beautiful

This is probably not the post you think it’s going to be.

Unless, by some chance, you divined from that title that this would be the first installment in a series of undefined length in which I explain why I have chosen to identify myself as a feminist.

For a long time, I had self-identified as a “dictionary-definition-feminist,” by which I meant that I supported equal rights and opportunities for men and women based on the assumption that they are of equal intrinsic worth. I wanted to avoid all the bra-burning baggage that comes with that loaded f-word: feminism. Ugh.

That was my reaction, too. As far as I was concerned, since women are pretty much legally equal to men, there was no need to resort to such violent radical causes.

So what changed? What incited me to take this loaded adjective and apply it to myself? I think, for me, it began with the courage to take this word, somehow both infamous and nebulous, and mold my own definition. The moment I realized that I was more than a shy dictionary-definition-feminist—that I felt pressed to define it for myself and then pin it unflinchingly to my identity—was the moment I realized that there are serious problems with the expectations and treatment of women today: problems that are uniquely feminine.

That, for me, is feminism: looking beyond legal equality to acknowledge the ideological problems with the treatment of women in the world. And I mean the modern, Western world, in what I would call mainstream society. There are obviously sick and disturbing issues that affect women in other countries and, illegally, even in our own—legal inequalities and sexual slavery, to name just a couple—but, rather than dwelling on issues that all of us easily condemn, I want to address subtler injustices.

[A side-note here: Men, my self-identification as a feminist does not imply any belief that there is nothing wrong with the cultural views, expectations, and treatment of men. I’ve rolled my eyes at those sitcom dads, too. However, arguing that men are misrepresented or mistreated is not a valid argument against feminism; it is a separate argument altogether. You can call it ‘masculinism’ if you like. I will not comment on it in this post.]

There’s a boy band playing on American radio stations right now called One Direction. The band is made up of five English and Irish teenagers named Louis, Harry, Zayn, Liam, and Niall (embarrassingly enough, I knew all those names from memory), and their number-one song is an infectiously catchy piece of work called “What Makes You Beautiful.” The boys are cute. The song is cute. It’s in my Spotify library. It’s not my intention to pick on One Direction—I mean, I doubt they actually write their own music, and even if they do, they’re a teenaged boy band—but I think this song is an excellent example of the subtle unfairness levied against women. I could have picked another example (“You’re Beautiful” by James Blunt is pretty asinine) but this one seemed particularly relevant. The lyrics are automatically endearing, especially the bridge and chorus:

Everyone else in the room can see it

Everyone else but you

(chorus)

Baby you light up my world like nobody else

The way that you flip your hair gets me overwhelmed

The way you smile at the ground it ain’t hard to tell

You don’t know (oh oh)

You don’t know you’re beautiful

If only you saw what I could see

You’d understand why I want you so desperately

Right now I’m looking at you and I can’t believe

You don’t know (oh oh)

You don’t know you’re beautiful (oh oh)

That’s what makes you beautiful

 My initial reaction, like most of the females below 40 in America, was “Awwwwww.” Harmless, right? And really sweet. But the more I thought about it, the more it bothered me.

The song appeals to us as women because, to put it bluntly, we all think we’re ugly. Maybe not all the time, maybe not even most of the time, but we have been conditioned to hunt down our flaws and spend all our time loathing them and loathing ourselves. Believe me, I’ve spent enough time consumed in self-hatred to write pages more on it, but I don’t think I need to. We are all well-versed in this. The idea that some cute British boy is in the corner watching you flip your hair and about thinking how beautiful you are, even as you’re wallowing in the misery of your ugliness—that’s pretty appealing. So “What Makes You Beautiful” is a positive message for women, right? It encourages them to believe that they are beautiful, even when they don’t believe it.

Not quite.

Jeopardy-style, if the question is the title of the song, “What Makes You Beautiful,” then the answer is (roughly summarized) “your ignorance of your own physical attractiveness.” By comforting us in our self-consciousness and self-loathing, the song affirms that it’s our insecurity that makes us attractive.

