BelFAST & FURIOUS

After my initial experience in Ireland, I wrote a piece for my school's newspaper on what it is like to be abroad in the first few moments. Here it is:

I heard a woman shriek outside my window and woke up to my heart racing and my body in a paralyzed cold sweat. It was my first night in a new country. My first night in Belfast, Northern Ireland.

Now, it must be said that I doubt the woman was in danger. It could be that the woman was drunk or laughing. Whether it was the fear in me, or good old-fashioned jet lag, I spent the rest of the night wide awake. I was thinking about how quickly my subconscious state identified that noise and placed me in a state of danger. Then I thought about how quickly we do that not only when things go “bump in the night” but also in our waking hours. Indeed, how quickly humans stereotype experiences, placing sounds, tastes, people, and conversations into mental storage boxes of our lives.

I spent some days at the beginning of my trip constantly comparing things to my previous experiences. This airplane ride feels longer than my last one. This accommodation is smaller than my other accommodation. This group of internationals is not as fun as another group. On and on my brain went measuring things against each other as I walked down the street. As I did this, I started to become sad. I missed my room, I missed my friends, I missed the old experience.

This brought to mind a parable I heard in Sunday School about old wineskins. A strange story, indeed, for children in church, but allow me to make the connection. Now, I don’t claim to be a biblical scholar, but being an English major, literary allusions are an oft-used device in my daily thought life. This is one example.
Jesus’ parable says:

“No one pours new wine into old wineskins. If he does, the new wine will burst the skins, the wine will run out and the wineskins will be ruined. No, new wine must be poured into new wineskins. And no one after drinking old wine wants the new, for he says, “The old is better.” (John 5:37-39)

Wine, over time, ferments and becomes intoxicating. The same is true for memories. As time goes by, you remember that moment of your life at its best. Not only distance in space, but distance in time, makes the heart grow fonder. In a way, your memories become intoxicating and cloud your judgment of the present.

So, in order to truly be happy in the present, I’ve found that I must find new spaces, or casks, in my mind. I must open my mind even further so that I am not so quick categorize the new experiences I am sure to have in the upcoming year in Belfast. Rather than limiting myself to a set of characters from my past and casting new people to fill those roles, I am trying to open my mind for a brand new experience. Not doing so could make me miss out on some potentially impactful relationships and adventures in my future. So while past experience can guide you and provide you with skills and understanding, one should not let this harden your heart towards new things; this is what I have learned thus far in my episode in Northern Ireland.

It's OPSEC

Many moons have passed since I have updated my blog. That's because what I have been doing is very confidential and hush-hush. Just kidding. But I have been working as a researcher for the Department of Defense. And as I'm not exactly sure how much I'm allowed to say- or "OPSEC" (operational security)- I'm afraid the cat has got my tongue. Posting things on the internet isn't as kosher as it once was.

Thankfully, my writing was never too deep, so I shall continue. This is a very interesting time of my life, and I thought I should catch up those who might be interested, or at least as a record for myself.

Next week I will be interviewing for the Rotary Ambassadorial Scholarship. This scholarship would cover the expense of my Master's Degree, and would allow me to do that abroad. My top choice is, of course, Ireland- Trinity College Dublin. Also making the cut are: Oxford University in England, Copenhagen University, University of Malta, and Cork University in Ireland.

Clearly, Ireland has captured my attention- and I haven't even been there yet! But a bit of good news- I will be spending the next year of my life in Belfast, Northern Ireland at Queen's University completing my Political Science minor and writing my Bachelor's thesis. While there, I have a couple things I'd like to accomplish. 1. Visit Denmark again! 2. Do some more traveling! (Italy anyone?) 3. Do some volunteer work in the community, and 4. Make some connections for grad school in the future! I am applying for a lot of scholarships, but should those fall through, I want to be prepared.

Other good news, my brother Zachary just got engaged this weekend to his girlfriend of three years, Shobana. He proposed at Disney World! I'm so happy for them, they are made for each other. Also, Shobana applied for "Say Yes to the Dress" on TLC, so I hope she gets it.

After I finish my undergraduate degree, I have to be honest: I'm scared. Scared of what the future holds, or doesn't hold. I'm afraid that all the wonderful things that have been happening to me will stop. I'm afraid I'll have to do it all alone. I'm afraid of being poor. I'm afraid of rejection. I'm afraid of disappointing those who love me. For that reason, I think I'll just backpack through Europe for a year, get lost, learn Romanian, and blend into the scenery repairing shoes or something.

