It's Not Personal, It's Just Business

I resent them for being fitter than me and healthier than me and wealthier with this forced perfection that they all emit from every perfectly stitched seam of their designer clothes to every pore of their luxuriously spa-ed skin.

You can see their money and hear it. They're so polished, coiffed and sleek. The sound of their voice tells you where they grew up, where they went to school, the types of conversations they're a part of during their well-manicured tirade through the corporate world.

I try not to feel so obviously covetous, so jealous of the possessions and appearance and status I never knew I wanted til I saw it draped across a back, shining from an ear, glinting off a tie, or jutting from a hip bone through $75.00 spandex yoga pants.

I catch myself sometimes wishing I could wear some sort of badge or transmit a kind of telepathic signal that lets people know I was in the Peace Corps or that I'm working on a graduate degree. Some sort of, "Hey, I'm impressive too," referencing those things about me that seem important but really aren't.

I lived in a small village in Bulgaria and taught English. So did my Bulgarian counterpart and no one's praising her for her selflessness or adventurous spirit. Not that I'm trying to diminish my service. I'm just being realistic. The impact made on me was far greater than any imprint I left. And maybe these people feel the same way - that too big a deal is made out of what they do and who they are.

I suppose it's possible that they're like Lance Armstrong - forced to do what they don't want to in order to compete with everyone else who, ironically, feels the same way. Doping up for the race, striving for success even if the means to The End cause them to keep up in ways that are counterdispositional.

However, no more excuses for them. Or me. Let's continue, shall we?

It's the couples that really get me: gorgeous paired with gorgeous. Above-average-made-gorgeous-by-nice-clothes-over-sinewy-muscles paired with above-average-made-gorgeous-by-golden-highlights-dangling-inches-above-kickboxing-asses.

They make me want to get my hair cut by someone named Jean Luc and eat celery on purpose.

Now, I know you're chastising me in your minds telling me I should be satisfied with who I am and the life I'm living. I know that. Trust me, I do. And I am. Seriously, I am. It's just that sometimes I want shiny things too.

-Age

What I Know Now

Things I've learned during these first few months living in New York:

·         Our coffee table is very sturdy and as many as 3 girls can dance on it vigorously at any given time

·         It takes 7.5 minutes to walk from my apartment to the subway

·         You can use the subway to be very sneaky and avoid all kinds of inclement weather – there are so many passages and tunnels you never really have to go outside if you don’t want to

·         Of my roommates, I’m the clean one

·         It’s good to carry one dollar bills in every pair of jeans or each jacket because you will inevitably be asked for money each time you exit your house

·         Shoes wear out here much faster than pretty much anywhere else

·         The city really is magical in the fall – Central Park with all of its leaves and pathways and seasonal drinks in each of the 1 billion coffee shops. Pure magic

·         It’s hard to live here if you don’t really have any money…but it’s possible

·         Online dating seems to be the way to go

·         Small, crowded super markets and moms/nannies with strollers: beware your ankles. Bitches are ruthless

·         People in the financial district can be described by the following adjectives: shiny, sleek, coiffed, confident, and demanding

·         Brooklyn is where the bearded men live

·         Harlem is awesome and I now know the definition of gentrification because I am contributing to it personally (and I don’t really know what to do about it…)

·         The best bars are the ones where the beer list is endless and written on the wall in chalk (for easy exchange for different and fun local brews)

·         I don’t feel very sorry for the well-paid, downtown workers who, because of hurricane Sandy, have to work in the uptown offices while their building is being repaired. Though I’ve heard many complain far more than I’ve heard my minimum-wage co-workers with no electricity or running water complain

·         Graduate school is time-consuming and difficult but interesting and well worth the effort

·         The Chrysler building is my favorite

·         In NY, I wake up early every day but I’m not snooty about it - “Only dull people are brilliant in the morning.” – Oscar Wilde
     
      There’s probably a lot more but that’s all I got for now.

-     -Age

Listen To My Words

When someone listens well it’s because they genuinely care. They aren't thinking about what they’re going to say next, how it relates to them and their life, and what tidbits of their own perspective they can add to what the other person is saying. Their eyes don’t’ wander as they ponder their next phrase or story or how they can relate how interesting they are while the other person is still in the middle of whatever it is they’re saying. To be fair, there are some conversations where this is appropriate, where the need for a give-and-take type of conversation needs to take place, both parties putting equal thoughts and effort into the conversation. But I’m talking about what makes a good listener: someone who cares about what the other person is saying and shows it.

