The definitions of words.

I'm turning 26 tomorrow. It's a weird feeling getting older. It's not a bad feeling, to be quite honest, I get more and more excited about life the older I get. I know we have this idea that getting older is a sign of weakness. I know plenty of people still clinging to the invincibility they felt in their teenage years, trying to relive "the glory days" of their youth but I guess my youth was not that glorious. But getting older, nonetheless, is strange. I feel like by now I should be able to call myself an adult. By society rules and laws of being considered a dependent on your parent's medical insurance and car rental agreements, I'm an adult. But I don't necessarily feel that way. I guess I still believe the idea of mid-twenties as it was seen fifty or more years ago. That I should be settled in a career, starting a family and such. I'm not as bothered by it as I used to be but I still wonder if I can consider myself an adult-- a self-sufficient, fully functional human being of society. But if I think about the realistically these days, when do you ever stop needing help? I realize this ties into a much larger discussion about community and society and helping one another, but where is that line?

I guess I'm feeling this way since I've been home without a job and my parents are supporting and throwing me some pity money so I don't go to crazy with cabin fever.

Maybe I feel better once I start working again, have my own medical insurance and can afford to pay my bills without having an panic attack about money, I'll rest a little easier.

Trying to remember why my memories were so great.

Being back in Boston has been a weird experience. It's been great seeing old friends but it feels like so much has changed. I feel like I don't belong here anymore. I thought I missed it so much but I guess in comparison with my life over the past couple years, my world has expanded so greatly that Boston seems to be a little blip. I guess the question that remains is: where do I belong?

I'm ready to head to South Korea and keep looking.

Hormigas en mi culo. Ants in my...you know where.

I know I must be very frustrating to my family and friends. They should know by now that I've never been one to sit still. I can't stand being in one place for too long with the same people for too long. I get uncomfortable, agitated, and feel trapped. I guess you could call it something like cabin fever. I think spending so much time at home all the time when I was a kid made me this way. But actually I've always been like this. Ever since I was a kid I was always wandering off and doing things on my own. It terrified my parents, of course, but I did it regardless. I need to be somewhere I have a lot of freedom. Freedom to walk, freedom to explore on my own, freedom to see friends when I want to, not according to anyone's schedule but mine and my friend's. I guess in that way I'm selfish. It's not personal to anyone. I feel this way with everyone and everywhere. I need my me time and me time doesn't just mean being by myself. It means mental and physical distance not just from people but from a place.

I wonder what this means for any potential suitors. That what I always think of when someone inquires about me (for marriage, I mean). For example, an older guy asked my father about whether I would be interested in him or not. Age aside, I know my personality is too crazy to settle down in quiet little Western Massachusetts. If I were to marry a man settled in a place like this I think I might actually go crazy and make married life hell. I itch to move, I want to run. I always like being somewhere I know I can easily leave. I can't help but need to always have something new. I need someone who can keep up because I can't slow down. Just because I seem so flighty doesn't mean my absence is permanent, as long as there are people I love, I always come back. 

It's just who I am. 

Rocket launchers and sailboat crew.

This summer my older sister Kyla asked me to take care of her 1-year-old son, Anas, a few days a week since the babysitter requested Ramadan off. The boy is cuter than a box of puppies and I wanted to help out around the house so of course I agreed to fulfilling my aunt duties. I did, however, have my hesitations. I've taught children before and made sure they didn't injure themselves or each other for 45-minutes once a week but I've never cared for a single child for an entire morning.

"Don't worry," Kyla said. "I'll be up to feed him breakfast and then you can get him dressed and play with him, give him snacks when he asks for them." Those issues were the farthest from my mind. Dressing a kid, I can do. I tell my students all the time to put their shirts back on and to pull up their pants and help with the occasional shoe. Playing with a kid...that's my job. Giving him snacks...I can cut grapes and pour out peanuts and cheerios. I was not worried about that part. The diaper changing and my gag reflex when it comes to human feces and the constant crying and trying to put a less-than-willing toddler down for a nap were all different stories.