Yeah, that’s harshly put. And (gasp) heaven forbid that women run to the other extreme: vanity, that most quintessential female sin. There are certainly enough stereotypes about women spending all their money on beauty products and all their time in front of mirrors. But here’s a hint: a woman who spends all of her time looking in mirrors isn’t doing it because she feels good about herself. 

Sure, there are songs about women who feel good about the way they look. But quite frankly, the woman in said songs tends to portrayed as, well, a witch-with-a-capital-B. Obviously, in reality, there are women who fall between the two extremes. But for One Direction, at least, an attractive woman (er, girl?) is one who doesn’t know that she’s beautiful. The whole romantic attraction narrated in “What Makes You Beautiful” hinges on the fact that the female in question feels bad about herself. Lines like “You’re insecure, don’t know what for…Don’t need makeup to cover up / Being the way that you are is enough” seem to imply that the male speaker in the song wants the girl to feel good about herself, but the bottom line is that her appearance has earned his approval. And if she doesn’t remain in this place of self-consciousness, then she will cease to be beautiful. Here it is: “You don’t know you’re beautiful—that’s what makes you beautiful.” It’s an impossible standard to meet: women are expected to be attractive, but not try; to be beautiful, but not know it.

But the real problem with the song is the one implicit in the song’s title, the one that isn’t even addressed in the song at all because it is so obvious to us: the idea that being beautiful is enough. If physical appearance weren’t the utmost standard for attractiveness, we’d listen to “What Makes You Beautiful” and say, “…so what?” Obviously, there are plenty of songs addressed to women that talk about more than beauty; there are even a few that don’t talk about it at all. But there are songs like this one and songs like “You’re Beautiful” that fall into that heinous fallacy: what is beautiful is good and desirable.

Based on my observations, this is overwhelmingly (if not entirely) a female problem in the music industry. Look, I’m not a guy, I’ve never been a guy, I don’t know what it’s like to be a guy, and I know that society places unfair expectations on all of us to be physically attractive. But the word beautiful—used only in reference to females, unless you’re being ironic or hyperbolic or singing about Jesus—has somehow become the highest piece of praise you can hand to a woman. Somehow, it’s taken on implications of worthiness and value that it, quite frankly, doesn’t  and shouldn't have.

 Imagine, with me, if James Blunt’s “You’re Beautiful” were addressed to a male from a female, instead of vice versa. The lyrics have been preserved below, with the word handsome substituted for beautiful (the closest equivalent I could come up with) and the appropriate gendered pronouns substituted where necessary.

Ahem.

My life is brilliant, my love is pure

I saw an angel, of that I’m sure

He smiled at me on the subway

He was with another [girl]…

(chorus)

You’re handsome, you’re handsome

You’re handsome, it’s true

I saw your face in a crowded place

And I don’t know what to do

‘Cause I’ll never be with you.

Not only is it a little creepy, it’s absolutely absurd. When it’s a male fantasizing about the beautiful woman he saw on the subway with someone else, it seems romantic; when it’s a woman who fantasizes about the handsome man she saw on the subway, it’s odd and glaringly shallow. “You’re handsome, it’s true”? Really? No one would buy it. And yet observing a woman’s beauty is enough reason for a man to declare her an “angel” and apparently fall in love with her, despite the fact that she’s already taken.

Which is why I consider this an issue of feminism. This is a female problem, and not, at least to the same extent, a human problem. Regardless of whether or not the glass ceiling still exists or whether or not there’s a wage gap, women are being told that to be desirable in every sense of the word is to be beautiful. The cultural expectation of a desirable man, by contrast, might include attractiveness, but is far more likely to be based on his successfulness. And while I am certainly not condoning this standard, at least it is based on something a man has achieved instead of something over which he has no control: a lucky combination of genes that happen to conform to society’s passing whims.

For women, to be “beautiful” is tantamount. It is the highest praise we can receive. It is the feminine superlative.