There are times when a conversation, in traditional terms, isn't really appropriate. When there is something personal to relate and the person doing the sharing needs simply to be listened to so that whatever is going on with them emotionally can be conveyed to someone. They need to be heard and feel as though they’re understood. Human connection is so important for all of us. Not just women. Not just people of a certain age. All of us. The desire for someone to fulfill our emotional needs is so strong and that is why we share our fears, our secrets, our past, desires, ambition, happiness, and anger. Even if our thoughts and feelings aren't ideal or aren't “what they should be” it doesn't stop them from being our thoughts and feelings, no matter how flawed. And to be able to convey our insecurities or annoyances or trepidation knowing that they our based in imperfections without being judged or preached to or made to feel as though those thoughts are somehow wrong is so valuable.

If I were to tell someone about a fear, no matter how irrational, I wouldn't want the response to be - “hey, that’s stupid. You shouldn't feel that way” – “you need to be more confident” – “don’t worry so much, you over-think things” – well that just makes me shut down. I no longer want that person to know how I feel because they won’t allow me to feel it. I wish I could take back what I told them so they can’t tell me it’s wrong. No one can help their emotions. This is simply how I feel. And I want to be able to talk about it and just have it be known without an unsolicited opinion or critique.

There are people in our lives that give us the emotional support we need and we go to them in times when we want to be heard and understood and afterwards we are often left with a sense of having related to someone, a remarkable feeling. The feeling that, with words, we can describe the buzzings and whirrings and irrationalities of our mind and have someone understand them. Well, maybe not always understand but at least be aware of, to hear us.

I have people in my life that I always go to when I need to talk. Not just so they can tell me what I want to hear but so I know that what I’m thinking or feeling is perfectly OK and I’m still me and maybe they even know me a little better than they did before. I don’t share personal things about myself easily. If I begin to share and I can tell the person isn't really all that interested, I’ll stop. If I’m interrupted in the middle of a speech that involves effort on my part to share, I turn off. Game over. I make a promise to myself not to make that mistake again with that person. Once, over the phone, I started to tell someone a story about my sister, my favorite person in the whole world, the most unique and wonderful girl I know, and was interrupted, told that they had to go. After talking non-stop at a leisurely pace for 45 minutes, they suddenly had to go and I felt so stupid. I promised never to do that again, that the privilege of knowing me better wouldn't be extended to that person again. That may all sound very extreme or, I'm aware, even condescending but for someone who finds sharing herself difficult, it’s a necessary defense mechanism. Self-preservation. And I’ll forever be wary of people who strongly monopolize the conversation almost every time we speak.

More positively, I’m always awed by people who share themselves easily with others – their thoughts and interests and background and opinions. People who talk as though what they have to say is interesting simply because they are the ones saying it. No matter how trivial. It’s fascinating because often it becomes true. Because they speak to you as if what they are saying is vital to your knowledge, it actually becomes something you want very much to know. I don’t have this innate sense of authority or self-confidence or trust in other people or whatever it is that requires such freedom with feelings and emotions but I love people who are capable of this.

However, I also really like those people who keep things close to the vest. People that, once they've learned to trust you, surprise you with their thoughts and feelings and obvious vulnerability. They open up and because you know sharing is foreign to them, you feel truly privileged to be on the receiving end. It’s nice to know these people who don’t share much or with many. Their emotions are more precious and you begin to realize that you have become one of these people for them, someone they can be themselves with comfortably and without consequence.

It’s valuable to have these people in our lives but it’s also valuable to try and be one of these people for someone else as well. Even if it’s just one person who knows they can come to you and say anything.

-Age

Obama Did Not Bring About This Change But He May Have Funded It

When I got back from Bulgaria I was prepared for potential readjustment difficulties. We were told they happen fairly often and we'd heard from past volunteers that had experienced trouble returning to a life in America. The reasons for these problems are probably:

• change in culture
• new pace of life
• friends/family don't quite understand the significance of what we've been through
• finding something to do and a place to do it in...on our own

But, I think the biggest one is:

• All of the personal change and growth that was forced upon us by navigating challenging situations and becoming close to a new group of people really quickly
• the more challenges that were undertaken and the more new friends that were embraced, the more these influences changed us
• however, our power over the direction of these changes is questionable and I'm sure it varies from person to person

This rapid growth is hard for others to understand or relate to which means we're left to evaluate it on our own or with other RPCVs. 

How did I change?

Do I like all the changes?

How do they relate to this new life in America?

Can I adjust them and how?

I don't like all the ways I've changed and I feel that some new parts of me aren't working here, in my American life.

I won't go into detail about these changes but I'm hoping to decide if they need to be deleted or just tweaked.

Also, I'm left with another question:

Is there only a certain amount of good that is allowed to take up our selves...our personalities?

Let me elaborate...

  

Let's say Gandhi was capable of 80% goodness. His goodness level could lower, depending on the situation or the point in his life but he is capable of no more than 80%. New, lets say an average person, like me, is allowed only 60% goodness. It could lessen, maybe, depending on the time of the month (that was meant to be a joke) but it cannot exceed 60%.  So, if I gain a new good, it's at the expense of some old good I used to value.