My resume is cute. It's a piece of paper I feel proud of but have very little confidence in. I pray someone will want to hire me. I'm also EXTREMELY grateful for the opportunity to go abroad next year and sort out everything I've learned about employment this summer. It's a lot to handle. I don't want to make my blog so candid, as it was intended as a travel blog, but there it is, or was.

Sorry for the word vomit and I'll be sure to write something real poetic soon. For now I'll leave you with a poetic song.

Why are so many Chinese People commenting on my blog?

Because my life lacks story details right now, I decided to post a short story I wrote my first year of University, and reading it now I love it the most I ever have. Enjoy.

Eight Year Old Me

When the wind brushed the whisps of curl onto my face I knew I would be 7 years old forever. The grass was bright green and plush but only under my feet. I wish there were dandelions there and I wish I had the time to sit in the grass like I once would have and constructed a necklace out of the wild flowers. That thought made me wish I had worn something different today. Something not so sad. It was sad outside, and I’m not exactly a glowing inspiration to nature to come out and shine. I wish I was wearing yellow. Something yellow and flowy. I owned a yellow and flowy top. Why didn’t I wear that? This one is okay, I suppose. It is blue. Blue, in and of itself, isn’t so bad. But it has black on it too. Black Satin. God, I feel thirty.
I hold my keys in my left hand. My right hand is clenched at my side, trying to keep warm. But it isn’t warm. It’s just as cold as it is out here on my walk back.

I stop in front of my building and notice there is a camera above the entrance. A small black semi-sphere. I wonder if semi-sphere is even a word. I fell in love with the word “semi” in elementary school, probably kindergarten, where my teacher introduced it to me through the form of a semi-truck. She said it was like how I semi truck wasn’t a real truck. Which now, when I think back, doesn’t make a lot of sense. I’d say that a semi truck was a real truck. A huge truck, actually.

I dismiss this memory, clutch the door handle, and throw the door back behind me when I walk in. I chug up the stairs, stopping at each landing, doubling over to make my stomach bend into a ninety degree angle. Air hisses into my nose and hits the floor of my stomach and then it oozes out of my mouth when I go up the next flight. I double my stomach over because I eat too much ice cream. I eat ice cream and cheese and then I get coffee, usually two cups, and drown the bitterness with cream and sugar. And I’m lactose intolerant. It’s my own fault. Sometimes it makes my throat ache, not like a sore throat, but the kind of pain that feels like someone is just poking their finger in my neck.

As I get out the key to my door, I think about people who wear WWJD bracelets. What Would Jesus Do. I’m thinking about the idea of getting something like that to help me remember NOT to eat dairy. But it’s thoroughly irresistible. Dairy, I mean. Not the bracelet. What would it say? I AM talking about the bracelet this time. “In case of emergency: Do not give Ice Cream.” Or simply “Lactard.” Or maybe it will be a more personal note: “You stupid girl. Do not eat dairy. It’s not worth it.” But anyway I composed the message, I know I would hate the idea of a bracelet telling me what to do. I would spite the bracelet and rebel against it.

I slug off my coat onto the ground and I’m already lying down when my second shoe hits the ground. Shoes I ought to get rid of. The smell isn’t quite right, but if I keep them on in public, usually, no one can tell. I might just throw them away. But now isn’t the time to worry about these shoes. The pain subsides, if only for the next five minutes. It comes in waves like that.

I’m putting on an episode of a radio show I used to listen to as a child so I could hear the adventures of John Avery Whittaker and Connie at the ice cream shop, which always seemed more like an after school program than an ice cream shop to me. Ice Cream. Oh God. I curl my body to that comforting ninety degree angle and grab my toes. The radio program starts and the familiar music comes on.

I see myself at the kitchen table of my youth. It is so dull. It is so scratched. I am at the table and so are my older brothers. We are listening to this radio show theme song. The green tile floor spreads under all of us and Mom is scrambling around with Pans. But she didn’t have pans. She had microwave cartons. She worked for a frozen food company back in those days. Plus she had three kids. Nowadays I find it a small miracle when I can feed myself out of a prepackaged bag labeled with its calorie contents. But Mom gets us kids food. And we are so quiet. My oldest brother is sitting away from us, of course. He calls us “The Kids.” He’s four years older than me. Two older than my other brother. Despite his junior high popularity, he is still engrossed in the programming.