And that’s a problem.

power

You said my name the other day—

not addressing me, of course, but in reference to

someone or something else—

but I heard it, through a circus of noises.

It jarred me and it pleased me, hearing the image of

your lips and tongue and teeth measuring out the vowels and consonants

Into three heaping syllables that equal me.

I say your name, too, sometimes.

Never near you—

where you could hear it and think on

the intimacy of your name residing in my brain and 
slipping out and off my tongue—

but quietly and 
only when I am alone.

Maybe someday, I will find out what our names sound like

together.

clockwork

Green sunlight falls in a stretched-out grid on the floor:

the blooming of a new summer, and 
it was in the dying days of last summer

that you happened.

Across the ocean, perhaps your world is blushing green, too, but I imagine

that the pink-white teardrop blossoms fall not to sidewalks, but to rivers,

in a carpet cleaved by sunburnt punts.

I used to measure out the never-narrowing space--
between there and here--
by the intervals on my wristwatch.

A moment ago, I discovered that I am too used to sidewalks

to remember how many tablespoonfuls of time stretch between us.

Here my back is to you, and the sun is falling.

I know, at least, that it has already fallen where you are

and this might make me feel better.

But I’m not sure if it does or not.

misplaced

I dreamt of cobblestones and woke up with a sore neck.

These days, I am constantly waking to find myself

assaulted by grating inconveniences.

           

            The desk is too low, or else my chair too high,

            for me to cross one leg over another.

            The handle on my hot teacup is too small

            for three fingers, and too large for two.

            And seatbelts are always ignoring my shoulder

            to chafe at my neck.

Here it is: I no longer fit in the life that was mine.

I am conscious of my own breathing

and now the breathing is drudgery.

eponymous

Virginia

Is a name invented for a

New land in a New World, and named for her:

The Tudor Rose.

Power made untouchable through purity.

Elegance, I think, and composed charm,

And perhaps the well-mannered ease of the Old South.

Ginger,

by contrast,

is an ugly root: bulbous and pungent

And good for nausea, apparently.

But it can also mean mettle—“sass,” some might say.

Not quite brazen. Cheeky, perhaps, or spirited:

Leavening conversation with a sprinkling of spice.

I am never sure which one I am

or which one I want to be. 

(assignment: write a poem about your name.)

sinking city

Venice

by day is bright and cramped. The crowd

of sweaty tourists seeps through tangled streets, loud

and greedy. Sundown, and they are gone, by train or boat.

They leave their rubbish and refuse. It floats

in the canals and blankets the flagstone streets.

At night,

San Marco is quiet and cool.

Forgotten laundry flutters, and moonlight pools

on the wavering water. Empty gondolas thud

against each other, and out of the mud

under bridges, rats surface to see the stars.

(assignment: constrained syllables. compare the corresponding lines in each stanza.)

con estasi soave

I think I was made for music—

            that, coiled around my bones and

            clenched in my muscles, are

                        melodies

            taut and tense.

I think I was made for music. but

I can’t be sure.

I am silent, static.

until you

cradle me to your shoulder, and

press me to your cheek, and

lift your bow to hover above my veins—taut, tense—

a breath.

then a slippery scrape: like rosined horsehair over bright strings

and

music

quivers through my blood vessels. back again, and

vibrato thrums over my skin; again, and I am

surging, swelling, soaring.

I am static and silent

but you make me sing.

the title: a musical notation; italian for "with gentle ecstasy."

Gone

(assignment: write about something you’ve never experienced.)

My tongue feels too big for my mouth, and

Someone else’s fingers prod

My numb lips

Coasters

Where are the coasters? I forgot to use one

I press the glass to my face, but the condensation

Is long since gone I exhale

and swipe my tongue through the film of fog

Fingerprints! No matter

The liquid will be warm, but it is brown

and I think will burn the itch in my throat

My lips buzz

Has gravity always been down?

