The Terrible Twentys

I am 22, going on 23....right smack dab in the middle of what the New York Times article referred to as the "20-Somethings." According to the article, many young adults are experimenting and exploring during this stage of life, chasing adventure and figuring out the ups and downs that--supposedly--will set them on the right track for their future.

In some ways, I guess I'm the typical 20-something. I have a bachelor's degree, have been to Europe twice in the last year, and am heading over to Germany again with a Fulbright (aka, a prestigious time filler). Since graduating in June, I've held the same part-time job I've worked since high school and have lived at my parents' house, under my parents' insurance, eating my parents' food. I'm not financially independent.

And although I DO have a career plan and ideas of what I want to do for the rest of my life, I have yet to encounter the "primary psychological challenge" of this time period in my life. As the Times put it, "deciding whether to commit to a lifelong intimate relationship and choosing the person to commit to."

Alas, if it were only that simple. As if I could simply walk up to a line of eligible candidates and choose the person I want to commit my life to.

Intimacy has a nice ring to it; it's something that my very nature, along with the majority--if not all--of the human race, craves. Today, two dear friends (one since childhood and another close for the last two years) celebrated their marriages to their life partners. Watching my friend walk down the aisle, her white dress fluttering in the breeze drifting across our bare shoulders, I thought about how I'd like a wedding like that someday. A best friend, life long companion, intimate partner: I'd like it all, please.

So as far as choosing to commit, I've got that covered. It's just that the right person hasn't shown up yet.

And what's a girl supposed to do? Apparently, as a typical "20-something," I've got a host of other challenges on my plate. I can't stop my life until I can mark the little box. Wedding? Check!

I've always resented the thought of being studied, though. Maybe it was inherent fear, being the daughter of a psychologist, that my every move was somehow being analyzed. However, I want to fill these years to their fullest potential, not be stuck in a rut because I can't mark marriage off my list...yet.

In some respects, I'd like a little more credit than the Times seems to allot to my generation. We're all different, placed in circumstances that vary across economic and cultural lines, and it's really, really hard to lump us into one broad category. Period.

The final quote in the article was more to my liking: "To be a young American today is to experience both excitement and uncertainty, wide-open possibility and confusion, new freedoms and new fears...emerging adults develop skills for daily living, gain a better understanding of who they are and what they want from life and begin to build a foundation for their adult lives."

Sounds good to me.

The Blame Game

What did General Stanley McChrystal say that was bad enough to get him fired?

Waking up this morning, I googled the Rolling Stones article, determined to find out.

Reading Michael Hastings's account of McChrystal in the heart of his campaign, I was transported back to Krakauer's Where Men Win Glory, the last political non-fiction I'd read about Afghanistan and Iraq. Both authors clearly had a point to make about the war (in Afghanistan and in Iraq). Both intended to convey a message to the American people. I'm not sure Hastings's goal was to get McChrystal fired, but he definitely wanted to instill a sense of doom about our overseas campaign.

Everybody's got a bias--of course--and, for the majority of the American population, a worldview colored by either red or blue glasses. I just wish people would get past their party lines and take some time for critical analysis (and a hearty dose of common sense).

In order for that to happen, though, we've got to turn our pointer fingers back towards ourselves.

Sometimes reporters have a habit of weaving stories together in such a way that one individual is clearly indicted by a slew of evidence: carefully-placed quotations, particular setting details, and stylistic devices that make the most of their rhetorical impact.

What I wonder, though, is if Hastings or Krakauer ever stopped to question what he would have done if he were in the shoes of McChrystal or Bush, respectively.

Furthermore, I'm frustrated by the sentiment tossed around like a balled up piece of scratch paper. It's all so-and-so's fault.

Used to be, for the Democrats, it was Bush. Our failure to prevent 9/11. The economic crisis. The unemployment rate.

But today, the Republicans can't stop wagging their fingers at Obama. Because turns out he can't solve all the problems, after all.

