successes big and small

My grandmother will turn 90 in a week. Not many people ever get the chance to say that. I tell people my grandmother is 90 and they all congratulate me, as if I had something to do with it. They say, "You're lucky you've got good genes," or it's just a, "wow."

We had a surprise party for her on Saturday, and as I looked across the dinner table, I realized that it's not her good genes I'm so lucky to have, but her in general.

My grandmother is Armenian. When she was three years old, she and her sister came through Ellis Island to escape persecution in their home country. My great great uncle was drawn and quartered and left on a doorstep. They had to get out. They left for America seeking a better life, bringing with them very little and setting out to meet the rest of their family, a few siblings and a couple cousins and uncles who had come before them.

To say it wasn't easy is a great understatement. I don't actually know how they did it, but they did. And their posterity thanks them immensely. But through it all, growing up in a new, strange place, living with adversity because of their race both in their homeland and in America, some how, my grandmother turned out to be one of the most fantastically optimistic people I've ever met. Nothing gets her down.

It's funny when you look at your parents and grandparents and realize where your traits and attributes come from. I have my dad's eyes and hair, my mom's smile and cheek bones. I have my dad's laugh, and his habit of eating everyone else's food. And I have my mom's sensitivity and talkative nature.

But then I look at my grandparents. All of those traits come from them. My maternal grandmother was about 5 feet tall had the same blue eyes that I have; she was just as stubborn, and just as gossip-prone as I am. My paternal grandmother is the same, about 4' 9", stubborn and sure, but still sweet, that is until you give her a juicy story. I was doomed to be a little person with a big mouth. It's in my heritage.

As I watched my grandmother this weekend, and thought about all she's done in her life, all the people she's met and all the things she's seen. I became more and more proud of myself. At the age of 20, things are really coming together for me.

I was just named Managing Editor for Elon's student newspaper, The Pendulum. I had an article published on the front page of the Burlington Times-News. And over the past few weeks, I have sort of mapped out the rest of my life. I've decided to go to grad school for art history or art criticism, something I've always loved but just never thought I could do.

I still miss London every day, but I think my life is slowly leading me back there. We'll see.

the age of internships

I started looking for summer internships yesterday. Yes. You read that right. Summer internships. It’s October 23. I’ve been called a serial over-achiever before. Nothing new, nothing different and definitely nothing surprising. Yet, even I, in reflecting on yesterday’s activities had to see this as being just a little bit ridiculous. Perhaps my actions were less a reflection of my personality type (read, disorder…) and more a symptom of a far more interesting and somewhat distressing and puzzling change in our society.

The question must be asked though: just how insane was I being? Ask most university students, especially journalism majors, and they’ll explain that they too have already started thinking about next summer, and for those who are really on the ball, have actually sent out a few applications. I have a friend who has six applications due Nov. 1. For me, as a junior, this summer stands as one of the most important internships I will have as a college student. This internship opens the door to possible future hiring situations.

Fifteen, even 10 years ago, no one really put a premium on internships the way we do now. Journalism has always used the experience index as a way to determine hire-ability. Our clips, or writing samples, are our lifeline. The better your clips are, and the more you have, the more likely you are to land that primo job.

So what happened? My only thought is that as more and more people have started to attend college, there needs to be a new standard set for what makes someone more desirable as a new hire over someone else. They could have the same degree, the same GPA, the same extracurricular activities, and yet one of them has done an internship. They have experience. Right there, the company is going to save valuable time and money training the person to do the job.

There’s another side to the internship coin, to be sure. Taking on an internship provides students with the invaluable opportunity to test-drive their career choice. It happens, more often than not, that a student accepts an internship, completes it and then changes their major. The job wasn’t all that it was cracked up to be, and now the student has saved themselves the trouble of graduating with that degree and getting stuck with something they’d rather not be stuck with.

Other countries have only just started to understand the internship craze sweeping America. The organization I worked for in London had only just started accepting interns a few years prior, and my supervisor admitted she thought it all sounded a bit like slavery. She had to be convinced to hire me, not because my credentials weren’t stellar, but because she just didn’t get it. Why would someone want to work for free? It wasn’t until I got there and explained to her how important job placements like this are in the United States did she start to understand, however minimally.