The first day was okay minus the fact that I forgot to change him out of his pajamas all day. Worse things could have happened. Days passed by and I found his unending energy was a lot to handle while fasting and trying to feel awake at 8:30 in the morning with my usual caffeinated aid. I tried my hardest nonetheless, finding games to play that both of us could enjoy equally. The Sleeping Game is a favorite of mine. I "pretend" to fall asleep, as does he, and within a minute or two the silence is too much and he squeals out of delight and we start the game all over again. I also enjoy pulling him around on his tricycle outside and making pitstops at pretend shops around town so aunty can catch her breath and not overexert herself while fasting in the the humid New England summer.

Last weekend, my younger sister came home for a visit. Amber and I are close so I was excited to see her but a little someone was way more excited to see her. As soon as she came home, all you could hear were shouts of "Aunty Bee! Aunty Ambee!" No more shouts and giggles of "Aunty Ah-wee?" No more interest in popping his head in my room, ogling me and then running out of the room giggling. My hug requests were rejected. My lego ships were uninteresting. My attempts at Little Piggies were denied and requested by another. It was the longest weekend of abandonment. I sought solace in my room and books and in the company of other members of our family. I should have learned through countless experiences by now not to get too attached to people.

The weekend came and went and Amber went back to her apartment in Boston and I was faced with the challenge of trying to be an rational adult and still do my best job as caretaker. I decided to take Anas out for a few walks so he didn't bother my sleeping father and brother-in-law too much. I got him dressed after an agonizing 45 minutes of trying to convince him to eat his breakfast, packed some snacks, put on some baby sunblock and headed out into the neighborhood. I took him around as he named everything he could remember, avoiding holding my hand to point out things and ask what they were. He pointed out the beautiful flowers and the various fascinating bugs, waved to school buses and acknowledged each animal "over there." We arrived home later and my father put him down for his nap.

I took a break to take a nap myself and later in the evening when my mother and sister came home from work, I woke Anas up to greet his favored family members. I collapsed on the couch next to my mother as my Kyla went downstairs. Anas climbed on the couch in between us. He went over to nana, fell onto her, hugging her and said, "I love you, nana." Just stab me in the heart. Then he got up, turned to me and collapsed on me, hugging me and said, "I love you, Aunty Ah-wee." My exhaustion faded and I said, "I love you too, Munchkin." He got up from my lap, turned toward his nana and repeated the hugging and "I love you" process between the two of us four times for good measure before scampering off to find his trucks.

Talking to yourself is encouraged here.

When I decided to give teaching a try I wondered to myself if I was giving up on my dreams of writing. I'm still not completely 100% sure if that's what I've done but I don't think so. I think when I decided that I wanted to be a writer it was because the only thing I ever felt I was slightly better than mediocre at was english and baking. Baking is a hard sell because there are so many bakeries out there and I didn't know if I would have the guts to go forward with that dream so I stuck with english because it seemed like the safer choice. And what else to do with the english language than become a writer?

After feeling disappointed with myself and the quality of my writing in comparison to my classmates around me who were writing stories constantly and writing really well in my opinion I felt myself really slipping away from my love of writing and even my love of reading. I constantly felt like giving up and my stories were too sappy and emotional and that's not who I was. Or who I am, I should say. I remember riding my bike to my internship at a magazine in Boston and feeling like, "I can't do this. I'm nowhere good enough." There are several times in my life when I wish there was someone or something, some little creature that could sense my emotions without me saying so (because I bottle things) and know that I just needed a little push of encouragement. Or even to tell me, "Okay, it's not working out, don't freak out, maybe your path needs a little adjusting, a little detour." Of course such people do exist but who ever heard of opening up to people and reaching out for a little guidance? That's just not the way we do things here. But I figured things had to start moving because I felt like I had been standing still for too long.

So I got offered a job overseas about a month after completing my teaching course, crossed my fingers and headed off to a small city in the middle of Europe where I didn't know anyone, didn't know the language and had no clue as to what I was doing. I still feel that way after two years. I know a few more people and I'm trying to improve my language skills but I still wonder, "What the hell am I doing? Is this actually going to be my life?" I wonder if I'm a good teacher, a good friend, a good daughter, a good potential wife and a good sister let alone being a good writer. But I haven't given up writing and trying to figure it out so I guess my alternate route isn't so bad. I know people tell young adults all the time that bull about it taking a long time to figure out what you want to do and that's it's okay and you should take your time. That's okay if you're rich and have people taking care of you. But for those who can't afford to take that much time to "find themselves" we kind of have to pick one thing we're kind of good at, try to improve ourselves and cross our fingers that we haven't made a horrible choice.