The so-called progress in Afghanistan? Obama's using the same "lights in Kabul" line the Bush administration was using four years ago when there wasn't progress to report.

You can almost hear the "I told you so's" reverberating through the red states.

Saying that the President is hypocritical, though, doesn't solve the problem. Not at all. Do you want to step into his shoes?

I, for one, do not.

Frankly, I think Obama made the right decision by accepting McChrystal's resignation. But I also recognize that's one sticky situation to be in. Leadership, especially effective leadership, is never easy. And when you add staff members' failures or missteps to the mix, frustrations are bound to rise.

Letting a top military official go in the middle of a war is not how things were supposed to work out.

Which, inevitably, is always how things do work.

All in all, it's a complicated situation. Maybe if we can all stop playing the blame game long enough, we'll actually be able to learn to work together--to talk about the layers of the issue instead of arguing about who caused them in the first place.

On Graduating I.

Somehow, when I wasn't looking, the end of my collegiate career snuck up on me--well, the undergraduate part at least. I'm not even quite sure how the last papers got written; presumably, I did it, but the last few days are sort of a blur.

Saying goodbye has been the strangest part of this experience. Everything feels just a little anticlimactic and a little bit bittersweet.

Tonight I went out with a colleague and a professor...I should have done this a long time ago. Every time I think about the caliber of the faculty at Western, I'm quite amazed--and honored--that I've been allowed to form relationships and learn from such a quality and caring group of people.

But now that the last classes have been attended, the last papers written and turned in, I'm not sure what to think.

Like usual, I've been so busy, I haven't had time to reflect on the coming changes. And in a way, the changes won't occur all at once: next week I'll be back at the same job I had before I even started college. Only for three weeks, though.

Tomorrow, I'll go to the newspaper office, finish some billing, pack my stuff up, clean a little, and say a final farewell. It's hard to believe that I'm going to say goodbye to the people I've poured the last three years of my life into. It doesn't seem real that after Saturday, I won't be back in a couple days.

For such a big occasion, there's been a relatively small amount of fanfare. With technology (and facebook), of course it's easier to 'stay connected,' but virtual friendships lose their personality rather quickly.

I guess, all this just goes to say, I haven't felt closure yet. I'm ready to graduate, don't get me wrong, but I'll miss my Monmouth friends--it's been a good three years.

After all, it's Friday...

...and though it's sunny outside and though a weekend full of social plans looms ahead, I'm lost, for the moment, in my underground world. The quiet (empty) Journal office accommodates the steady click of my keyboard, while soft strains of piano music filter in from the outside lobby. For now, it's enough.

Soon, I'll lose myself in library journal stacks, steady preparation for upcoming presentations and papers a must. Today, I can linger just a bit longer, tipping the last drops of Diet Pepsi from my can, letting Nutella and yogurt-raisins flavor my tongue.

Sometimes I get stuck here: the hours roll by, each minute slipping, unnoticed, into the past. But in a few weeks, after I'm gone, I want to remember this light, this feeling, this smell.

Normally I bask in the busyness of the everyday, but let's not forget the pauses...after all, it's Friday.

Change of Plans

Getting to Germany has proved a little bit more complicated than originally anticipated--what with half a dozen doctor's appointments in the last week and at least that number of tiny vials of blood drawn from my arms.

A case of mild anemia earned me a repeat lab test this morning..."To make sure it's nothing serious." Fingers crossed that it's not.

However, more significant that my multiple medical appointments is the change of traveling plans, or more specifically, the lack of a particular traveling companion. Most of the time, you'd have to be crazy to give up a Fulbright--or you have to receive a better offer.

On Friday, while I was at work at the bakery, my friend received a phone call from Toronto. She'd been accepted to graduate school. The university's paying her to attend. Driving home that night, I called to congratulate her. Then I cried.

Only because I was excited for shared adventures. And only because our friendship is a study on grace and forgiveness.

True love is selfless, though. When September dawns with its seasons of goodbyes, I don't have to question whether or not I'll miss her smile. That much is a given.