I'm worried this doesn't make sense but it's been running through my brain and if it doesn't get out I may explode.

For instance, in the Peace Corps I gained self-confidence and the ability to be assertive when necessary. But, room had to be made for these things. Other characteristics that maybe aren't too harmonious with a confident, assertive nature get pushed out. Like compassion and kindness or, at least, some degree of my compassion and my kindness towards others has diminished to maintain that 60%.

What if I want those things back in full force? Do I have to give up something else? What? Which characteristics are most valuable to me? To others? More specifically, to those I respect? To those who influence my life professionally? Personally?

Does any of this make sense?

Fitting this new self, which looks and talks and behaves a lot like the old self, into a new life (cuz the old life really is no longer an option for any of us) is, uuuhhhhhhh, a little tricky.

But, we don't always realize it right away.

When we have so many things we wanted, when we are doing the things we hoped to do, when we live in the places we dreamt of living, and with the people we chose to surround us, well...

why aren't we happy?

Now, I've written before about how happiness isn't necessarily what life is all about. That sometimes we're happy and sometimes we aren't.

Happiness is conditional.

We need lows to appreciate the highs. 

Being happy during life's inevitable tragedies doesn't make much sense.

We can't be happy all the time.

Blah Blah Blah.

But, that's kind of the point. When happiness is appropriate, why are we...why am I not happy?

These parts of myself that I've given up or allowed to lessen, are they what's kept me from enjoying these past few months back here?

Or am I just downplaying the effects of stress from moving, being in grad school, and starting a new job?

I have  no conclusion for this post. No explanation for my feelings. These are just the things I've been wondering and feeling and now I've put them out there for my friends and family to read and worry about. Whoops.

Maybe happy was the wrong word. I don't want to freak anyone out or make them think I'm on the precipice of depression or something extreme like that.

I'll change it to satisfied.

I'm not satisfied with myself right now.

Working on it.

-Age

The Chipped Cup

Sometime before or after noon I gather my books, my computer, my thoughts and head to the cafe a couple short blocks from our apartment. It's on the lower level of one of the buildings right in between 148th and 149th and has a blue, chalkboard easel out on the sidewalk to attract customers with phrases written on it like, "Tired? Come inside and have a cup!" It stands out from the other shops because it's painted bright blue and most places around it embrace the concrete look and have dingy signs in both Spanish and English.

It's called The Chipped Cup and I go there just about every day. I buy an iced coffee or hot Moroccan mint tea depending on the weather. Then I plop myself down at whatever seat, table, bar stool happens to be closest to the outlets, plug my computer in, and get to work. Work being a perusal of gmail and facebook before I finally start studying. I read chapters from my textbooks or assigned articles online. I write papers or projects for class. I re-teach myself Excel with helpful youtube videos cuz I have no idea how that program works anymore. It's boring but necessary.

Sometimes I slyly people-watch. I have to be sly cuz it's kind of small and you can't really people-watch in an enclosed space without people wondering why you're staring at them. Eye-contact in these situations is common and always awkward. Sometimes I smile and look away and sometimes I make a weird face and pretend that I jut caught them staring at me instead of the other way around. People vary from obviously hipster to obviously student to obviously just like going to a cafe to chat with friends or relax. It's nice. However, this place does not really include the typical resident of this area. It's gentrification at work. I imagine, with the popularity of this place, that more places like it will pop up soon and more and more people will be drawn to an area where you can spend $5 on a cup of coffee - something not before typical of Harlem.

Outside, there's a small patio area that's adorably decorated and very comfortable when the weather's nice. If my roommates and I had similar schedules, it might be nice to sit out here with them and chat. I wonder if our loud-Americans-in-public personas still exist. Maybe they do but they're not obvious cuz everyone else is loud too. They've painted the word "Harlem" in giant letters across the back wall, proud of the area maybe or just trying to be cool - I don't know. There's also a huge mirror propped up in the corner that kinda freaks  you out and makes you think you're going to run into yourself but it also makes this small space seem much larger and is pretty brilliant.

After hours of sitting here without being bothered or feeling obligated to order another drink, when my once scalding hot tea is too cold to drink, when the others have come and gone again and again, I pack up my stuff and head home.

I love this place.

-Age

The Commute

It’s late morning and I’ve only been up for an hour. This city keeps me up until the wee hours as my day often doesn’t end until 10:00 or even 11:00pm. Between school and studying and running around trying to get my life in order, sleep is elusive and inconvenient.

It rained all last night so the morning is beautiful, sunny, and crisp – shiny and clean and re-set. It’s always noisy here but the sounds are beginning to feel familiar, more of a soundtrack for a life that is becoming less new or noticeable. I don’t stare at the old buildings anymore or listen to the conversations of my neighbors (if I can understand them) or try to memorize the different stores so I can decide which ones I want to peruse in the future. I live in Harlem, near the Hudson and Riverside Park. I am the minority. Gentrification is new to me but very much a part of the choice I’ve made in moving here. I walk down our street towards Broadway.

