I'm starting to get a little bit sad about going home. I'm still excited, and I don't regret only being here for one semester, but I will miss it. Paradoxically, this makes me very happy. It tells me that after all, I established an enduring, positive connection with this place, despite all the episodes of frustration, loneliness, and anxiety. It felt unhealthy to be as excited as I was to get out a few weeks ago.
This experience was not a utopia, an inconsequential world of parties and carefree attitudes. School first seemed ridiculous, then scary. I spent a lot of time reflecting on my past, on my future. At best, I felt uncertain. At worst, I felt like a miserable failure of a human being. And despite all of that, I will look back on this fondly, as an imprescindible period of growth. Bless rose colored glasses, bless optimism. Perhaps not growth in the way study abroad is intended, as my mind was elsewhere more often than not. To modify one particularly insightful Spaniard's observation, cada periodo de tiempo es como es. Moving on.
Only this past week did everything fall back into place. I feel completely confident and competent. I'm ready to go back to Davis and to jump off the undergraduate diving board into the murky pool of the unknown in a little over a year, to make decisions about my future, my job, to keep moving forward. I haven't felt this capable in years; I'm ready, and steady, and go.
Thursday, February 16, 2012
Thursday, February 9, 2012
más que blanco y negro
-Las despedidas son una puta de mierda.
-Pero mira, en un mes tendrás otra compañera de piso, va a ser super social y salir de fiesta todo el tiempo...
-Cada uno es como es.
To someone who's grown up steeped in a culture of sarcasm and insecurity, a line out of a cheesy movie about tolerance. To Spaniards, the norm: open, honest, confident, accepting.
-Pero mira, en un mes tendrás otra compañera de piso, va a ser super social y salir de fiesta todo el tiempo...
-Cada uno es como es.
To someone who's grown up steeped in a culture of sarcasm and insecurity, a line out of a cheesy movie about tolerance. To Spaniards, the norm: open, honest, confident, accepting.
Friday, February 3, 2012
Using my travel blog as a soapbox, nothing to do with study abroad.
It's hard not to use Facebook as a soapbox. I log on feeling normal, find ten things that make me rage, and then wage a war of wills against the tantalizing little box that begs to know what's on my mind.
Recently, I've been giving in. Today started with that chain picture that's been going around that tells the story of this racist woman (3rd story down). It's a fun story. It packs a good dose of heartwarming righteousness. It's also about as real as the killer clown who will climb through your window at 3 AM if you don't forward the email to 10 people.
I was about to rant about it on Facebook, then stopped, realizing I'd done a good enough job making myself look bitter and angry after posting this article, with a snarky caption about other anti-science nonsense like cleanse diets or sweating out the toxins. I asked myself: why do I find it so frustrating that people are reposting this, even if they mistakenly think it's real? It's spreading a perfectly good message: don't be racist.
Then it clicked, as I thought back to 'Change-Your-Profile-Picture-To-A-Cartoon-Character-To-End-Child-Abuse' week, the STOP SOPA statuses for those two days, and the culture of false activism that Facebook promotes. It hinders understanding what actually makes a difference. In our society, most reasonably privileged people have a healthy desire to help the less fortunate and lend a hand in solving global problems. However, when people buy into the idea that changing their profile picture will make a difference and use that to fulfill their 'morality quota,' they are less likely to take real action.*
Next was the idea of raising awareness. There are untold stories of suffering all over the globe, and spreading the story makes it much more likely that action will be taken. The problem is when the effort never shifts from awareness to action. Guiltiest as charged are breast cancer awareness campaigns. As though anyone is still fucking unaware of the existence of breast cancer, or the fact that like any other type of cancer, it's horrible, devastating, and frequently terminal. They pander to the pain of losing a loved one, then fumble their output numbers to pay themselves. (A related issue is funding disease research: it's quite difficult to get pharmaceutical funding for cures and preventative solutions, as chronic treatment plans bring in much more money.)