But her dreams lead to Canada for now. Mine will still send me across the Atlantic.

Even though I know I'm leaving, too, and even though I'm already exited for reunions and the opportunities to make new friends, this season of dissemination still contains its share of sorrow.

Letting friends go has been a part of life since I graduated from high school. In the last four years, I've said goodbye and hello more often than I would have liked. Each friendship, like an annual flower, blooming vibrantly for a time and then lying dormant under the soil--not dead, but out of sight for awhile.

On a positive note, there's still the spring's season of blooms. This now is not over, and I'll take today, tomorrow, and this term--perhaps cherishing each moment that much more to redeem the time together.

I'm thrilled that the winter of waiting has burst into a more glorious future than she imagined. And though it's shorter than anticipated, I'm glad I get to bask in its brilliance for just a bit longer.

Dreaming Big and Bigger

"Go confidently in the direction of your dreams. Live the life you have imagined." Henry David Thoreau

When I transferred to Western three years ago, I registered as an English Major with a Music Minor; however, after finishing my LACC-required second year of German, I knew I wasn’t quite ready to be finished learning the language.

During my junior year, I switched my minor to German and started studying the language more intensively. I also applied for a summer journalism program in Berlin through the DAAD (German Academic Exchange Service). I’d been dreaming about a trip to Germany since spending my eighth grade lunch breaks in my favorite teacher’s classroom, learning the rudimentary building blocks of the language. The day I mailed that manila envelope containing the application, I knew I was shipping my dreams out with the daily post.

When I received my acceptance letter for that program, I was ecstatic. And I started dreaming even bigger: What about teaching English in Germany the year after I graduated? What about applying for a Fulbright?

After my summer in Berlin, including a 5-week internship at a daily newspaper, I had just started feeling like relationships with my German coworkers and friends were beginning to cement. But before those friendships had time to set, it was time for me to leave.

I got home from Europe at the beginning of September and rushed to pull together the final elements of my Fulbright. I met with Michele and the search committee, and then the waiting began.

Opening the letter announcing that I had been awarded a Fulbright paid English teaching assistantship in Germany instantly culminated the months of waiting and sparked a celebration. One of my first calls was to my friend, Allison Glasscock, who had also applied for a Germany Fulbright. She hadn’t received a letter that day, but I was thrilled to receive a call from her the next morning confirming her own Fulbright Award.

“Maybe we’ll be able to have an Allison-Erin Christmas,” Allison texted me later that Tuesday.

I quickly fired back an affirmative response, smiling at the thought of spending a year teaching English in the same country as one of my best friends.

Granted, the actual location of my teaching assistantship pends the committee’s receipt of my satisfactory bill of health. And, of course, I do have to actually graduate (as planned) in June.

However, although I’m thrilled Allison and I will both be teaching in Germany, I am thoroughly looking forward to integrating myself into the specific community to which I am assigned. My time at Western has centered around writing and involvement in the campus—especially through my work as a Writing Center tutor and three years of working with the Western Oregon Journal—and I’m excited to implement the technical and interpersonal skills I’ve learned in a new environment.

Outside of teaching, my expected community project in Germany will include some sort of theater endeavor—either hosting improv workshops or perhaps staging a full-fledged play. Theater’s been one of my passions since childhood, but since it wasn’t a career move, it’s been waylaid the last couple years.

After Germany, I’m planning on pursuing a journalistic career. Even though experts forecast a bleak future for journalism, I’m optimistically letting opportunities waft like clouds through a bright blue sky.

When talking about career goals, I toss around terms like New York, The Times, and Pulitzer Prizes, but as long as three crucial elements remain constant—travel, people, and writing—I’m content to follow other avenues, too. Moving to Germany in a few months is still only the beginning.

Busy as always

Four years ago, as I headed into the final stretch of my high school career, I was debating which college to attend (Note: Western was not on the list at that time). Having been involved in almost every plausible venue at that school, I found it strange that my next step seemed so unsure. The funny thing is, now, almost four years later, I find myself in much the same position.

