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Tuesday, 11/26
It is 1994. She’s shopping at Pottery Barn with her boyfriend.
To go back to my one-square-mile hometown for Thanksgiving is to buckle my younger self into the passenger seat of my mom’s red Kia and take her for a drive. At every stop sign in my old high school parking lot, there is a new wave of nauseating nostalgia.
From the first time I stepped foot in New York City, I’ve been fascinated by it. The sense of relentless ambition and the feeling that everyone in the city was chasing a dream larger than themselves was completely intoxicating. Even further than that, I wanted to be one of those people: the person who was running from one place to another, trying to grasp any semblance of success that they could. It felt like the perfect place for someone like me: a girl who was always striving for something bigger than herself.
Wednesday, Nov. 6, 9:25 a.m. Leakin Hall, Peabody Institute. A studio that had once been filled with dynamic pulses of expectant energy had now been reduced to a foreboding hush. I caught myself avoiding the despondent stares of my peers as I walked apprehensively to my spot. Drafts of how I would one day illustrate where I was when “it” happened flooded my head. Within these floods, I attempted to search for a polished response to indicate my dissidence, but everything felt too forced. In the end, I had abandoned my grand gesture of outrage and took a seat among the mass of wary bodies.
Exhaustion and boredom have been ornamenting my dialogues recently. I get asked how my day has been, and without even thinking, I respond with “Tiring.” I come home to my roommates and all of our conversations about school conclude with “I need a break so bad.” At this point of the semester, I don’t recall a single day where I did not overhear the statement “I can’t wait until the semester is over.”
I’ll never forget the moment I saw “You’re Admitted” flash across my screen. I was sitting criss-cross applesauce on my bedroom floor, working on an AP European History project when I received an email notification saying there was an update to my portal. I set my phone up to capture my reaction. I tried to tame my excitement by muttering, “Who cares if I get into Johns Hopkins,” but inside, I craved the validation of an acceptance. As the screen lagged, my anxiety built and I covered my computer, shielding myself from the possibility of rejection. Finally, the page loaded, and there it was: a banner of acceptance. I laughed, clapped and immediately shared the news with my family.
To everyone and everything that I have ever loved,
I was optimistic. I was ready to be in the nation's capital, not only to witness history unfold but to simultaneously analyze it within a historical context. I wanted this semester to be the semester — the one where I would finally explore all of D.C. (long overdue as a Northern Virginia native). The semester where I would begin crafting myself into the person I’ve always envisioned: waking up at 7 a.m., going on runs, interning, cooking my own meals, finishing my work ahead of deadlines and getting a full eight hours of sleep each night. I had mapped out my ideal version of myself, and it felt like this was the time and place for me to finally transform into her.
This year, my younger sibling Ellis was finally able to start receiving gender-affirming care to support their journey as a transgender individual. Ellis has always been their own fiercest advocate, using their voice to fight for their right to existence in a society that has extended unspeakable amounts of hate to children who just want the basic right to live authentically as themselves. Without a government to fight for them, I have watched Ellis use their voice at doctors offices, at rallies, around the family dinner table. It has been as inspiring as it has been heartbreaking.
Recently, I turned 20. While starting another decade of my life felt heavy in its own right, I had been anxiously anticipating this moment for so long that reaching the milestone brought an unexpected sense of calm clarity. For the first time, too, I didn’t shy away from celebrating myself. And for the first time, I didn’t wait for others to notice or wish me happy birthday first.
November 8, 2016. Only two weeks after I flew to the United States. Stunned by moving to a new country, my mother, younger sister and I followed my father to our voting location. I watched my father bubble in “Donald J. Trump and Michael Pence.” But that wasn’t my focus. I was jumping around with my sister, fighting for that “I Voted” sticker at the exit and extremely happy to have experienced what an American election looked like. I had never seen something like this before.
Around this time of year, we get busy. When we get busy, we get tired. And when the busyness doesn't stop, we work through our exhaustion — then comes burnout, the beast of burden. This sad sequence feels like such an accepted series of events that I initially didn’t even want to write about it. In my hesitation, I swung between two thoughts: the first, that everything intensifies and nothing can be done about it; the second, its opposite, sprung from doubt, that I was the only one not taking it all in graceful stride.
We meet when we are small. I have a side part. You’re growing into your smile.
First Year Seminars (FYS) seem to be one of the most defining features of the “Hopkins First-Year Experience.” From uncovering the secrets of “Why We Science?” to snacking in “The Literature of Food,” there seems to be an endless supply of knowledge ready to be unveiled by the next unsuspecting freshmen.
A few weeks ago, I walked into CVS and printed out 114 4x6 photos. My intent was to make a photo wall in my apartment, but given that I am indecisive, I decided to just print a huge chunk of my favorites folder without truly thinking about the sheer quantity that I had selected. I returned to my apartment that afternoon with a thick stack of photos and a very loose plan of what to do with them.
Last week, I caught a particularly annoying cold and lost my voice. As I showed up to class armed with masks and copious quantities of hand sanitizer, I noticed that I wasn’t raising my hand during lectures nearly as much as I usually do. I wasn’t asking my professors questions or answering theirs because of my voice; I didn’t bother trying to speak because I knew it wouldn’t work. Its silencing effect was annoying, and it was particularly irksome because this wasn't the first time my voice had held me back.
I want to let you in on a secret. Or, rather, a lesser known fact: The USS Constellation was originally built by a Stodder! Cue the double-check of my last name.
I let letters define my intelligence. The jumble of alphanumerical descriptions on my graded assignments define my worth in my eyes; I allow them to present themselves as my reflection. I deem myself to be condemned if they do not correlate to the first two letters of the alphabet. This doctrine feeds the monster of academic validation, allowing him to pounce on me and scold me for not being good enough.
Recently, I’ve been thinking about the things that I’d done for the last time without knowing it. My dad put my hair into a ponytail for the last time on one random school morning in 2014. I played my final solitaire game on our crusty computer in 2016 right before it shut down for good, never to be opened again. Although I’ve never been a Directioner, I fantasized about the possibility of a One Direction reunion just a few months ago, but never again now that Liam Payne passed away.