Sometimes when I'm neck-deep in kindergarteners and asking myself, "Can I do this?" I think, "Well, you seem infinitely happier than the past several years so I'd say that's a plus."

There isn't much "beo" in "Beograd" but just white is boring anyway.

I’m finally home in the U.S. It’s been a great two years. I just returned from a trip to Serbia to visit one of my favorite people in the world, my crazy comrade, Mladen Mojsilovic. I was a little skeptical about going down because of the country’s history and I didn’t know how I would be perceived as a Muslim and an American. But Mladen’s love for his country is really inspiring to me and so I just had to check out what all the fuss was about. After a week I could really understand why he feels so strongly. Belgrade actually felt like a proper city. My feelings about Czech Republic are rather mixed. One reason being the cities don’t feel like real cities to me. They’re extremely beautiful but they’re missing this life, this soul. It’s like walking through a museum. It’s really nice to look at but where are the people, the stories, the dirt? And Prague is so full of drunk tourists on the weekends that it can lose its charm.

I took a train from Pardubice to Budapest on Saturday morning. I had six hours to kill so I went walking around the city. I didn’t get as far as I wanted because carrying around such a huge bag when you’re so small can really exhausting. I ended up resting a café until sunset when I headed to the bus station. My bus was scheduled to depart at 11 p.m. and by 10:55 I was a little nervous the bus wouldn’t show up and then I would be stranded in Budapest with no place to stay and end up wandering the streets. I met some other people waiting for the same bus including a woman who was born and raised in Belgrade and currently living in Vienna. She said the bus was infamous for being late but at 11:00 on the dot, the Fudeks bus came racing around the corner. The bus driver didn’t speak any English so the woman translated for me. I was a little nervous about interacting with him because he seemed so annoyed with everything but he turned out to be a really nice guy and made everyone coffee or tea who wanted it. I sat next to a really nice with whom I chatted the entire way. He gave me recommendations of what to see and where to go in Belgrade. We reached the border at around 2:30 a.m. and we all had to get out of the bus and walk through the drive-thru border control on the Hungarian side. Of all the things to be doing at 2:30 in the morning when it’s around 40 degrees Fahrenheit outside and you’re extremely tired, that has to be one of the top 5. When we got to the Serbian side, the police quickly came on the bus to take our passports and within a few minutes we were back on the road. I arrived in Belgrade around 5 and Mladen was waiting for me at the station. We met a few friends of his who were on their way home from a night of dancing and stopped for a quick chat and then headed off to get some Borek and yogurt for breakfast.  After we were full and happy we headed to a flat that Mladen’s best friend lends to him when he wants to stay in Belgrade.

Over the next few days Mladen took me around to Kalamegda Park, downtown touristic area, his old univsity, Ada (where they have a beach and large park), ate lots of delicious fish and kebabs, went to his hometown of Čačak (which apparently I am still pronouncing incorrectly) where his mother prepared some amazingly delicious food, met tons of his friends, went to a basketball game of Partizan versus Red Star that I think left me terrified of going to basketball games in Serbia, went to concert, had an amazing barbecue at our friend Pajic’s place. Everyone was so incredibly welcoming and friendly. Even on the bus home, the old Serbian woman sitting next to me was forcing cheese and bread on me and paid my bathroom fare at the rest stop since I was out of dinars. I really love the sense of caring and community that I think Czech Republic and a lot of the U.S. tend to lack. I felt so overwhelmed with their generosity. I feel like I can understand my friend a little more as well. I think if I could find a job in Belgrade, I would move there in a heartbeat.

But for now, it’s time to start on my paperwork for South Korea. I am not so sure what to expect from living out there but I hope it will be just as exciting as my past two years in Europe.

Adjusting.

Trying to open yourself up to someone is like trying to open a door stuck on rug with the corners curled up.

I don't know if it will ever go smoothly. I don't know if it's supposed to.