The Promised Land. An Undiscovered Country. And A-List Problems.

I thought my life would be better when my parents moved back to California. I’d spent my childhood there. We lived five years in Florida.  I thought things would go back to the way they were. They didn’t. Family members I’d known as nurturing accused me of being a spoiled traitor for enjoying travels to Poland, Russia and other foreign countries. During those past five years Walnut, CA had become a promised land. It didn’t measure up. I felt betrayed.

After that I never stopped traveling. My first home abroad was a dorm room in Beijing’s no.4 High School. I only had a roommate for a few days. He dropped out of our program. I was able to experience life abroad. The cafeteria’s bad food set me on a hunger strike after a couple of weeks. For the first time, I had my own friends; my own space.

Come to think of it, I’ve never had a roommate for an extended period of time.  I shared an apartment with family and acquaintances in Maldives. I took the multiple balconies and maid service for granted at the time. The interpersonal drama drove me up the walls. It also motivated me to journalistic success.

 I lived by myself in Bucharest too.  The apartment had an ionic view of the Palace of Parliament. I often reveled in it while cooking meals of my creation, or enjoying Moldovan wine. I dutifully cleaned the floors, and sprayed for cockroaches at midnight.  It took a visit from my mother to remind me that the place was a shit hole. No hot water. The balcony filled with standing water. Broken window panes.  Still, it was mine.  

During the latter half of that summer I lived in another dorm.  The impossible happened. My roommates were my best friends on the program.  We had some minor disagreements. But, our Polish courses finished after 6 weeks. As one of them put it: “it’s after two months that the drama starts to happen.” I’ve had the experience. I’m done with it.

At USC, I was forced to share an apartment for a year and a half. I had my own room. Yet, the situation was insufferable. Returning South Hills became a boon. My high school friends grew closer. I eventually moved back.  College became a necessary evil.

I’ve lived in other locales since then. There is something new you learn to appreciate in each city. Some more desirable than others.  In Budapest, I reveled in my flat’s grand piano, chandlers and short walk to the opera. In Bangkok, I lived on my balcony. I was forced to cook pizza with a hot plate.

Right now, I’m living in Poland. In a one bedroom apartment for what couldn’t buy a studio in the West.  I’ve never seen a roach. Everything works according to its Ikea design. I don’t need my mother to tell me that it’s not a shit hole. I dutifully vacuum my own floors.  I keep from my balcony for fear of unwanted solicitors.

Next year I’ll study in Vienna.  The best I can hope for is one room with no balcony. But, I know I'll live alone. Pursuing an uncompromising future. The rent will be more than for my Polish flat. The standard of accommodation will be less. I’ll learn to live with it. Yet, I now  realize what I’m embarking on.

I recently saw Verdi’s La Traviata.  In it, the protagonist’s father attempts to remind him of the pleasures his family’s home offers.          

 Our house is near Walnut. We call it The Village. I miss its multiple verandas. The effluent privacy;. its effortless cleanliness. Its manicured yards.  I hope its balconies shall always exist. That the friends I’ve made since Florida will be eternal.  I can’t help but long for the respite my summer return will bring. But what awaits beyond its premises?  

Once I leave my family’s home, my future can only be global.   

I must move ahead. Despite the difficulty. To improve my accommodations . To create The Village again in a new land. On my own terms.

Even if it’s impossible.          

A Grim Preface to the Memoirs of a Twenty-Something-Year Old

I feel silly. Only 22 years old and I feel like calling it a day. Settling down and writing my memoirs. It’s so wrong. Yet it makes a kind of elegant sense. I’ve done more in 10 years than many do in a lifetime. ‘Yet, what have I gained?’ I ask myself. ‘What’s the point’? 

What will the future bring?

I’m currently reading a retrospective si-fi book about an alien society. Its promising youth are sent for nine years of brutal training in preparation for leadership. Every three years a review is conducted. Those found unworthy are relegated to the service ranks.   All true identities are forbidden. The students become know to each other through codename – a façade of birthright and cunning. Success is not solely determined by marks in course subjects. Ability to lead deviously is part of the unofficial curriculum.

The book’s protagonist excels in scholastic and tactical matters. But, he fails to successfully define this last criterion as his own.  He comes into the fold of a prestigiously designated upperclassman, One Charaban, who embodies the latter ideal. Later, he betrays the protagonist, who is recruited into covert services. One Charaban continues to rise in the traditional manner. They become deadly enemies.  

I can remember being egged on from middle school. I had to perform well to get into the state’s top magnet school for academics.  And I did. Rising above small town pettiness. I was better than that.  After my family moved, I did even better. In an Asian community, I became respected as the ‘white kid’ who achieved top grades in advanced classes where oriental students dominated. I graduated nominally 13 in a class of over 750. The top 7 were ties for valedictorian. We’d all be attending the same university.