I notice the radio. It is red. And has blue buttons. And seeing it is so powerful now. Like an old childhood friend I forgot about. Only this friend hasn’t changed. It is exactly how I remember, one button broken and permanently held down.
Then I notice myself. My hair is at my waist in these loose waves that seem to move on their own. I watch eight year old me quietly suck spaghetti into my mouth without looking up. I’m a little impressed at the veracity at which I’m eating. Such a small girl. Even then—no control over what I ate. That makes me smile because I realize I’m still that person. And no bracelet can tell me otherwise.

The radio program goes to commercial and I find myself back in my room staring at the ceiling. But I can’t help but think a little about eight year old me. Eight year old me. I wonder what she thinks of me right now. Would she be pleased with me? Would she be impressed with who I turned out to be? I make a mental list of things that eight year old me would have wanted from me at this point.
1. I thought I would have had a bike. Not a mountain bike, or a pink bike, just a normal street bike. I would ride it everywhere. Of course, it needed a basket on the handle bars for when I shopped for groceries or picked wild flowers off the road. And I would always ride my bike with a skirt on and people would see my hair flip around and I’d be the coolest.
2. Be married. Eight year old me wasn’t the brightest. I choose mentally to ignore that expectation of myself. Partly because it is impractical for a woman my age, yes, but partly, because I am not. And I will not have eight year old me rub it in my face.
3. I would have a room painted bright colors and pictures frames lining every surface area. I do not have this now. My walls are a yellowish white. I can’t paint them. I rent. I have three pictures in my room, none of which are me doing something goofy with a boyfriend, like sledding. Nope, just a picture of Colin Firth as Mr. Darcy in a small frame by my bedside and a couple of my family.
4. I would have a wardrobe full of ballgowns.

Dotting my I's and Crossing my T's

Arrived into the Omaha airport on Friday afternoon, I was still feeling high on my recent travels. Until I hit a car, and busted out a tail light. When I made it out of the parking garage, I saw that it had snowed three inches. The next morning, I attempted to file my taxes, and learned that I make so little money, I am not required to file. What a wonder. What a weekend.

As gloomy of an experience that was, I am thrilled to say that the week previous to these events was fantastic. Over my Spring Break, I traveled back to Washington, DC, where I saw many old friends from that side of the states, as well as some new faces.

I arrived in DC on Monday night, where I spent the night in the old CHIP house with one of my Wesleyan friends. It was the strangest feeling- as though I had only been gone the weekend. I spent most of my trip mulling about town, walking down past the capitol, through the mall, and up through Metro Center. This time, I even snuck into Ford's Theatre-where Lincoln was shot- during a rehearsal. That night I went to the Kennedy Center to see some Irish dancing on the eve of St. Patrick's Day. My brother and I went out after wards for some lovely food. I had the best fish and chips of my life, served over homemade tartar sauce and drizzled with hot sauce. Even now, my mouth is watering. The next day, my brother Jeremy and I went paddle-boating on the Tidal Basin, right between the Washington Monument and the Jefferson. It was so beautiful- a gorgeous 75 degrees, so sunny you could die. That night was very important to me, as it was a primary reason for me to return to Washington, DC.

They say hind-sight is 20/20, and being back in DC really clarified for me all the lessons I learned there. My journey back made me realize that, in DC, I fell in love with being taken seriously. I was treated with respect, as though I were an adult, and grew accustomed to such treatment. This has made coming back to Nebraska very challenging for two reasons. A> I'm just a lousy college student, here, and sometimes I feel as though it wouldn't matter if I were here or not, and B> I have become more focused than ever on having people take me seriously. I can see the effects of this trickle down, especially in an academic sense.

After DC, I have started to take my studies more seriously, and this focus has led me to a class that I am currently taking called Prestigious Scholarship. In a lot of ways, this one-credit course has had the largest impact on my life of all classes. Once a week, a small group meets to workshop Prestigious Scholarship applications, and to work closely with a professor on them. Now that I am in this class, I have selected three prestige scholarships that I intend on submitting an application for.

