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Power

About two and a half years ago I was in a car accident that left me with a concussion and severe whiplash. I could not move my arms above my head, turn my head, or hold myself up straight. I am deeply thankful and lucky that nothing more serious happened, but regardless, I find myself now looking back to that period as a time when my mind shifted.

My accident happened the fall of my senior year of highschool. By spring, I was still in physical therapy and also graduating. The next fall, I was a freshman at NYU. The next fall I was in Buenos Aires studying abroad. Life just kept on going, and I slowly stopped going to physical therapy, having regained my range of motion months later.

But nothing changed the way I thought of myself. I was broken, weak, and powerless. Things kept happening to me, and I had no control over them. My accident was the perfect excuse, the pain, the loss in muscle mass, the anxiety--it all collided to form a new worldview that meant I was simply never going to be that person--whatever she was. I started to see my body as simply a vessel to carry my brain, the only part that was worth anything. I made jokes, made excuses, pretended not to care. I hated my body for being the way it was, the way it looked, felt, and ached.

I honestly do not know what it was about January that changed my mind. If you would have asked me, I would have said that pretty, skinny people don’t run in the middle of winter. Regardless, I downloaded Couch to 5K and started on the very slow process of training. It began with 30 seconds, then 90, then 3 minutes, 5, 8--and the other day I ran 20 minutes without stopping.

Just last week I was out running about half an hour before sunset, and the sky was a mix of purple and orange--my feet were pounding the pavement, and my breath was pushing and pulling in and out like the tide. And there was a moment there, when for the first time in a long time, I felt in control. I was present, I was strong, I was powerful. This change in me, it was not happening to me. No, I was changing myself. I made that decision, and I continue to make it every day.

I am not best friends with my body, but I do think I’ve stopped loathing her. I’ve slowly started to trust her, to understand her, and most importantly to believe in her. I’m working on forgiving myself for the pain I feel and the mistakes I make. And I’m working on finding peace and pleasure. But I have to say, I feel a sense of power that I’ve never had before because somehow now I can see what I can and cannot do in the same lens. That which I cannot do is slowly becoming clearer--it is no longer this dark place of impossibility and instead this place of slow, steady progress. I cannot tell you how magical that feels.

Vampire Diaries is over and I don’t know what to do

It is officially the end of a legacy. September 2009 I was in 7th grade. I had read all the books and discovered it before the TV show. Even before Twilight. My InstantMessanger profile was: EmilytheVampie. In the midst of what was undoubtedly an emotional period of my childhood came an obsession not only with the supernatural but also with reading and writing. My bookcase became my prized possession. In fact, I even had a library system with my friends (there are ancient excel sheets of who checked out what book--it was that real).

Later that year, the author of the new Vampire Academy series came to our local book store. I was third in line to get my book signed. Here it was! An author in the flesh! Someone whose ideas made it to the actual bound page. She was everything I ever wanted to be. I wrote novels like other kids won soccer games. McWierdo’s School for Gifted and Talented Weirdos, Letters to the World, The Dream Chronicles...perhaps the only way I was able to survive adolescence was by creating those imaginary worlds.

And now it’s over.

The Vampire Academy series has long since ended, the Shadowhunters series is over, Harry Potter is over, Lord of the Rings and the Hobbit are both gone, the Hunger Games is done, even Game of Thrones is ending. And now this. My first literary love is gone. My childhood is officially over.

I keep flashing back to that moment when I met my 13-year-old idol. I can still feel the excitement, the way the world felt at my fingertips. Anything was possible back then. Writers got published, TV shows got made, vampires were nice. Now I’m 20 years old and the world is not that simple. But, I keep that moment tucked deep inside, remembering the way my imagination was filled to the brim, the wanderlust of creativity, the visualization of a bright future...the magic.

Here’s to the end of an era.

Reflections on Time

One of my goals right now is to work on reducing the amount of times I feel mentally exhausted. You know, that feeling when all of your willpower breaks and the dam of impulses, cravings, and addiction to netflix kicks in. I had a therapist who once said it was like fighting a war with yourself before actually getting to the real battlefield. So, I was listening to the Psychology Podcast and Bonnie St. John was on with an interesting theory of micro resilience. She argued that compared to macro resilience, which is commonly used in reference to resilience against combat, divorce, and life crisis, micro resilience is the daily, hourly, choices and practices that help us to function better.

In my Jewish Learning class, we recently did some reading on Shabbat and discussed the distinction between space and time. Space itself has become a somewhat testy word (safe space) and is inextricably connected to things, for things, not ideas or minutes, take up space. The reading concluded that Shabbat is not a practice of creating space, or even creating time for that matter, but sanctifying time.

But I’m a college student. My time is rigidly scheduled between 18 credits, an internship, a part-time job, clubs, and friends. In fact, every Monday and Wednesday I am literally booked from 12:30-4:55. So how do I find sanctify time? What even does it mean to sanctify time? How do I pack micro resilience into the minutes of my day? How do I prevent the mental exhaustion from hitting Tuesday at 3pm?

