At a loss for words (part 3)

It's somewhat fitting that when I get to the part in the story that left me speechless for the first time, I have no more words to say.

I can't tell you about Paris -- I already have too many times and stuffing it into words makes it into language, and I want to keep it in the same plasma state it was. I'd like to tell you -- about each moment and each now, and how the colors inside them blinded me, how everything burned and how I turned around one day and realized I wasn't lost anymore. But I can't. To do so would be a great disservice.

All I can tell you is that -- and what a silly, piddling statement it is -- I changed.

Maybe that's the theme I'm going for in this series, the only thing I can say for sure at the end of this mad, violent, busy, wonderful, intensely full period of life they call college. It's nothing but another door, but this door means something because I've changed -- but not just changed ---

I think the word I want is become.  I have become.

This past year, the final one, has been no exception. I spent the first semester staring at myself in a mirror and having no clue who was looking back, struggling to fit the life I had before with the life I had created. I knew I'd be culture shocked and thought I had prepared, but prepared to fight a monster whose face I didn't even recognize when I saw it.

Sure, there were the academics -- a thesis, for one --  but this year was about making a dream come true, and celebrating the journey. I think I did both spectacularly.

I have nothing more to say about it, which is not to say there is nothing to say about it -- about each year and each summer and each splendid moment that was terribly unperfect and perfect, and about this year, but again -- I can't. I've run out. Paris left me speechless and I haven't recovered my tongue yet.

I'm just the girl who has become, and turns to face the world with immense passion and determination. Who is either really stupid or a visionary, and I guess we'll find out soon enough.

It's been a fun ride. I wouldn't have wanted it any shorter or longer, any more or less, anything else than exactly what it was.

(Everything is always perfect, remember?)

Graduation and Imposing Language: A retrospective (part 1)

It's getting to the place where graduation is close enough that it's got me looking forward, but especially looking back, thinking back to the four years I've spent associated with Columbia University in the City of New York, the institution of which I will soon become an alumn. Which seems, at this present moment, somewhat surreal.

I'm not a fan of words, in general, and especially not in situations like this, because I always feel like they add colors and interpretations -- or more accurately, take away colors -- so multi-faceted, impossibly colored experiences just look like one thing. Words add judgments, and what simply was becomes good or bad in their light.

But at the same time, I do want to put words to it. Maybe, as I think I wrote somewhere once, if only just to figure out what I myself think about it.

I think, since there is a lot to be said, I'm going to do this in several parts, at least that would be the plan, so I've somewhat optimistically put "part 1" into the title, though the chances of parts two, three, etc being forthcoming are a bit iffy.

The first thing I think about is the difference between this graduation and my high school graduation. High school. A gymnasium, a class of 72. As valedictorian, I gave a speech that absolutely no one cared about and that I can't even remember myself, then quietly got my diploma and went on my way. I never belonged there and no one made any move to pretend otherwise, least of all myself.

But this time, I'll be one of thousands, probably not distinguishable in any way, in light blue like everyone else. And thrilled to be there, proud of what I've done.

Though there has been a lot of water under the bridge -- so much I think the bridge itself has probably been destroyed and remade a few times -- I think that the only thing that hasn't changed is that my focus is still forward. But when I left high school, I just wanted to get away. Now, I'm just excited for the next step. One is past-centric, the other future. It makes a big difference.

I arrived at Columbia with that fresh out of high school 'gotta save the world' attitude, the kind of young, invincible thing drilled into you, because you're the next generation and dammit, you gotta do something worthwhile. I had a strong extraordinary complex, the kind of outsider mentality that carried over from high school -- okay-to-be-a-loner-cuz-you'll-save-the-world. Like I said, extraordinary complex. I had all sorts of visions (delusions?) of grandeur and hell, I was barely 18 years old. I've always been a bit ahead of myself and as such, I don't let myself be young, but I was. Naive and inexperienced and well, you can't really expect much else, could you?

I've read her journals; I know what she thought. I think I understand why she thought them, though not always. I assume I'd recognize her if we met. But I'm not sure she'd recognize me, and when I read her words, I don't relate to them. We are separated by only four years, but much more time, and more than a few lifetimes.

Perhaps in a further post, I'll take a more detailed look at the years.

But right now, I can just think of this:

She was such a cold little girl. For one thing, she thought she could never fall in love. Since then, I've been in love twice, each equally magnificent and heartbreaking and dramatic, and neither of which I care to go into detail except to say that -- as cliché as it may be -- I was fundamentally and permanently changed by the experience.

She thought she was such an outsider. Since then, I've learned how to be beloved, and how to belong somewhere, how to let myself be at home.

She thought she was so old. Now, I think I'm so young.

However ---

I can look back and point out everything she wasn't, and everything she thought because she was young, and she didn't know better, and all her arrogance and melodrama, but that would be forgetting one very crucial thing --

She had the courage to jump and become who I am today -- certainly not a finished product or perfect or whatever it may be -- but someone I'm proud of. There's a song in Cirque du Soleil's Quidam that says "Someone I am is waiting for my courage/the one I want, the one I will become will catch me."


So whatever else she might have done, she had the courage to jump, and trust that I would catch her.

For that, I have to thank her.