Merci et on y va

This year I learned the power of a noun. Sometimes an adjective. Suprisingly frequently a verb. I am a writer. I am American. Oui, I speak French.

In pursuit of a goal I stripped down my life to what felt like less than the bare minimum and I moved 6000 miles away, where I knew no one and I knew nothing and while I definitely brought something in that stuffed luggage, it was a whole lot less than I was used too. Then I ate less, decorated less, did less, and slept more. And then it was time to start adding things back in.

That was what French was: a mechanism to distill the gunk and figure things out, figure me out, even if I didn't realize that's what I was doing. I had realizations and ideas all the time in English, both passing thoughts and heavy moments of truth, but I frequently found that truth nestled in a kernel of French. French. A language that I was building up from the rickety base of 3 mispronounced, unrelated words. And yet, only a few weeks in, we arrive at a point where my prof can say, and I can understand, that Dana, Elle est ecrivan. At the time I had never earned a penny for my work and by no stretch of my imagination could I imagine it being my identifier, and yet here I was, with the ability to say so little, leaning against this enchanting proposition with a timid Oui.

It is a wonderful feeling, to feel special and unique for all the right reasons. And it is truly a gift to be able to give that feeling to others. It's something I received on so many occasions over the past 11 months, from this incredible, chic, brilliant gaggle of international friends and classmates and teachers. And the most incredible thing is how powerful their words are. I hold on to them like prayer beads and cycle through the kindness, starting over when I get back to the beginning, because my gratitude never quite overtakes my disbelief, and the only cure for my imperfections and confidence seems to be to trust that what they've said is true. I love them for so many reasons and respect them for so many more, so I seem obliged to internalize their gentillesse.

That I'm special. That I'm a writer. That I have a big heart. That I'm going to be a great teacher. That I'm going to be ok.

As somebody who has always been a little too self reliant I now find myself asking and listening more than ever before in my life. Swimming lost among the hungry harks and jelly fish of la subordonée du temps and le subjonctif can do that to you, make you reach out for a lifesaver, make you lean on others for wisdom and cues. I learned to come second. I learned to enjoy being bad but still being my best. I almost learned to cut myself some slack. But I learned to let my outstretched hand be a step up for someone else, that if my failures help someone, even if it's not me, great. I want us to all make it. All for one. One for all.

And that's really what conversation is. It's a team effort. It's two or four or 10 people working together to share their emotions and ideas and go somewhere new together, arrive at a new realization. It's hard to see that in English, in America. There I talk to catch up, to fill the silence, to be heard...but to distill those words down to the most basic communication...there aren't enough words to shoot the shit. You have to economize, save your words for the big things, the important things. The things that are necessary for survival. Food, education, love. And in doing that, you find that talking and expression unto itself is necessary for survival. Each and every one of us is so spectacularly different, and how can we celebrate that if we don't share ourselves with the world?

There are so many nouns that weren't important to me before that are now. American. Writer. Artist. Liberal. Jewish. The list goes on. Things that were always a part of me, but which I never felt this acutely until now. But the most important thing is that I didn't discover them alone. Language is social. Life is social. And in surrounding myself with people who challenged themselves, with people who have high expectations, who believe in themselves and in me, I was able to become the best version of myself, and tear myself away from an incredible city in pursuit of a new adventure. Donc merci et on y va.

Grief at the Blades of Edward Scissor Hands

I got a bad haircut.

Actually, I got an incredible, luxurious, skilled haircut, but I hate it. And it is destroying me.

I know, I know. You think I'm overreacting. And I agree! How could such a marginal difference (literally no one has taken notice or made a single comment) have such a massive impact on my life? How?!?

But it has. And I refuse to believe that this is a condition specific to me. It very well may be specific to the so-called first world, but not to me in particular. It feels like the Grinch came under the cover of night and stole my hair. My thick, strong, ambiguously Eastern-European locks were shredded and sheared within an inch of their life so I'm left looking like some thin haired basic who feels cultured when she eats sushi. Kill me.

He stole a part of my identity when he stole my hair. (You may find it to be misused, but I'm sticking with my verb). This may sound weird, but I've never really felt like I had "white" hair. I never rocked the blond hair blue eyes thing, nor did I really want to. My hair was this rich, dark brown, fuller and shinier than that of the other girls in my classes. Was it spectacularly different? No. But I felt a part of my family history, of my culture, in this defining difference.

So not only am I just aesthetically dissatisfied, I actually feel as though I've lost a part of myself. And how could I not? People have been commenting on my hair and my eyes since I've understood English, and potentially before. My bowl cut of childhood could have actually served as a soup bowl for someone down on their luck. It was that substantial. And now I'm left with a third of the thickness and some exponentially smaller portion of my confidence. And I know that is not the way a grown woman should respond when things don't go her way, but it is. Sue me.

The point is that we internalize how people see us. My parents never put a high value on beauty. That's probably in part because we don't collectively look like we just walked off a J Crew catalogue shoot, and also because, and I REALLY believe this, there are no fewer than a billion things that are more important than the way you look. And believing that doesn't mean that I can't enjoy putting together a good outfit in the morning, or care about the way I look in a bathing suit. It just means that the things that I do like about my appearance tend to count double, because I really care about so few of them, and I'm not ready to loose the hair. I know that at the end of the day what's inside my head counts more, but I also know that the confidence that I derive from liking the way I look, from looking like I have my shit together, impacts the way that people receive me and my ideas.