On Facing The Reality of Leaving

As the tradition goes, I’m feeling the most inspired to blog when I have the least time to do it and other needs are far more immediately pressing. Exactly twenty-four hours from right now (3:41 PM), I will be pushing my bicycle out of the Vines’s bike shed and up the gravel slope that leads to the driveway, then whooshing down the hill and pedaling to Norham Gardens for my C.S. Lewis tutorial. And, as of right now (3:44 PM), I have not a single original word written on my essay.

For the past few weeks, it’s been difficult to focus on academics—even to focus on enjoying Britain, England, Oxford, and the Vines—because I feel crushed under the pressing weight of everything I’m about to lose. Because, twenty-four hours and two weeks from right now (3:47 PM), I will, geographically, be somewhere over the Atlantic, but more significantly, flying away from Oxford. Everything tells me that the short-term nature of my time here should have sharpened its sweetness, and perhaps it has; perhaps, if my stay were more permanent, I soon would grow indifferent to the narrow little cobblestoned alleyways and the charming post boxes and the weathered spires of the colleges and churches. Perhaps I would tire of everything (huge paned windows with sills wide enough to sit on, leather couches to sit in and not on, and, beyond words I am capable of forming, the people) about the Vines. Perhaps. I doubt it.

It seems impossible for me to focus on C.S. Lewis and Shakespeare and, yes, even you, Jane Austen when I don’t know when (or even, heaven forbid, if) I’ll ever see Sarah, or Hannah, or Jonathan again. Sarah and I went to a Christmas crafts fair at our little church on Friday night and, in the midst of stitching felt flowers and birds, a lady, noting our non-English accents, asked where we were from. “Arkansas, I said, “in the South,” while Sarah answered, “Canada, actually—Ontario.” The woman laughed. “Practically opposite ends, then!” She didn’t mean any harm, and she didn’t do any, but she did probe (unknowingly) an already-aching hurt.

Considering that—to my knowledge—nearly everyone who reads this blog is at home in America, this will not be a pleasant post to read. All I can say is that I’m sorry for my gratuitous whining about leaving, but please note that my sadness is because of the leaving Oxford, not because of the coming home. Loving England hasn’t lessened my love for America. Perhaps, in the aforementioned theoretical situation in which I came to England permanently, and my return to America wasn't a sure thing, secured in a pre-booked flight, I would long for America in the same way I long for Oxford even before I’ve left it. And it isn’t precisely that I don’t want to fly home for family and friends and Christmas two weeks from tomorrow; it’s that I know I can never, ever come back.

Oh, certainly, with the time and money, I can book a flight to Heathrow, pop on the Tube and step off at the Oxford City Centre any time I please. But I can never enter this moment again. This semester is, I think, best explained when encapsulated into a single moment. I can have a drink in the Eagle and Child or go see Wycliffe Hall or, yes, go back to the Vines, but the moment will have passed—the dear old house I want to call “mine” will belong to new students, and even I will be different. I know that even I, by then, will have changed, and it will be normal and even healthy that I will not love Oxford and the Vines in the same way that I do now. Logically, I know this. But I’m terrified for this moment to end, and I know I’m helpless to stop it from ending. I want to make the most of the moment before it slips past. I want to gorge myself on Oxford. I want to wander down High Street looking up at the stars and ride the bus into town alone, lights flashing by outside my window, and I want to play the card games I haven’t made the time to play and I want to have a tremendous Christmas carol sing-a-long around the Vines keyboard; I want to drink PG Tips with milk and sugar in one of the good mugs and talk about feminism or “Buffy the Vampire Slayer” or political philosophy; I want to love purely and without waste in the time I have left.  

How can I possibly write about the symbol of the veil in Till We Have Faces when I feel so overcome by the need to not waste the last of my Oxford moment?

Current time: 4:41 PM. Twenty-three hours until tutorial.

Fifteen days until home.

Home for Christmas

     Twilight is falling over Headington.

