when I wrote 10-year-old storybooks and 15-year-old novels. Writing is at my core, and from now on, I want to pursue it. I don't know how, but that doesn't necessarily matter. I found my drive. And the greatest thing is, it can be applied to just about any industry in any field.
Luckily for me, I'm heading to a place that needs passionate, motivated, bilingual writers of all kinds.
Here I sit, young and vulnerable at my kitchen table, staring out into the retention marsh behind the house. My circuitous path to this moment was long and maybe a little tragic. But the reward is just beginning. I'm me. On the right side of the ocean, with a suitcase that weighs less than 50 pounds and a plane ticket to the place I belong.
Until next time.
“When human beings are faced with chaotic circumstances, our impulse is to stay safe by doing what we’ve always done before. ... To change anything about our lives...causes great anxiety. How we are convinced finally to change is by hearing stories of other people who risked and triumphed. Not some easy triumph, either. But a hard fought one that takes every ounce of the protagonist’s inner fortitude. Because that’s what it takes in real life to leave a dysfunctional relationship, move to a new city, or quit your job. It just does.
I think it is because change requires loss. And the prospect of loss is far more powerful than potential gain. It’s difficult to imagine what a change will do to us." ~ Shawn Coyne
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