It’s an odd phenomenon that we’re being forced so quickly to face the future and determine our career paths. Granted, that is what college is about for the most part. But it’s a startling call to reality when two months after one summer has just ended you’re forced to occupy yourself with planning for the next or be left out in the cold, er, heat?

Cross posted to Reporting to the Public Good (JCM 300 class blog)

transition mettle

Most of you who know me know that my grandmother passed away last Wednesday, Oct. 3. This is not meant to be a sad post, nor is it meant to glean a wave of sympathy. I simply see it as an important piece of background knowledge necessary to approach this post.

As with any life there is death, obviously. But it is the nature of that life that determines the nature of the death. A happy life filled with friendships and love seems to recall a death shrouded in sadness and mourning. Conversely, a sad life filled with spite, anger and misery seems to welcome and accept a timely death.

After spending so many days of this past week filled to the brim with such sadness, I find myself wondering how it is that the above statement makes so much sense. All death should be a celebration of life. Regardless of the condition of that life.

I've spent hours and hours of the last week talking about my grandmother and her vivacious spirit and her love. And her cooking. And every time I begin, I fill up. For selfish reasons yes, but also for the sense of loss I feel for those who missed out on knowing her. My true sadness comes on their behalf.

Death should not be so sad, someone once told me. Death should not be so miserable. Funerals are for the living, and grief is transient.

Existentialism has never been my thing. But the more I "deal" with death, the more I come to understand its purpose. Truly, death is just another part of the cycle. Life is not linear, there is a beginning and an end, to be sure, but who's to say that there is only one of each. But the more I deal with death, the more I understand that while we are "required" to be born, live, and then die, the process serves a greater purpose.

It is the purpose of hope and understanding for those you leave behind. The death of loved ones should stand as a reminder of the evanescence of life. There is tragedy in death, yes, but there is also great hope. The hope is the legacy of those still living.

a lost "wrinkle"

Madeleine L'Engle died last Thursday, and with her passing, the world lost perhaps one of the best novelists of modern times.

Now, I may be exaggerating a little, but this is my blog, so deal with it.

For those for whom the name does not ring a bell, L'Engle was the author of "A Wrinkle in Time."

As a journalism student, I feel like I'm constantly being told by professors that the only way to become a good journalist is to read good journalism. I think it needs to go one step further. Journalism is storytelling. To be a good journalist, you must surround yourself with good storytelling.

L'Engle's writing is recognized for its impeccable storytelling: clean, easy work that not only superficially engages the reader, but that also challenges thought on a more mature level, introducing scientific and political ideas. As a child reading the novel, I loved Meg and Charles Wallace, they were my best friends. But upon revisiting the story in my late-teens, I realized that the book is not only the story of the Murray children, but is also a cleverly disguised criticism of communism and other social systems.

The Washington Post recently published an article of appreciation. The reporter, Monica Hesse, completely captured my sentiment about the novel and L'Engle's brilliant writing.

I think her final graf sums up the affect L'Engle's writing had on so many awkward, uncomfortable teens and then the later discovery of a club of-sorts, of avid "Wrinkle" fans, "All those years ago, with your patchwork quilt and your instant hot chocolate and your despairing belief in your own monstrosity, you hadn't been alone after all."

Madeleine L'Engle's writing is storytelling in its most accelerated form. She adeptly transcended the "children's novel" category of literature and pushed cunningly past to a realm of classicism, punctuated by layers of meaning, beautifully crafted characters and just a good story.

to begin again

I noticed the other day a quote on a friend's Web site, saying something about "Can a change of address change your life?" It's strange when you realize you've done something to alter your life completely. In a good way, to be sure. But forever different my life will be after being away for so long.

Upon returning to campus I've noticed that in most ways, I'm beginning again here. I walk around and run into a few people I know, but not many. I've reached the point at Elon where most of my friends are leaving at the end of the year, and since being gone, I have very few who are younger than me.

In addition to the metamorphosis of friendships, I've returned to a school that looks strikingly different from the one I left. Buildings are popping up everywhere. Fountains, trees and pathways have materialized over a six-month stretch of absence. It's disconcerting, really, to find my old haunts re-purposed and left behind in favor of newer, more modern things.

