The Escapee

I was thinking today, while I read Angela’s Ashes, about the human urge to flee. To escape. Take flight. Abandon what is difficult for that often dreamt of perfect life in that other place, far from here. Frank spoke of how if he were in America, he could tell his father, “I love you.” But in Ireland men only say that of their country or their pint (or something along those lines). The book returns again and again to America as the land of possibilities, while the structure of the book itself creates an irony that is inescapable: Frank’s family started in America looking for opportunity and returned to Ireland when they couldn’t make ends meet—so the reader has the harsh evidence that America isn’t a magical fix-all in its very first pages. Frank says that he wants “to be in America with you and all that music, where no one has bad teeth, people leave food on their plates, every family has a lavatory, and everyone lives happily ever after.” Clearly this is false, but what leaves the reader with hope when Frank returns to America at the conclusion is that he has work-ethic; he’s tasted poverty, lived off of it; he’s seen his loved ones experience chronic suffering; and he is not his alcoholic, good-for-nothing father who couldn’t make use of America’s opportunities.

One of the things I miss most about home when I’m gone is having a car. To me, a vehicle is the American equivalent of freedom, to be able to go where you want, when you want. To possess the ability to escape, take flight, abandon an irreparably bad life, and chase that perfect dream. Not that my life was bad or that I wanted to escape...it's just having the ability to do so if you wish that is so liberating. While growing up in Kansas, I took the even-keeled, steady rhythm of life to be complacent rather than reassuring, a tad boring even. I listened to kids in school repeat their worn-out mantra that they longed to go to California or New York City where life wasn’t boring and where people were interesting. They asked, "Who actually wants to live in Kansas?". After going away to school, I appreciate Kansas more than I ever could have when it was the only home I knew.

Right now I feel a bit untethered, disconnected. Yes, Kansas is still my home. But it is strange that increasingly I spend the most time with my close friends via skype rather than in person. That I don’t know where I will live in three years. That after going to college, one of the biggest, hyped-up dreams of escaping imaginable, I realize that we always paint an unattainable picture of perfection in our dreams of getting away and starting “fresh.” Fresh is actually scary. Making friends is easier than it sounds. The familiar is irrefutably comforting, even if it is in varying degrees. Every city has its pitfalls, its poverty, its unhappy, its humdrum, its inadequacies, its similarities with where you hail from.

I was thinking of escaping today perhaps because this is a long summer for me, and picking up on that annoying persistent theme that infuses all my blog entries, I am nervous about leaving and starting fresh overseas, so ridiculously far from home. I love this lyric of Snow Patrol’s: “I find a map and draw a straight line. Over rivers, farms, and state lines. The distance from A to where you’d be. It’s only finger lengths that I see.” But realistically, the little skip-hop across the pond becomes impossibly wide and far-fetched when logistics are taken into consideration.

I get told by people that I speak the language, so what am I nervous about? I read that one of the biggest dangers in studying abroad in another English-speaking country is underestimating the culture shock. I don’t know how to sum them up, I suppose, all these thoughts swirling about in my mind. I think it's just that I live in a country that the world perceives as a dream land at times (when they’re not criticizing us): the land of opportunities. I am grown up enough to realize that it isn’t the idealized place one is escaping to but the person who is escaping, the escapee, that determines the success of the escape. I know that England won’t be drastically different from Kansas or DC, but it will be different enough. I know that I will face the same challenges I found at Georgetown in Oxford but completely different ones that will challenge me anew too.

I am a little too cynical to believe in a perfect place, a perfect life to escape to, that simply lies waiting for me. But all that I know of Oxford thus far, which isn’t much, is an idealized dream of a mysterious, alluring, sophisticated, exciting university in a far-off land. I’m a little nervous for the dream and the reality to confront one another, and I hope that reality can take it easy on my dream, not squashing it too cruelly, completely, or quickly. I’m hoping the dream puts up a fight, takes root, comes to even a small level of realization. And while cynical, I have enough romantic in me to believe it will.

Packing Up

I’ve been thinking lately, as the time for me to depart the States approaches, about what it means to be an American, a Midwesterner, an East coaster, a woman, a Catholic, a student, a member of the twenty-first century. I’ve also considered what it means to be a traveler; many a road I have traveled before, through a combination of family vacations and going to school half-way across the country. Somehow I am finally beginning to master the art of packing light. Then again, I started way behind the average person in regularly packing all that I could not possibly need and forgetting the essentials.

My family often teases me for packing clothes I never wear, books I could find in my destination spot, too many shoes, impractical numbers of purses, artwork, decorative items, mementos. The way in which I pack, I think, reflects the way in which I live, the person I am. What are the most prevalent items that hog my precious suitcase space? I love jackets and dresses, which make me feel ready for any adventure; I almost always pack my childhood stuffed animal, Patches, and my pancreas stuffed animal, Patty; and I simply must have at least three books, usually one a beloved (and guaranteed to please) favorite.

What then shall I pack for Oxford? I will be limited to the use of two suitcases and one carry-on to pack my little existence into. Things in England will be more expensive for me, with the brutal exchange rate, and they simply will not have all that I am used to purchasing in America. All my aforementioned staple items will still be packed, with some additions.

I will pack my new deluxe backpack, fleece, raincoat, and tote bag (all of which were unusually extravagant purchases for me this summer, but necessary investments with the travel I will be doing). My new London skyline wall decal and a fresh order of favorite pictures will be thrown in, for the most lightweight and inexpensive décor items I can think of. I’ll definitely pack my bible, journal, movies, laptop, iPod, and camera.