   The streetlights have come on, and store displays shine out over the street. A young woman cycles past the almost-deserted Starbucks where I am; she’s bundled up in a scarf and mittens, and I feel even cosier in the dim amber lighting. My macchiato is long cold, but Billie Holliday whisper-croons through my headphones, and I feel a little shiver of sheer joy. I can almost taste it: the arrival of the holiday season, and that particular magic it brings to night-time in the city.

     I can almost taste the holiday season, not exploding onto supermarket shelves and window displays, but creeping out slowly: it is the warm autumn sun glimmering on red-and-gold-and-brown leaves, wet on the pavement as I pedal hard through the crisp air; it is the taste of pumpkin and nutmeg in the muffins I made from Mom’s recipe (almost like home but not quite, like everything in England); it is soft sweaters and mittens and the homey warmth of a scarf around my neck; it is 1940s Christmas music playing (only through my headphones, because it isn’t socially acceptable to play Christmas music yet, but I still take a quiet comfort in listening alone, anyway).

     I think I expected that summer fading and mellowing into autumn and, in turn, chilly autumn days portending frosty winter ones would make me even more homesick. After all, we so often associate the holiday season with home and loved ones that, I feared, the anticipation of Christmas might feel stale and hollow. But I think the opposite is happening. I haven’t run away from the holiday season; the holiday season has come to me in Oxford, and it feels oh-so-much like home.

I Have Confidence in Sunshine

Clearly, good intentions of regular blogging have fallen to the wayside as my academic Oxford career has accelerated. Perhaps “fallen to the wayside” is too passive a metaphor—“ripped to bloody, mangled carcasses by the savage attacks of academia” might be more accurate.

A quick and dull summation of what I’ve been doing: Monday-Friday, I get up hopefully by 7:30 (but usually at 8:00) in order to bike into the SCIO offices by 9:30. We’ve been progressing through a series of documentaries by Simon Schama called “A History of Britain,” each segment of which lasts an hour. 10:30 is tea. At 11:00 we have a lecture—a few of my favourites have been on English perceptions of the Revolutionary War, John Locke and his philosophy, and women writers from the Restoration up to Jane Austen. Noon is the long-awaited lunchtime.

Technically after that, we’re free for the day—but of course, no one is really free. It’s our assigned case studies that have really been keeping me busy. The case studies are essentially 2,000- to 2,500-word research papers in which we choose from a list of questions about British history, literature, philosophy, et cetera, and make an argument to answer the question. My first question, due last week, was:

1.      “The women of the Arthur legend proved more problematic for later interpreters than did the men.”

And yes, you smart-alecks, I realize that technically that wasn’t a question. We have the next two case studies due next week—a very sneaky act on the part of our professors to fool us into thinking we have more time to write than we actually do, if you ask me.

What’s that you say? Are you insinuating that I’m writing this blog post as a form of procrastination?

…I can neither confirm nor deny that theory.

Next two questions I’m working on are:

2.      Are Shakespeare’s women representative of his age?

and

3.      Do screen adaptations of Austen betray her writing or, as Butler has claimed, signify its universality?

I realize that looking at all of these questions together makes me look like a blazing feminist. Hmm. Draw your own conclusions.

Basically, writing one of these suckers means a lot of thinking, a lot of writing, and a lot of reading.  A LOT of reading. The nature of the questions is really quite subversive—you think it’ll be fairly easy to answer and then as you’re researching, before your eyes, it mutates into this monstrous task. So many definitions to nail down and clarifications to make. It’s like Hercules and the Hydra.

The good news is that it doesn’t seem insurmountable. Difficult, sometimes excruciating, yes—but doable. I feel especially good after receiving my first case study evaluation back yesterday. I had been so nervous about the silly thing. I even had a nightmare that Oxford graded on a 14-point scale and I was awarded a 2. While my actual grade will remain a mystery until the end of term (a terrifying prospect for those of us who are extremely grade-motivated), I received some great feedback.

No, Ginger, you didn’t just get here by some fluke. If you work hard, you can compete academically.