This class forces me to call into question- weekly- my plans for the future. It forces me to evaluate my experiences, and apply them to my future. Sort of like academic group therapy. I feel a lot of pressure lately to perform at my highest level, and to not waste a minute of my time. While I feel I should be doing this, I am also left feeling exhausted, and even as though I am playing out of my league.

It is with all these emotions that I returned to DC. When I arrived, I found this: As intimidated I can be of the world around me, I must remember that not all have walked where I have walked, and have pulled it off.

ST. Patrick's Day night, I attended a reception hosted by the Embassy in honor of the Taoiseach (Prime Minister), as well as a few other Irish dignitaries. Now, I won't lie to the world, and say that I shook his hand, and he complimented my eyes, and we had a Guinness together. That is a bold face lie. I did not meet Mr. Brian Cowen, but as I stood there, listening to his speech, I had a thought: I really shouldn't be here. I mean, I am a 21 year old girl from Nebraska. Nobody I know could have just brought me to this. I did this on my own. I shouldn't be here, yet, here I am.

And it is times like these that I relax. And although I can't quite put it in words, little moments like these help me to realize something about myself that I haven't yet found the words to articulate. I guess, they make me feel, well, special. Like I'm on a path. And for as much as I worry, the good things that are supposed to happen are going to happen. All I've got to do is dot some I's and cross some T's to make sure that they do.

March of the Peacocks

Here I am, writing to you from small prison cell, I mean dorm, in Centennial Hell, I mean Hall. I am officially a college student again.

My major challenge while I am here is not my academics, or managing a busy schedule. It is trying to not complain. I am attempting at a cynic- free lifestyle. I live in a first year dorm as the RA, floating in between classes and the library.

But amidst all my begrudging, I feel a real sense of hope. As cheesy as it is, I found a little bit of strength for a new-found outlook through my long time hero, Conan O'Brien.

My fellow Irish-American Conan has been through an interesting ordeal in the past couple of months. He was living his dream, and then all of it came to a sudden stop. I'm sure I can relate to how he must be feeling on some level. Having come back from the most amazing year of my life, I feel strangely out of place back here at square one. It all ended too suddenly, and I find myself shaking my head and trying to believe that all those amazing things happened, and that I met so many people who will hold a place in my heart forever.

But Conan's goodbye speech is what made me take a second look at the road that lies before me here at University. Conan said this:

"I have had more good fortune than anybody I know. and if our next gig is doing a show in a 7-11 parking lot, we will find a way to make it fun. we really will. i have no problems. (I don't want to do it in a 7-11 parking lot)"

"I ask one thing: Please do not by cynical...it doesn't lead anywhere. Nobody in life gets exactly what they thought they would get. but if you work really hard, and you are kind, amazing things will happen. I'm telling you, amazing things will happen"

From all of this, I gather a lot of strength. It comes from a humbled part of my heart that I say that I have had more good fortune that anybody I know. It's not that I think that I am better than those I know, it is that I recognize the fact that I have been divinely favored and blessed by God. I can't speak highly enough of the year I have had. I could speak for hours about how my life has been forever changed. But I also know that there is more to come, and admittedly this is something I have to reaffirm to myself everyday. I can find a way to make this fun. I can work harder and be more kind than anyone I know. In this way, I will forge on, constantly keeping my eye on the horizon for wonderful things to happen.



PS- I think I look like Conan's wife. Google that stuff. And her last name is Powell. Wicked cool, eh?

Resiliance

As of today, I have been home for exactly three weeks. Since being home I have been itching, stirring, and rolling in my sleep. I feel like a fly on a camel's back. I am officially bored.

Adding to my frustration is the fact that I have been snowed in many times since I have been home. Today has been one of those days.

Stir-crazy, I went out to get the mail. The snow was still falling hard, and many neighbors were out with snow blowers and shovels. And it was so strange. Above the scrape of shovels and roar of the blowers, I heard laughter. And chatting. People were greeting each other and digging out.

That's when I realized something about Nebraska. People who live here are among the most resilient I have ever met. I don't know how, but somehow the weather can't get them down. When they are faced with obstacles, they fall down and get up laughing.

I witnessed a similar thing last week as well. Once, I drove my car into a snow bank down the street from my house. I was unable to drive, and blocking the road. Another driver silently got out of his car, grabbed a shovel, and helped me scoop the white fluff and harsh ice from around my confined tires. There were exchanges between us. It was an unspoken camaraderie.