I’d always been told that I’d have it made if I got into a good collage. USC prepared me for the next round. I excelled in my studies and graduated with great honors a year early to pursue graduate school in Europe. Some of my Marshall classmates are now receiving jobs with the multi-national companies in LA. But, I spent little time thinking about those few with higher honors or more public gregariousness. I’d picked my goal. I had held my space.

Now I’m in the third phase of my education; nothing is more uncertain. For the first time, I’m around those who what I want. A career in Europe. Like collage applications, we still apply to multi-national companies on impersonalized websites. We hope to get noticed. Or to have someone pick us out of the pile. For the first time it galls me when anyone else gets accepted to anything.

My program is composed universities including LSE, and the University of Vienna. My second year will be at the latter. That’s not a bad thing. Yet, I am haunted by the question: What went to the former?

The ‘One Charabans’ of our existence will always haunt us.  They’re a reminder which belittles our efforts.  

I’m reminded of the Polish novel I recently read. In it, I learned a word that describes this situation better than any: Rozżalenie. It’s often mentioned after the main character’s most tragically heroic efforts.  It translates as ‘resentment’. But, literally refers to the portioning out of one’s own regret toward others. Of one’s own fears that they haven’t done enough.

Maybe I’ve gained nothing. But after so long, I grimly can’t stop. I’ll repress the ‘One Charabans’ that threaten. Achieve my goal at all costs.  After all, I've nothing else to fight for.    

Desert and Wilderness

I got off the bus. One of my colleges noticed me. We were both in the Diplomatic Protocol course I’m taking in Polish this semester. She asked me how long I’d been learning the language. “About six years” I replied.

How much I’d changed since that time. Yet, my situation was similar.

Six years ago, I was a junior in high school. Many students prepare for university admissions during these months.  The stress is incredible. To gain acceptance at an elite U.S. university, you must be the star of your class. Now, I’m applying for summer internships during my first year of graduate school. I’ve done so much, but the standards are higher. You still have to get picked out of the pile. All you have is the audacity of hope. Your constant companion is the specter of failure.

 I pushed myself hard during my third year of high school. In class, I forced myself to study collage level chemistry, history and Spanish. I began learning Polish over the weekends. My mother left for 2 months during spring semester. It was her first trip to Maldives. While she was there, I shouldered many burdens at home. I cooked the meals, handled the shopping and just about everything else except my father’s wash and feeding the dogs.

During that time, my Polish teacher gave me a book. An English translation of Sienkiewicz’s 19^th century work ‘In Desert and in Wilderness.' It’s a nakedly nationalist work which details the account of a teenage Pole and his young British friend’s abduction. The tome recounted their self-deliverance from captivity. It lauded the children’s victorious return to their families as leaders of a sub-Saharan army. The shockingly humorous certainty of the story sustained me through that time.

That summer I went to Maldives. Working in the capital as a reporter was the best experience of my life. Still, the point was to get noticed on college applications.  I applied after my return. During the afterthought known as senior year. I thought the impossible happened when I got accepted to USC-Marshall. I’d made it.

But that wasn’t the end. I recently downloaded the same Sienkiewicz novel. Only this time in Polish. The story’s the same. It’s still a narrative of audacious purpose. Yet, it’s also a first encounter with matters of unquestioning devotion, resentment and fear of failure.

Tomorrow I’m due to take yet another standardized test. Hoping to get picked from the pile. It’s as if past risks and accomplishments never even happened. All that matters is the next trial of survival. Four internships and a bachelor’s degree later; I’m still reading the same book.

 At least books have an end. The Polish protagonist returned to his family atop an elephant.  During this time, Poland was erased from the world map. He made his credo what is today the Polish national anthem’s first line.

 And I am still waiting to begin my career in Europe.  Still applying for yet more internships. Striving to affirm my place in international society.

Until then, I shall wander in desert and wilderness. My dreams have not yet perished. I hope they shall not. As long as I live. 

To Teach Yourself

My professor was disappointed. Almost no one had done the required reading. Thus, class couldn’t proceed smoothly.  The professor proceeded to criticize us.  I felt as if the sheer power of my annoyance would launch me straight through the ceiling.  Last week the professor vaguely changed the one-page syllabus. He’d told us that no more readings were required. Apparently, his actual intent was to cancel the readings after this week’s class.  

This was not the only time I’ve experienced this feeling. Since starting studies at Uniwersytet Wroclawski, I’ve often felt frustrated with the instructors’ methods.      

I graduated magna cum laude from USC’s Marshall School of Business as a global scholar. Professors assigned readings there as well. One needed to do them in order to receive a high grade in the course. Class was related to the texts. Not dependent on them.  

