After high school most of my friends went to the University
of Santa Cruz. I wanted to be completely independent and explore the world
further so I went to art school in Kansas City, Missouri. I had never been further east than Arizona
and when I thought of the Midwest I thought of dangerous tornadoes like the
ones from Twister. “Look how brave I
am!” I thought. “I could get sucked up into one of these things but that’s the
risk I take cuz I’m an artist and I’m reckless!” My opinion changed after my first bitter winter
and after being harassed by one too many well-intentioned Christians who said
they would pray for my soul when I told them I wasn’t religious. No offense to
Midwesterners but the Midwest kinda sucks.
I met some great friends and the writing program at my school literally
changed my life but given the choice between living in the Midwest or eating a
jar of pickles every day, (I hate pickles) I would probably choose the jar of
pickles nine times out of ten.
While in college I took a summer class in Paris hosted by my
Art History and Writing professor. My
short one month trip to France spurred my love for travel. Every second in
France was amazing. The history, art,
and romance of France was never ending. It sounds like a horrible tourist
summary you find in a brochure but sometimes clichés are the most sincere.
Coming back to the Midwest after Paris was like eating at IHop instead of a classy
restaurant with candlelight and a secret wine cellar—it’s more than doable but
you know you would choose the other if you had the money or the means.
While I was in college the
economy and the whole world seemed to collapse. After graduation I found myself
moving back home with my parents with no job prospects. I spent five months looking for a job with no
luck so I took a job at a local pizza parlor. Working at that pizza parlor was
like someone had gone out of their way to find the bane that would completely
destroy my soul. Home, which had always
been a place of comfort, had now become a place of angst and frustration. I couldn’t focus on my art and I couldn’t
make enough money working at a shitty pizza parlor to move out. I seriously
considered joining the army. My first
choice was actually the navy because even if I had to take orders all day at
least I would be on a boat, traveling the world. I told my parents my great
idea and they basically told me I was out of my fucking mind. “You’re sensitive and rebellious. Your ears
are pierced and you like your hair long. You wouldn’t last one second in the army
before going crazy.” So I took my
research on getting into the navy more seriously just as a “Fuck you” to my parents
for telling me what I could and couldn’t do. After I got done being pissed off
and feeling rejected I calmed down and I remembered talking to my counselor in
college about teaching abroad. I researched the best ESL certificate programs
and a year later I was getting ready to move to Korea.
The two months before I left for
Korea was like getting ready to jump into a cold mountain lake. I knew where the lake was and I knew it would
still be there when I finally worked up enough courage to jump so I kept
putting it off in my mind. I knew I would have to go sometime but it was always
in some mysterious future that never got closer. It didn’t register that I was
actually going to Korea until the week I started packing. Packing never took very long for me. Tell me where I’m going and for how long and
I would have my bag packed in ten minutes. That’s assuming I could find everything
in the chaos of my room. The first day I
packed for Korea it took me ten minutes. Then I found things I forgot I had and
knew I needed so I packed again. Then
when I realized it would be impossible to bring four fifty-pound suitcases with
me I threw everything out and started over.
I couldn’t decide between my favorite movies or books, shirts, and pants.
Then I realized I wouldn’t be able to bring my guitar and it was almost like
being told I couldn’t bring my family dog with me. Playing the guitar had
become my favorite hobby just before leaving and I was excited to try and woo
the hell out of some Korean girls. I finally finished packing the night before
my trip. At 6a.m. I would be leaving for SFO airport. It wasn’t until I was in
the security line saying goodbye to my parents that I realized I was actually
leaving for Korea. I was finally jumping and I have no plastic sword to defend me
and no professor who could translate for me. I didn’t look back at my parents
because I wanted them to see how strong I was so they could be proud of me. But
when I got to my gate and sat down the only I could think was, “What the fuck
am I doing?”
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