I've decided to do some re-purposing of my own. I kept this blog during my semester abroad as a way to stay in touch with my friends and family in the U.S., and as a way to document my experiences and musings on cultural differences. I've found myself lacking that outlet, and have decided to begin again.

beginning of the end

If you really think about it, nothing is ever really completely over. You never really leave anything behind or anyone for that matter. I'm well aware that I've been whining and complaining about how much I'm going to hate leaving here and how sad I am to say good-bye to London. But the closer we get to the end of our time here, the more I realize that the memories that I've made here, and the friendships that I've formed are going to sustain my missing London and the life that I lead here.

I sat in Trafalgar Square on Friday for about an hour just taking in the city. Drinking in the sounds of the people and the pigeons, watching the water fountains and the tourists climbing on the lion statues. Trafalgar Square and St. Martin's Lane are my little corner of London. I spent more time there than anywhere else in the whole city. It was the first place I went, and the last place I'm going to say good-bye to.

In Dublin last weekend, we visited our friend Ryan. He left to go home only 2 days later. It was interesting to stay with someone who was so close to the end. He was happy to go home, happy to leave his new city and ready for the end. I don't know if I'll ever get to that point. I have a feeling I'll be sobbing all the way home. But seeing him on the verge of leaving made me think about what it is about London that totally enraptures me. Dublin was nice, I enjoyed it immensely, but I don't think that after 4 months I would call it as much home as I do London. I have always felt comfortable here, I have always been so fascinated by it. This city accepts all sorts of people, there is something for everyone here. And I think that attitude is what is so attractive to someone who has little, to know idea where life will take them.

Upon returning London, I proclaimed, "I'm home!" I had a few people question how I could possibly call some place home that I've only lived in for 4 months. But some home, this is home for me, just as Elon is home and Bethesda is home. Who ever said you cannot lay your hat in 3 different cities?

So I like to think, this is not the beginning of the end, because I have a million memories and a handful of amazing friends who will sustain this beautiful life in London perpetually.

library musings

After having spent a sufficient 6 hours in the British Library today, I’ve come to the conclusion that there is something magical about old books and manuscripts. I held a book today that was 100 years old, a pamphlet that was 130 years old, and an original copy of a letter, handwritten in 1783. Yes you read that right, 1783, which would make it 224 years old. Everything I looked through today had the most incredible musty smell. Gross, possibly to some. But it was amazing. Holding another letter from 1907, I could feel the writer, and I felt like I knew her. I laughed at the pronunciation key she gave to her reader for the name Premanand (“you say ‘pray’ shortly, then mà, with a great deal of emphasis, then ‘nun’ shortly, and stick in a ‘d’ at the end! Now, do you think you know how to say it?”).

It’s funny how once you’re gone, people can read your mail. It really suits the nosey neighbor in me, but something about it is just strange. But this very independent missionary woman, Marie Elizabeth Hayes, is doing wonders for my grade in my general studies course. Because of her attempts to explain her daily life to her colleagues at St Stephen’s Hospital in Delhi, I understand so much more about the lives of Indian women and British women in India during imperialism.

Sitting here, (I’m writing this in a Word document to transfer to my blog later because we don’t get wireless in the Library.) I started thinking about the sorts of things that people will want to study about us. What will we leave behind? Well, if my current form of communication with you is any indication, it won’t be paper. How different it will be for a student, perhaps studying the study abroad practices of American girls in London during the early 21^st century, to read my letters. All of them are electronic. She, or he, will get a big diskette or whatever, and will just scroll down through. Nothing will be tangible, there will be no musty smells, they won’t be able to see my handwriting. There is something incredibly personal about reading a handwritten letter. You can almost picture the person writing it. You can almost see them forming each letter, dotting every I and crossing every T, to be cliché. Historians of the future most like will not have the same experience with letters and journals of today. They’re all emails and blogs.

It’s a very funny thing to hold something older than, well dirt, and think about how there will be very few things like that of yours to exist after you do. These letters of Marie Hayes’ enable her to live long after she died in 1908. She unwittingly gained immortality simply by scrawling a few observations, condolences and sentiments. Pretty cool, if you ask me.