[DULL SCHOLARLY REPORT ENDS HERE]

Overall, I’ve been surprised by my lack of homesickness. I had expected that the Missing would be an overwhelming longing for everything, and it isn’t at all. It’s strange, little things. I miss seeing Lydia’s volleyball games. I miss JBU chapel. I miss driving in the car blasting music with Luke and trying to pitifully hold up my end of a philosophical conversation with Kyle. I miss choir more than I ever anticipated.

Lately, I’ve had this peculiar longing lately for Christmas. I know it’s not even October yet, but I want to decorate a tree and listen to Nat King Cole Christmas albums and be a part of that mysterious Something Bigger in choir as we learn unspeakably beautiful Latin pieces for Candlelight. Christmas merchandise is beginning to trickle onto the shelves at Tesco. Today I caught a glimpse of some kitschy Santa Claus candy and felt such an instantaneous, visceral longing for home and family that I almost felt dizzy.

The moment came and went, and I emerged from the fluorescent grey light of Tesco and into the rare Oxford sunshine. Hopping on my bike to begin the long trek home, I felt that inner glow of knowing that everything will be okay, that I can do more than just survive this semester; I can thrive and learn and grow. I have confidence in sunshine, yes, but I also have confidence in me.

Cycling Perils

For students in Oxford, there’s one way to get around: your legs. Unfortunately, walking everywhere is both tiresome and time-consuming, so Oxford’s young academics use their legs to a different end: cycling. “Ubiquitous” would be the word to describe cycling here in Oxford. Bikes are everywhere. Bikers are everywhere. Bike racks are everywhere, and they’re always full.

The Vines is beautifully situated just outside town, which means a forty-minute walk or a brisk fifteen-minute bike ride to get to the City Centre. Perpetually sleepy college students+extra time to sleep in=bike. In theory, it’s a lovely idea: hop on, cycle through the quaint city streets, hop off, hair perfectly wind-tousled and cheeks glowing from the crisp autumn air. But the reality is a bit more…indecorous.

My new friend (and roommate) Sarah took our inaugural ride last night. A la If You Give A Mouse A Cookie, it all started with a cup of tea. Just a simple cup of tea. We started the tea kettle, placed the teabags in our chosen mugs, retrieved the sugar…and then realized that there was no milk in the house. English air, for those of you who’ve never experienced it, gives one a profound longing for tea, but only if there is milk to put in it. Doing without? Unacceptable. We decided to bike to a convenience store up the street. After spending an embarrassing amount of time trying to clip the headlights onto our bikes, we set off.

 Problem 1: the so-called “bike lane” amounts to a painted yellow lines right next to the sidewalk. The infinitesimal space between the yellow lines? That was our safe zone. All I heard was a panicked shriek behind me before a double-decker bus screamed past. None of the cars ever seemed quite far enough away for my liking.

Problem 2: Due to the general demand for bikes in the greater Oxford area, bike theft is a huge problem. We were given specific instructions on how and where to lock our bikes and told to remove the headlights when we dismounted so they wouldn’t get “nicked.” Unfortunately, we were not instructed on how to deal with shady men offering to give us £300 for the bikes and bring us “free” ones in return.

Problem 3: A bike is rendered useless when its chain slips off the gears. This evening, we had just enjoyed a delightful, nearly surreal dinner of fish and chips in the Eagle and Child, strolled through St. Giles’s Fair (the oldest in Europe, dating back to the thirteenth century), and were retrieving our bikes when it became glaringly obvious that mine wouldn’t work. A cursory glance revealed that the chain had slipped off. I ended up with grease all over my fingers, but I wrestled that sucker back where it belonged.

From there, it was a rainy half-hour bike ride uphill to The Vines—a good cardio workout and mildly unpleasant, but hardly fraught with peril. And when we finally tumbled in the door at the end of it, chilled, sweaty, and with rubbery legs, there was a cup of tea waiting for us. With milk.

The Sun Also Rises

For all my moaning yesterday, I woke up to have a beautiful sunny day in Oxford. Amazing what a little sleep will do—or a lot of sleep. I think I clocked in at twelve hours. Twelve lovely, luxurious hours.