To shamelessly quote Primo Levi again:"The sea's only gifts are harsh blows, and, occasionally, the chance to feel strong."

The same is true for Nebraska. You can't expect more from this prairie land than harsh blows of snow, and the chance to feel capable of shoveling it out of the way.

In the days ahead, I will be faced with a unique challenge: Living the day to day. Working hard, and just waiting until I can wander again. Waiting to escape Nebraska. But maybe in the meantime I will be given a chance to feel strong.

Pomegranates, Oysters, or Just Plain Cheese

The feeling I will savor the most from my twenties is the feeling that I have just cracked the world open like a pomegranate.

Little by little, I have found myself totally unbridled by, well, anything. I have learned that the world is mine to open up, and enjoy the fruits inside. Now, forgive the shamelessly cheesy metaphor, and allow me to explain.

Two Tuesday mornings ago I found myself in a whirlwind of activity. It was so busy that the memories of the day before- sharing a farewell cake with colleagues and packing up my apartment- seemed far removed. This particular Tuesday morning started early for me at 6 AM. I hurriedly dressed and got to work ten minutes before eight. I was going to tour the White House.

My tour mates arrived, and we left our bags at the Embassy (as no bags of any sort are allowed on the tour). We metro'd to the Residence of the President, and as we arrived at the gate and hear the guard ask for identification, it dawned on me. I had no ID. I may as well have been naked.

Causing my two group mates to suffer a minor heart attack, one handed me two crumpled five dollar bills and ran to the street to hail me a taxi. He told me to go back, get my ID, and get right back into the same cab. A true life saver, he was. I hoped in the cab and gave him instructions to the Embassy. I was tempted to follow it with "and an extra 5 shillings if you make it there in 10 minutes!" But I refrained. I had shown enough adolescence for one day.

I managed to make it back to the White House in the nick of time. We made our tour, and my two companions didn't seem too angry with me. The tour itself was gorgeous- a white chocolate White House gingerbread house, floral arrangements, and rich tapestries. But the thing that I will remember most is forgetting my ID, and having someone there to bail me out- someone who knew exactly what to do.

That day held chaos beyond belief, as it was the day of the infamous Christmas Party. I spent all day finalizing guest lists, knocking of riff-raff, and fearing for my life. It went by so fast, before I knew it, I was standing at the door, hair curled, in my new Zara dress, trying not to look cold as I greeted people, one by one.

I could smell the interns as they walked in. The Congressional ones who did not receive and invitation but had fan-dangled their way into our festivities. They wore ill-fitting suits and brought girlfriends in inappropriate dresses. I detest them with every fiber of my being.

But in no way, shape, or form, did that put a damper on my evening. After my shift at the door, I royally enjoyed my evening, walking around like I was the host of the party. Normally this behavior is not exhibited by me, yet, "when in Rome." I bid my farewell to the Ambassador, and even had my photograph taken with him. All in all, a smashing success witnessed by all in attendance.

The evening ended with sorrowful farewells between myself and the diplomats. However, one of them carried on the festivities at the Irish pub down the street. We walked with several Embassy employees down the street where a man from Northern Ireland, in a rather drunken state, gave me a piece of advice I shall never forget. He said, "Katrina...no matter what you do, don't you ever, don't even think about, don't even consider, don't ever let it cross your mind, don't even think about gettin married before you are 25." And you know what? That sounds like pretty decent advice to me.

You know why? Because I've realized in the past year that there are 101 things I want to do even before I turn 22. There are another 101 things I want to do before 23. The world is so full of things to do, and places to see. As of late, I quite literally feel as though the world is my oyster. Judge me if you will, but this sense of freedom has been earned and tested through fire!

From spending a semester in Denmark, and a semester in DC, I have gained a sense of boldness. I no longer believe that things like adventures- or important positions- or foreign destinations- or even love- are just for people more worthy than I. Rather, I can achieve anything I want. The catch is, I have to do it for myself.

But of course, I have been divinely favored. My opportunities are endless, and I am truly thankful for all that I have experienced thus far, and all that I am to experience in the future. I see the world no longer as a piece of solid fruit, but rather a dissected ornament, filled with hundreds of possibilities.