Right now, I’m not sure I have the answer. But in the words of that same therapist, I have to change all of the “I should” to “I’m working on it” thoughts. So, right now, it means deciding that in fact there is time to do simple things, like a 30-minute jog, walking instead of taking the bus to school, cooking a homemade meal, going to services on Friday nights, reading books, taking deep breaths. Right now, I’m working on understanding how time doesn’t have to be something that just happens to me or passes me by--it can be something I can control.

On Being Alone

I’ve been reflecting a lot about what being alone really means. This semester, I’ve had a very hard time making friends or feeling actually connected to people. So this thanksgiving weekend, which is also my birthday week, I found myself alone. I read over 300 pages of Game of Thrones (3rd book btw) while sitting at dinners and lunches alone, saying, “yes just one person” nearly 30 times. I ate Thanksgiving dinner by myself--the familiar mashed potatoes and turkey rubbing uneasily with a dull pain and constant homesickness. And I got my birthday dinner all alone, sitting outside surrounded by strangers speaking another language in another country. I perfected the art of selfies for lack of anyone to take my picture. I booked and stayed in a hotel by myself for the first time. I took a tour with a group of people two times my age. I bought a bottle of wine and drank alone.

But in therapy, I often speak of the difference between being alone and being lonely. This was perhaps the most difficult weekend of my life, but it was also incredibly refreshing. For one thing, I felt incredibly strong and independent--walking through the streets of Uruguay’s Colonia, Montevideo, and Punta del Este all by myself--doing whatever I wanted to do and not giving a damn about anyone else. For a few hours, I found myself forgetting the friends I didn’t have or the family who was far away and it was just me--exploring, learning, living. And it was deeply refreshing to just be me, not answering to anyone, not worrying about anyone...just me, making an effort to enjoy my birthday. It was perhaps the first time I really made that decision--to enjoy being alone, to enjoy simply being. In other times I might have regretted not being with anyone, or envied those who were in large party groups...but this time, I just went on my own. And I felt free.

I think something lifted from me that I’ve been carrying for a very long time: the belief that I need others to have fun, or enjoy myself. I’ve just now started to realize how stupid it is to degrade yourself to the point that you cannot enjoy a moment without someone else--this idea that you are not good enough alone to live a pleasurable life, this idea that you are always needing someone else to make something worthwhile.

I’ve realized that I can exist on my own and that’s perfectly fine--no it’s actually great.

#thisisnyu

Letters to the world

When I was in high school, I often participated in National Novel Writing Month each November. Vowing to write at least 50,000 words—the moth became a time for a sort of emptying of the soul. To push and push until there it was—everything you could possibly contribute to the world, all on a couple pieces of paper. One of those novels that I worked on for more than two years was called Letters to the World, and each chapter was written as a letter addressed: Dear world. It was a dystopian world where science and religion collided in an epic love story.

As we reach nearly half way through November, I’m reminded of that novel as thousands of people begin to address the world in response to the U.S election. I’m reminded of what it felt like to create something new in a time that is supposed to be for hopeful beginnings but now seems more like the apocalypse. I’m reminded of what it’s like to fall in love with a fictional world—perhaps the world of campaign promises. But most of all, I’m reminded of that feeling—of addressing the entire world. I mean, I’m here in the southern hemisphere, traveling, speaking another language, living another culture. I feel more a part of the world than I ever did back home in Maryland. Yet in the past few days, I’ve felt like my letter to the world needs to be an apology. There are so many things happening right now that I am devastated by, so many emotions that hit me every day and perhaps are more pertinent because of and despite of the fact that I am from the USA, because I was raised to be proud of my nationality, because I was raised to believe in our democracy…Yet, when I sit across from my Argentine host mom and she asks me what I think of the future, I get so nauseous I might throw up. She tells me it’s not the end of the world—this woman who has survived a Dictatorship, a major economic meltdown, and a radical shift in ideology—she tells me it is not the end of the world. How do I, as a citizen of the country the world looks up to, tell her I’m scared.

Then I realize, what sort of privilege have I had all these years to never feel scared in my country before? I self-identify as queer, as a woman, as half Jewish, as a feminist, as a student—all of these identities have been persecuted before, but I have never felt threatened by holding them. There is something so powerful about coming to that realization while walking the same streets from which over 30,000 dissidents, many of them students my age were abducted, tortured, and disappeared only 30 years ago.

We visited the Escuela Mécanica de la Armada, the Naval training center that, during the Dictatorship, was used as a torture center. We walked past the infirmary where pregnant mother’s children were taken from their wombs. We read the names and saw the faces of the thousands of young people whose screams once filled the air. We payed our respects to the Madres de la Plaza de Mayo who to this day, still demand information about their lost children.

This semester away is indefinitely about identity, about discovering who I am away from all the things that made me: family, food, language, home. But I think I’m also beginning to grasp the complex intersections of privilege, fear, history, and future…and perhaps that’s even more important than figuring out who I am.