What do those concepts--awareness for its own sake, misplaced faith in charities, and false activism--have to do with the story of the racist woman? It's the simplification of society to a cute story; with Facebook at the forefront comes a cozy, heartwarming picture of society that shoves aside the complexities, both the triumphs and the failures. It creates a microcosm of comforting delusions in which the flight attendant is society and the old woman is the lingering remnant of a bygone era, in which you help children by changing your profile picture to a cartoon, or to help women by buying a pink-ribbon water bottle. (EDIT: since this writing, Susan G. Komen foundation has retracted their decision to cut PP funding.) But why get warm fuzzies about a make-believe end to racism when one of the forerunners for US presidency can call Spanish "the language of the ghetto" and black people lazy to rousing applause? Because I should have been a sociology major, that's why.**
But when it all comes down to it, ranting in this blog is about as effective as changing my profile picture. This year I donated to Doctors Without Borders and Charity:Water, and I plan to keep finding other worthy charities and donating. Upon my return to California, I'm going to volunteer time at local soup kitchens and homeless shelters.
*Or maybe they wouldn't do anything. Who knows.
**just kidding.
Recently, I've been giving in. Today started with that chain picture that's been going around that tells the story of this racist woman (3rd story down). It's a fun story. It packs a good dose of heartwarming righteousness. It's also about as real as the killer clown who will climb through your window at 3 AM if you don't forward the email to 10 people.
I was about to rant about it on Facebook, then stopped, realizing I'd done a good enough job making myself look bitter and angry after posting this article, with a snarky caption about other anti-science nonsense like cleanse diets or sweating out the toxins. I asked myself: why do I find it so frustrating that people are reposting this, even if they mistakenly think it's real? It's spreading a perfectly good message: don't be racist.
Then it clicked, as I thought back to 'Change-Your-Profile-Picture-To-A-Cartoon-Character-To-End-Child-Abuse' week, the STOP SOPA statuses for those two days, and the culture of false activism that Facebook promotes. It hinders understanding what actually makes a difference. In our society, most reasonably privileged people have a healthy desire to help the less fortunate and lend a hand in solving global problems. However, when people buy into the idea that changing their profile picture will make a difference and use that to fulfill their 'morality quota,' they are less likely to take real action.*
Next was the idea of raising awareness. There are untold stories of suffering all over the globe, and spreading the story makes it much more likely that action will be taken. The problem is when the effort never shifts from awareness to action. Guiltiest as charged are breast cancer awareness campaigns. As though anyone is still fucking unaware of the existence of breast cancer, or the fact that like any other type of cancer, it's horrible, devastating, and frequently terminal. They pander to the pain of losing a loved one, then fumble their output numbers to pay themselves. (A related issue is funding disease research: it's quite difficult to get pharmaceutical funding for cures and preventative solutions, as chronic treatment plans bring in much more money.)
What do those concepts--awareness for its own sake, misplaced faith in charities, and false activism--have to do with the story of the racist woman? It's the simplification of society to a cute story; with Facebook at the forefront comes a cozy, heartwarming picture of society that shoves aside the complexities, both the triumphs and the failures. It creates a microcosm of comforting delusions in which the flight attendant is society and the old woman is the lingering remnant of a bygone era, in which you help children by changing your profile picture to a cartoon, or to help women by buying a pink-ribbon water bottle. (EDIT: since this writing, Susan G. Komen foundation has retracted their decision to cut PP funding.) But why get warm fuzzies about a make-believe end to racism when one of the forerunners for US presidency can call Spanish "the language of the ghetto" and black people lazy to rousing applause? Because I should have been a sociology major, that's why.**
But when it all comes down to it, ranting in this blog is about as effective as changing my profile picture. This year I donated to Doctors Without Borders and Charity:Water, and I plan to keep finding other worthy charities and donating. Upon my return to California, I'm going to volunteer time at local soup kitchens and homeless shelters.
*Or maybe they wouldn't do anything. Who knows.
**just kidding.
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