The syllabus mediated any dispute. It was a contract between student and professor, often over ten pages in length. The document delineated the exact required readings and the date of the class they were due for.  If the course involved a presentation, the syllabus spelled out its exact expectations.  I’ve studied abroad in Europe before. The same was true.

We also make presentations for the same class in Wroclaw. Mine isn’t on a topic covered in class. The professor’s rubric is less clear.  You’re expected to discover the knowledge yourself.

I had to Google my assignment’s basic concepts.  As I did this, I couldn’t help but think that I’m paying 600-something euro per semester to this university. Google is free.

In Europe, students rarely buy books. Getting the readings involves some use of a photocopier. My faculty in Wroclaw has a ‘copy-point’ where professors leave their texts for students to Xerox. Recently, Polish class mates informed me of its unofficial importance. If a reading isn’t there, it doesn’t merit doing.

But, this rule is arbitrary. One of my professors is from Chisinau. She teaches a course on Russian politics. Her class consists of asking students about the readings.  At times, I feel like I’ve been dragged in front of the Moldovan inquisition. Once, she admonished me for not doing a rare reading in the library. The other students clearly hadn’t either. I told this to the Polish students. They were surprised, but attributed it to the fact that the professor is simply stricter in this course than in others they have with her.

Cultures and universities are intertwined. There exists a tacit code of expectation in both. You have to figure it out as you go along. Even when it’s frustrating for both parties.

Last week I made another presentation. I had trouble finding some readings for the topic.  The professor responded with a flippant email saying that they were listed as ‘paper’ in the syllabus, and were in the library. Before the presentation, I informed her that past readings with this designation were at the copy-point; she apologized. At the end of my presentation, she said that she was impressed with the original conclusions I’d drawn. “My Polish students just explain the information” she said.  

The Polish word for ‘learn’ translates literally as ‘to teach oneself’. This is reflected in the Polish didactic method. But maybe it goes both ways. There is much for each can discover from the other.  I must adjust to learning in the Polish sense, while continuing to transcend the text in my own way. 

Keeping Roza

I thought a great deal about going to Pakistan during Ramazan. I didn’t know if I could go without food or water for 14 hours every day. Then it occurred to me that I’d already done so two days a week over the past year.

 When I started commuting to USC, the only way to make it logistically viable was to schedule my classes on two days. During those days I scarcely had time to eat, drink, or even go to the bathroom.  Those days often lasted about 14 hours. I found a way to get through it.

If I could handle USC, I could handle Ramazan.  

I came to Karachi assuming that I’d be fasting daily.  It was surprising to learn that half of my host’s family doesn’t fast. In fact, they told me that I would be expected to gain weight during my time with them.

There is a law in Pakistan forbidding eating and drinking in public during Ramazan.  It’s another story behind closed doors. Among those I met, the decision to ‘keep Roza’, or fast, is regarded as a personal choice.

One of my host’s family’s relatives met me when I arrived in Lahore.  I’d taken refreshment on the flight there. Travelers are exempt from the fast, and PIA (the Pakistani national carrier) honors this. Once I arrived, I found that my local host was keeping Roza.  He graciously offered me the opportunity to have some water in the 40 degree heat.  “No. Thank you” I told him. “Your culture doesn’t change just because I’m here”.  

A couple of days later I returned to Karachi.  My host decided that it would be good for me to experience Roza at least once during my time in the country.

I was awoken at about 4:00 on my last day in Pakistan. I took part in Seri, the beginning of the fast. Afterward my host told me that I should still drink water as I was not Pakistani. Therefore, I must not be used to fasting.  I declined. It was pointless to not have the whole experience.

My host’s sentiment was repeated many times through the day.  More than a few people asked if my fast was getting difficult. This was the first time they’d seen a westerner fast; they were curious. Almost as if they doubted that one could endure the experience.

But, there was also admiration. On the ride to Iftari at the Karachi Boat Club my host’s daughter enquired as to the condition of my fast. I told her I was fine.  Our driver also understood. ”Roza?” he asked inquisitively. I nodded and he gave an enthusiastic ‘thumbs up’.     

At first, I thought the experience would be little different than going to college.  After a full day of classes I’d come home, shove the dogs aside, and throw a pizza in the oven.  I usually didn’t respond to questions until I’d downed a triple vodka.  During Ramazan you have to be nice.

Keeping Roza doesn’t simply refer to abstaining from food.  Succumbing to violence, vulgarity or even general crankiness is regarded as violating the fast. As my Host’s daughter put it: “Fasting is not furious”.

The Iftari at the Boat Club was more civilized then my own ritual. It was fitting that it was my last experience on this trip to Pakistan. I reluctantly headed for the airport.  In a small way I felt closer to a people I’d come to know only two weeks before.

I’d gone without food before. In Pakistan I learned the meaning of fasting.