Last night, at our Journal staff meeting, everyone answered one question as a fun introduction. “If you knew you could not fail, which dream would you attempt?” Listening to the responses bubble from around our conference table, I demurely acquiesced to the first thought that came to mind: go to New York, work for the “Times,” win a Pulitzer.

If I were in the right place at the right time, perhaps that dream would be plausible. But the fated question failed to take step one into account, namely, “What are you going to DO to make that dream come true?” Honestly, the thought of picking up and moving, alone, to NYC, finding whatever job I could and living in a little studio somewhere does not sound quite so appealing. I like big cities, I do. I’ve lived in Seattle and Berlin for brief stints and could picture long-time residency in similar scenarios. However, I guess I’m still a country girl at heart—small town, close relationships, laughter shared with colleagues, new stories everyday, clean air and beautiful scenery—that’s more like it.

Shuffling backwards again to my senior year in high school, I also remember feeling overwhelmed by the amount of responsibility I had heaped on my plate. The leadership positions, sports and theater productions filled every moment. My social life consisted of people I saw because of the different events and organizations in which I was involved. Thankfully, those people also happened to be my dear friends.

Again, not much has changed in my current situation. The people with whom I most often trade conversations are co-workers and colleagues. Talking to a dear friend a couple weeks ago about when we could schedule a get-together, she told me, “I have time. You’re the one who has way too much to do.” That reply stuck itself immediately to my consciousness, even as I compile to-do lists for the next two weeks that require more time than is physically available.

I want to be successful, but not at the expense of relationships. If I practice what I preach, then I’ll find a way to include people in my life. For all the Veggie Tale fans, I don’t ever want to be singing the refrain, “I’m busy, busy, dreadfully busy. Much, much too busy for you!”

It's not lying, it's acting

Last night I had the privilege to attend a friend's theatre performance. It wasn't a full-fledged staged production, just a simple row of chairs lined up along an oversized, white column-rimmed fireplace in a lovely old room at the Scottish Rite Masonry in Portland. It was the first "official" reading of Hamburger Square, a Robbinhood-esque musical with music adapted from the Beach Boys. The music was good, the atmosphere cozy, the company phenomenal. I laughed, I thought, and I missed my theatre days.

I'm currently caught up with the weekly production of a 12-page university newspaper. Trying to find the interesting stories around campus or at least those affecting some portion of the Western Oregon population. Most of all, I'm trying to report truthfully (well, we might fudge once and awhile on finding photos that "fit"), but the quotes and the facts are always reliable. But thinking back a few years...even to auditioning at SPU or directing the children's choir musical production at church, I remember the chance to adopt a different persona. To imitate the walk, the carriage, the laughter, and thoughts of another. To stretch imagination to its boundaries. When we used to create dialogs in my 1st and 2nd year German class, Frau Heaton would always tease our creativity with the line, "It's not lying, it's acting."

The life I'm leading is satisfactory and fulfilling, but what about the thrill of being someone else--for an hour, a night, during the run of a play? The chance to explore new horizons and invent novel interpretations. And as I was walking along the street this morning, I realized that I had included theatre as my means of integrating into the community, should I be accepted for a Fulbright next year in Germany. The realization made me smile. I was already thinking about it this summer. Sure the itch might have been provoked by recent conversations and companions, but they weren't the instigating cause. Back at the Metropolitan Children's Theatre camp held at LaSalle High School all those years ago, the directors told us the three keys of theatre: observation, imitation, and improvisation.

As a journalist and as a writer, those tools still come in handy...when I need to find the perfect descriptive word for a poem or the unique detail for a story. But what I really want, tonight, as the clock nears the witching hour, is to live out another moment of magic on the stage. To jump out of my reality into another--not forever, but for awhile. The swirling masquerade, the adrenaline of performance, the thrill of live enactment. It's a wonderful feeling, being on stage.

I miss it.