Not to mention that I can never stay upset for very long. It’s too exhausting. I simply don’t have the stamina to keep it up.

I haven’t been feeling as homesick today—the wonder of walking the Oxford streets and realizing that this is home for the next three months took away my sadness. All of us at The Vines were also fitted for our bikes, today. I picked a lovely red model with a darling little basket up front. Yet to be named, but probably something Shakespeare in honor of my primary tutorial. Lady Macbeth, perhaps? We shall see.

It is funny, though, how the strangest things incite the homesickness. I had a bad moment earlier when, of all things, I pulled my winter parka out of the vacuum bag so it wouldn’t be permanently smushed. I had just taken off my tights because it was so warm outside and, as I knelt on the floor holding my parka, I realized that I would still be here when it was cold enough to wear it. It’s thinking about the long-term that brings all the anxiety and homesickness. Best way to cope, I’ve learned, is to take it one day at a time.

And administer heavy daily doses of Facebook.

With most of the introductions over (I haven’t met everyone yet—there’s forty-one students living in The Vines alone, plus fourteen downtown in the North Wing), today was a get-to-know-each-other-better day. Usually, for me, this is the most awkward stage in a relationship: past the cursory remarks but not yet to the conversations about shared experiences. But I’ve learned two things.

Thing I Learned Number 1: Everyone here has similar interests and is of a similar temperament.

Generally speaking, we all love literature and history, steer clear of math and the sciences, and have a bad case of Anglophilia. We’re all a bit eccentric in our own way, too—I met a girl who collects toilet flappers. After a trip to town this afternoon, I walked in the common room to find everyone watching Jeeves and Wooster. Best of all, after my new roommate Sarah said her dream is to open a children’s bookstore, I cautiously asked her if she’d seen You’ve Got Mail…AND IT’S HER FAVORITE MOVIE. It’s like I’ve discovered a whole houseful of soulmates. 

Thing I Learned Number 2: Everyone is nervous about getting to know everyone else.

                Nearly everyone I’ve met is a self-described introvert. It’s scary and draining for all of us to be interacting with fifty-plus people we’ve never met before.  Technically, that doesn’t make the process any easier, but it is comforting.

                Another good thing is that I’m almost taking this as a second chance at freshman orientation. I’ve learned to be so much more comfortable with who I am in the past two years at JBU. I’ll never be the life of the party, but, incredibly enough, I can hold up my end of a conversation with people I’ve just met. I’m even getting better at lighthearted banter. Hoorah! It’s a nice feeling. I wish I had been the person I am now back when I started school. But then, I suppose that this is a wish I’ll keep repeating the rest of my life. Best to learn from the past in order to do better in the present.

Well, that degenerated into moralizing drivel. Sorry. Overall, a lovely day in Oxford!

Hello/Goodbye

Moving to a new place is a confusing snarl of “goodbyes” and “hellos.” In the week before I left Siloam Springs, I was running around trying to give a goodbye hug to everyone, and now I’m stuck in a loop of “Hi-I’m-Ginger”s and “Where-are-you-from?”s and “What-are-you-taking?”s. It’s emotional whiplash: from the deepest expressions of love to the shallowest formulae of getting-to-know-you.

I say this because it’s been a long time since I’ve felt as loved and valued as I do having just left for the semester. Saying goodbye for three and a half months has, in one sense, been beautiful, because it’s forced me to be honest about how much I love my family and friends (and, fortunately, vice versa). No kidding around, no sarcastic teasing, just “I love you. I’ll miss you. I’m so blessed that you’re in my life.”

Conversely, it’s terrible coming to a new place and having to forge new emotional connections. It isn’t that I dislike any of the other students I’ve met here; it’s that I don’t know them. Without shared time and experiences, they’re strangers that I’m forced to engage with on a purely shallow level. I have no doubt that I’ll grow to love many people here, but I wish I could just jump straight to the emotional intimacy and skip the pleasantries.