#thisisnyu

Una Madre De La Plaza De Mayo

I went to an event called “Mujeres Que Hacen Historia” at La Biblioteca Popular José Ingenieros (which, it turns out is actually an anarchist organization--no big deal--). In attendance was Sonia Sánchez, author of “Ninguna Mujer Nace Para Puta” (No woman was born to be a prostitute) and staunch anti-sex work activist, Gabriela Mansilla, author of “Yo Nena, Yo Princesa” (I baby, I princess) and trans activist, and finally Nora Cortinas, one of the founding Madres de la Plaza De Mayo.

The crowd erupted into applause when Nora, with her famous white headscarf with its hand stitched 1977, and a photo of her son, a desaparecido (disappeared), around her neck, walked into the room. In that moment you could feel the history in the air; it was a history I’d read about in my Gender Studies class, a history I’d seen on the tour of Buenos Aires, a history I’d told my friends about--but now it was a history that was alive. It was alive when she led the crowd in a chant, and when she praised the younger generation of activists sitting beside her. I haven’t quite grasped the enormity of what it meant to be in that room, to listen to their furtive (Spanish) words, or to buy their books. But I do know that it’s becoming a familiar feeling as I near a month in Buenos Aires--this sense of a revolution sitting in the dust, just waiting to be kicked up again.

#thisisnyu #buenosaires #nyubuenosaires #madres de plaza de mayo

Añoranza

Añoranza se significa: Sentimiento que causa el recuerdo de un bien perdido, nostalgia.

In English, feelings that cause a memory of something good that is lost, nostalgia. When said out loud, it almost sounds like what it means...a longing, a need, desire. It’s the kind of word to describe how I’m feeling on the second cold, rainy day in BA. It’s the let down of knowing I can’t celebrate welcome week in NYC with my friends, of not celebrating labor day sleeping in, of missing Space Market and Bobst...of missing home.

Of course, I shouldn’t be missing anything. Only yesterday, I visited the famous Teatro Colón and this past weekend San Isidro. I have tickets to see 2 Chellos and The Buenos Aires Philharmonic. But somehow, I still miss the familiarity of NYC (which, ironically, this time last year was a complete stranger to me). Maybe it’s the rain, but it definitely feels like añoranza. So if you’re out there in NYC, Maryland, or somewhere else (like Baba in SC) send me a little love from the states where they speak English and eat dinner at reasonable times (like come on dinner at 10pm?!) P.S Here’s a picture of Teatro Colón looking creepily like Phantom of the Opera-

#nyubuenosaires #thisisnyu #homesick

Survival Spanish

I’ve officially survived one week here in Buenos Aires and I can tell you one thing, eight years of spanish has barely taught me anything. There are little things I never thought about like how to say fork (tenedor) or menu (carta). Sometimes I feel like Ariel with her dinglehopper. It’s strangely disorienting to be a college age, well educated and independent person who doesn’t know the word for napkin--it’s a sort of speechlessness I’ve never experienced before.

So ordering in a restaurant without internet or a dictionary is quite the adventure. Knowing Argentina was famous for its meat, I was excited to order carne (meat) but, I had never thought before about how to order my meat. How do you say fillet or ribeye or flank steak? Or what about rare, medium rare? Moreover, the exchange rate is about 14.9 pesos to the dollar, so the cheapest price is $130 pesos (It’s strangely hard work to convince yourself that it’s okay to ‘spend’ that much on dinner). So I ordered the $130 peso steak, “asado de tira” and was promptly asked how I would like it cooked, to which I had no answer but mediano which actually refers to size and not actually medium rare. (I now know the correct term is jugoso or medio hecho).

Despite all of this, the meal was still incredibly good, especially since it was shared with my new (and also struggling) friends. I’ve now made a survival spanish set of flashcards with all the words for things I never learned...or words that online Argentines use. (Like, apparently Argentines use pileta instead of piscina to say pool??) But hey, at least now I know how to order a good steak.

#thisisnyu #nyubuenosaires #buenosaires

Hello!

Hi friends, it’s Emily. This will be where I share my journey as I go abroad to NYU Buenos Aires in the Fall. I’m really excited to share everything with all of you--I hope this blog can be somewhere for me to share, reflect, and understand my traveling experience in a deeper way. So, for those of you who are curious here’s the 101... Year: Class of 2019, Sophomore Major: Applied Psych, Global Public Health

Classes: La lengua de Buenos Aires, Cultures and Context, Health Policy in a Global World, Advanced Grammar and Composition (Spanish) Where will I stay: A homestay!

Spanish: I’ve been taking it for about 8 years now. I understand it better than I speak it, but maybe I’ll do a spanish blog once!

What I’ll do: Planning to work at Casa Ronald as a volunteer while continuing my position with the Empower Lab at NYU.

Where I’ll Go: Don’t know!! Looking for suggestions... :)

What I’m feeling.... Excited! It’s starting to hit me that this is actually happening!

~I’ll keep you updated!

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