It is, of course, entirely possible that the magnitude of my reaction is a projection of these other big life changes on the horizon. I'm moving countries, moving states, starting a new job, starting a new life for what feels like the fourth time in 6 years. Is that a part of the "catastrophic" cut? I'm not ruling it out. But I retain the right to freak out about whatever I like.

So whether it's a bad haircut or 3 lbs of waterweight or a bad grade on an exam, let me have this one. Sometimes its just SOO much easier than confronting the real thing, and so much more therapeutic as well. I'll continue to do my pre-work and make packing lists and not freak out about what I've gotten myself into, but asking me to not have any crisis at all...? What do you want from me? I'm only 24.

Ready? Get set. Go!

This one post a month thing has been working for me. As I've learned French and lost my finesse in English, it's just about all I can manage. Mais, c'est pas grave. On y va!

So I'm not saying goodbye to France just yet, but I do officially have an exit strategy, and I thought that news was worth sharing and dissecting. Returning to the roots of this blog, a quarter life crisis blog, I think that major life choices and changes are always on the menu. So I'd like to explain mine, mostly to me, but since you happen to be here, feel free to tag along for the ride.

Maria always said that the beginning was a very good place to start, so I want to rewind to last March. I have been rejected from 8 PhD programs. I have no prospects. I have little money saved and no idea what to do...keep pursuing this goal? Quit while I'm behind? Tutor full time? Quiet all of my reservations and just join corporate America for the paycheck? I mostly went with "drink wine" and "visit professor giving talk at Columbia," listed on your multiple choice exam as "e: none of the above."

After more internal turmoil than was probably necessary and definitely less contact with the outside world than would be advised, I landed on France. My instincts, my rejections, and my professors guided me toward the realization that my project, one of layered identities in literature, was not an English project but a comparative literature project. And to study comparative literature I needed languages. Like French. And almost as simply as that (if you call two months of wallowing misery simple) I got my financial backers on board and planned to head for France circa Summer 2014.

And then I did. After many many visa struggles and tough packing choices and indefinite good-byes, I got on a plane with my one way ticket and headed to France. This is roughly where our France narratives begin: finding an apartment, being American, making friends, etc. And they've been interesting and thrilling and terrifying all at once. But the most unsettling part of the whole thing has undoubtedly been not knowing how, when, or why I would leave. I came with the intention of applying to a master's program in Europe and then hopefully picking up another language and then making my way back to the U.S. for my PhD. But this year of language acquisition from the most over qualified teachers I'll probably ever have was...eye opening. I've always known the risks of going into academia: an indefinite education, terrible locations, long lonely hours, and a fruitless pursuit of the jobs you really want all to teach intro to British lit for the billionth time. Less than ideal. And my responses to my professors' warnings were always two fold:
1. For the love of literature.
2. (In a quiet voice, overfed by American exceptionalism) maybe I can beat the odds!

And I think it was only in living the pursuit of these goals that I could begin to unravel those attempts at logic. First off, you can love and pursue and enjoy things that are not a part of your job. And you can love your job without it including all of your favorite things. Second there was the realization that I didn't actually love literature. (GASP!) I mean, I do, but that's not what gripped me about all of my favorite classes and concepts. That's not what got me excited. It was always this issue of identity. Of layering all the parts of ourselves and watching them all fit together, in whatever illogical or messy way they could. And yes, perhaps I could succeed in studying this in an academic office on [insert mediocre college campus here], but the reality is that kind of work would be literally, metaphorically, and ideologically isolated. And maybe one day those are the experiences I'll want, but right now, what I really want is to talk to people, and to support them in loving and appreciating themselves.

Enter Charlie Hebdo. I think I gave this tragedy a few lines, as there are much more educated people than I with much more meaningful commentary on the events, but here I want to give you my very personal reaction, which was to ask, "didn't their teachers ever teach them to recognize and interpret satire?" It struck me as such an obvious failing of their education. If their parents wouldn't teach them, why wouldn't their public school educations prepare them to encounter the world in a responsible and meaningful way? There were a few other moments in the weeks before and the weeks after that tightened this focus on the societal role of education, but by the end of January I had applied to Teach for America, ready to move back to my country and learn to be a part of the solution.

It took us a while to arrive at this punchline, but c'est ca. I want to be a teacher. I thought I wanted to be a researcher too, but as it turns out I'm not sure that I need to be compiling data and reviewing books to feel that I've discovered something new and meaningful in my life. And I'm excited to take some time off as the representative of all things American and support some youngins in their exploration of their own identities. It's going to be good.

So after several rounds of interviews I was accepted to TFA Arkansas, teaching (probably English) in upper elementary or junior high, and in a few days I'll know exactly where I'm moving in just a few weeks. Definitely one of those life changes that I didn't know I was looking for until I found it. A question I didn't know I had until I found the answer. And while I will miss these international conversations and chance encounters and art and café life and used books...it feels really wonderful to be moving towards something that I want, with all of these incredible experiences from the past year to make the journey that much more pleasant.

Wish me luck! (Ou merde a le treisieme pouvoir)
Either way, I hope that every step you're taking towards your goals brings you that much closer to a future where you're excited about tomorrow, whatever that tomorrow brings. Because can I just say, it feels great.