Clothes-wise, I simply must be choosey and have lengthy consultations with my mom and sister, both fashion gurus and seasoned travelers (after which, I’ll throw in a few items I daren’t pack before their discerning eyes). I will pack jeans, trousers (as I have already learned that pants = underwear, but never fear, I’ll pack plenty of pants as well), shorts, skirts, t-shirts, jackets, and probably any and every dress I own, as I hear Oxford lives up to its fancy reputation. Other than my make-up and perfume, I’ll have to re-buy British equivalents of almost all my toiletries.

Of course, I’ll pack my student visa, passport, and wallet—all the items that are literally indicative of my identity. Isn’t it weird to consider that who I am can be packed up, paid for, and neatly shipped off to another country? I think that I simply will have to feel like a traveler, like a dispossessed foreigner when I enter a country with two suitcases that encompass all that is mine, for an entire year. Therefore, we arrive at the importance of packing smart: I need to bring items that will make my presumably somewhat barren room in England feel like home, when I first arrive and feel the most vulnerable, the most alone.

Perhaps it is most remarkable to consider what I leave behind. The majority of my books, lots of clothes, all of my art, my favorite American food, my car, my American currency, being part of the majority rather than a minority (which will be indicated by my accent), my junior year at Georgetown, my friends, my family, my dog, feeling comfortable and even confident in navigating my city, all that is known to me.

What will I gain? Why will going to Oxford be worth it? Fist, simply because it is Oxford. Like Europe in its entirety, Oxford has an irresistible allure for me (which thank goodness I can give in to, as I was accepted). I will travel abroad, and I will expand my tastes in food, culture, art, history, literature, people, and travel. London will become my city, and as I did in DC, I’ll create a little introductory description which neatly and succinctly sums up who I am: “I’m from Kansas, in the States, and attend Georgetown University in DC. I’m studying English, and what could be a more perfect place to study English literature than at Oxford?” (insert polite laugh). I will make international friends, perhaps pick up a hybrid accent, and discover my favorite British foods. I will maybe even learn to enjoy drinking beer (although not too much, as I have also already discovered light beer does not exist in England) and break my addiction to pop.

Hopefully I will bring back enough experiences, adventures, photographs, souvenirs, friends, and memories to make my year worth it. Despite my nerves, I honestly have no doubt that this shall be the case. My suitcase will both literally and figuratively be overflowing with all that I picked up, and was given, and was provided with in England. Though the time for commencing my packing has not yet arrived, I am beginning to both dread and anticipate it more and more. This seems incredibly important to me simply because it indicates my increasing recognition and acceptance of reality: in two short months, I am flying to England.

Driving to Him

I had this minor teenage identity crisis (please keep reading, hopefully it gets better) last year. I had to take one of those personality profile tests which determined I was split, belonging to both the introvert and extrovert categories. I felt befuddled, confused as to how such a huge part of who I am could be murky, indefinite. You might think that I was silly to ask a quiz to tell me who I am; why not ask myself?

To put it simply, I don’t know that I will ever secure an answer to that question. I debated on this one component of my identity: I have friends, like being social, and while initially shy, with those I am comfortable around I sometimes can’t be shut up. I like sharing my inconsequential triumphs, confiding my secrets and hopes, spilling my thoughts for others to soak up (as perhaps evidenced by having a blog in the first place). At the same time, however, I usually find peace whilst completely alone. I enjoy not being anything for anybody and simply existing. I hunger for solitude when I am completely surrounded. I was glad to be balanced rather than an extreme introvert or extrovert, but still I wanted an answer.

My uncle cleared the mystery up for me, explaining that extroverts probably wouldn’t feel so natural being alone as I do, that they would hunger for company rather than solitude. Once he told me this, I found that stupidly obvious answer right in front of me—or rather, inside of me.

I had this unbelievable experience last year, where I went on an Ignatian Silence Retreat. I’ve never felt so in-tune with who I am, so strong, so simple, so peaceful. It felt as though God told me to seek answers from the obvious place: within myself, guided by prayers towards Him.

I’ve always harbored this burning question, to which I would never want to discover the answer from first-hand experience: what must it feel like to be an atheist? How does one exist feeling that one’s thoughts are not being heard? My mind seems open-ended, infinite, with the belief that God listens. He is everywhere, in this world, in nature, in humanity, in the heavens, in the air, beside me, above me, in me. How does one survive without being crushed by….futility, hopelessness, and utter, terrifying aloneness without a belief in God? I have this comforting thought sometimes, when I screw up, embarrass myself, or hurt someone else, that God knows my intentions and my heart.

He gave me this simple blessing today, that I hadn’t realized how much I needed until I received it: the house to myself, a day of my own. It’s healing for someone like me, a (belatedly) self-proclaimed introvert, to have a day off from attempting to interact with others.

I took a drive with God tonight. I drove and found peace. I thought of how much I love to drive, especially on an overcast night, with Kansas fields reminding me I'm home and my favorite QuikTrip drink in hand. Then I thought of how much I will miss driving next year while abroad and how life is designed in this tricky, frustrating way where we anticipate the future until we are on the cusp of realizing it. Somehow it seems cruel that I idealize the past and the future, at the cost of sometimes overlooking my current blessings.

On this drive with God, I started praying aloud. Perhaps, you might think, this girl has had too much silence. But truthfully, by myself, I can hear God’s voice the loudest. I spoke to Him of my fears and uncertainties, of how much I adore him, of how little I deserve His perfect love, of my desire to be better. I told Him that in all the ways we, humanity, try to replicate His perfection and fail, I know I can always return to Him and find my example for everything. I told Him that the way in which He listens, the way in which He loves, the way in which He comforts, the way in which he strengthens me again and again and again fulfills me. I apologized for forgetting. And I smiled.