Once on the main drag, I turn left and pass C-Town, the closest super market which is convenient but lacking the fresh produce that I miss so much from Bulgaria. There are farms in New York and opportunities to buy fresh veggies and fruits but, in the lower-income areas, it’s not always easy. There’s lots of small stores, fast food, a new bar that just opened up, packed every night with people watching a variety of sports – flirting and chatting and drinking, trying to relax for a few hours or trying to be seen. It reminds me of the night my friends and I went – the Grand Opening – I liked that the walls were chalkboards and had funny phrases written on them. The beers weren’t too outrageously priced and the staff was friendly and wearing unpretentious t-shirts which I found refreshing.

Onward for six full blocks as our apartment is smack-dab in the middle of the subway stations on both 145^th and 157^th. I walk in the direction of downtown since my school is on 13^th street.

Down to the subway, quickly digging through my purse to get my metro card before I hit the turnstiles that are often crowded with people trying to get in and out of the underground. It’s hot, stuffy. I would complain but then I think about how freezing and bitter this place must be in January. I see that my train, the 1, will be approaching the station in 3 minutes. I stand, waiting. When it pulls up, dozens of people poor out of the sliding doors and dozens more replace them, including me. Today there are spots available and I quickly sit down, squishing myself between a man who’s hat is pulled far down over is face in an attempt to sleep and a woman who is clutching her purse close and sitting on the edge of her chair as though she may make a run for it at any moment. Some people stand and chat, so accustomed to the swaying, backward and forward momentum of the train that they don’t feel the need to sit. I pull out a textbook and start reading. Economics. Statistics. Policy Analysis. It doesn’t really matter, I’m behind on my reading in every class, always trying so hard to catch up. I’d kill for 30-hour days.

Sometimes, there are performers down here. If you have to wait for a train for 5 minutes or more you may be serenaded by a young guitar player with a surprisingly wonderful voice and a sad, original song that makes you want to close your eyes and wait for the train just a little longer. The sounds bouncing off the walls that serve as appealing acoustics to these buskers, makes our wait just a little better. If they are bad, they have a few dollars in their open guitar case. If they are good, people are continuously walking over to drop anywhere from a combination of coins from the depths of their pockets to a few dollars. I love it when they’re good. I’ve been known to give a dollar or two.

When the subway hits my stop, I quickly walk out, through the turnstiles, up the stairs and back into the sunlight. The difference between Greenwich Village in downtown Manhattan is strikingly different from where I just came from – taller buildings, lots of trees, more well-known stores and eateries. I walk quickly down the busy streets, constantly millimeters away from running into the hordes of people coming from the opposite direction going to equally as important and pressing places as myself.

When I get inside my classroom and sit down, I mentally prepare myself for the massive amounts of information that will be flying my way over the next two hours and take a deep breath. 

-Age

No Longer Destitute.

In some ways, I like the idea of being a transient person. Though, having a place to call home is also pretty awesome.

We have an apartment!!! Thank goodness.

Also, Katelyn got here and has been furnishing the apartment with me by looking up tons of free stuff on craigslist, renting a car super cheap for a day and running around picking up things from bookshelves to beds to couches. All free. We have an eclectic apartment with a price tag of nearly $0. Well done us.

We live in Harlem. Which is pretty great. I'm learning Spanish because it just seems like a great idea and because the opportunities to practice abound in our neighborhood where most people are from the Dominican Republic. It's similar to Bulgaria in that everyone around us speaks a language other than English but different from Bulgaria...in pretty much every way.

However, here are some other Bulgaria similarities:

There's a cute cafe called The Chipped Cup that we love and spend hours at. Reading, studying, taking our time with our coffee like true Bulgarians.

In the grassy and tree-lined island in the center of the main street, Broadway, there are benches full of old and young men playing what I think is majong and gossiping in Spanish. It's the gossiping that reminds me of Bulgaria. The game-playing actually reminds me of Turkey as men love to get together and play backgammon at tea shops.

That's all. Everything else is extremely different.

I've been trying to get a part-time job so I don't run out of money. It hasn't been going too well but I'm going to keep plugging away.

School is really difficult right now. A lot of reading. A lot of studying. A lot of pressure. I'm trying to get used to being a student again and it's proving difficult. Though, I'm loving this really intellectual environment. I feel my brain burning and I love the challenge of keeping up with all of the other students. It's been fun and interesting and a completely different experience than the one I was living in Bulgaria.

I can't really think of anything else to add.

If I do, I'll let you know.

Okay. Ciao ciao.

-Age