Black as Your Soul...

Once upon a a very long time (four years) ago, in Fresno, California I was a 20 year old girl standing outside the local philharmonic concert hall...


Nine Inch Nails was launching its first album and tour in over six years, and lined up outside the venue was a sea of black. Black hoodies, Tool shirts, band merchandise, and more black eyeliner than a MAC counter, spread as far as the eye could see. And there I stood 3000 miles from home, waiting to get into a show to see a band who made synthesizers, industrial beats, self-loathing, and singing about doing creepy stuff with animals new again. I was the girl in green, dark green mind you, unwilling to give into the peer pressure of safety-pinning messages to my clothes and smearing my makeup to show the world that I was hardcore enough to hear Trent Reznor screaming about drug abuse and cutting himself.

Amazingly enough, directly behind me, were two guys in non-skinny jeans and college Tshirts that, dare I say it, looked comparitively normal? As I was, and still am prone to doing, I eavesdropped on their conversation, and what followed was something I remember to this day:

"You know I don't think I really belong here anymore...I just don't think I'm as angry as I used to be. "

It was a rather innocuous comment, but in a sea of people who were pumped up and chanting, "Head like a hole, black as your soul, I'd rather die, than give you control," it wasn't the sentiment I was expecting. It resonated with me though, because while I'd never been the goth queen, and parts of NIN terrified me, I had enjoyed the music but never felt like it was my scene. To be frank, I never had enough of that anger inside of me, but I was too young or to determined to realize that at the time. For years I had been writing scathing editorials and opionated columns in my high school newspaper, and without that outlet in college, I had channeled my predilection to rant into angry people music.

But the fact of the matter was, it wasn't me.

And if I'm honest, neither is the title of this blog.

A Redhead Rants

Yes, I am a redhead, yes I am heavily opionated, and yes I have been moaning and groaning about my albeit-not-that-badlot in life. However if there is one thing this blog has taught me it's that while I've got miles to go before I become, or even figure out, "Who I Want to Be," holding onto the anger of the down-in-the-dumps twenty-something isn't helping me. I took this angle for my blog because I am struggling to figure out what to do with myself, and I was frustrated with the fact that I have lived my life as a series of steps in which everything I have done was to prepare me for what comes next. Right now I'm on a plateau, with no real sign of what to do or where to go, so all I can do is move forward.

To keep walking and hope I am heading in the right direction.

And I can do that with the steadfast knowledge that whatever I am standing on has a steadfast foundation. Through all my ranting and uncertainty in this blog, I've learned that the ability to even express myself in this way means that I'll be ok and it will work out. I have a family that loves and supports me; always has and always will. I have a good education and the means to keep pursuing it. Moreover, as much as a I complain that it's not what I want, I have a job, which is more than a lot of people can say in this economy.

So now it's four years later, and I'm heading into the middle of my twenties, and I'd sooner repeat high school than stand in line to listen to a band tell me how much life sucks. I can read the newspaper or talk to my friends to know that. I still have flashes of abject irritation, but it rarely stays hot enough to channel into a scathing commentary. Instead it slips away into weariness or is forgotten as soon as my head hits the pillow.

That might mean I'm giving in and growing up, succumbing to the man, the world, and all the ways it gets you down.

But really?

I'm just not that angry anymore.

Besides, look around. Pink's more my color.

Lend Me Your Ears and I'll Sing You a Song...

Two redheads, two brunettes, and an almost-dirty-blonde walked into a Starbucks. Bundled into pea coats and brightly colored scarves, they purchased their overpriced lattes, Earl Grey, and chai and traipsed up overly narrow stairs to find seating. The 22-24 year olds huddled around tables large enough only for mice to eat upon and sat in chairs built for third graders while they tried to catch up after a two month absence. It wasn't a long amount of time in the grand scheme of things, certainly they'd stretched out their social visits for far greater spans in the past. But the Thanksgiving holiday weekend allowed those tucked up in their NYC grad schools a chance to come home and gave the rest an excuse to dig out time for their friends in their busy lives.

What followed was at first glance a lovely Black Friday afternoon, sequestered in a cozy coffee house with hot drinks and good friends. In truth it was the bleak reality of five people who graduated in a nasty economy struggling with a distinct lack of money and very uncertain futures. The usual questions of "how are you?" "what's new?" were answered with groans, frowns, and large inhalations of breath before long stories explaining the latest frustrations. Easy laughter and clever anecdotes that would normally pass at sitcom speed were decidedly lacking from the whole affair. Instead of the camaraderie of the combined potential of a group of people who had rarely known anything besides success, they shared coping methodologies for dealing with feeling as if all the steps they had taken in their lives now meant very little.

Rewind three years past to another gathering, around a far larger larger English oak table, in a pub furnished in the same warm wood paneling, and replace the overpriced hot designer drinks with arguably still warm and overpriced pints. The service was nonexistent, the night was bitter cold, and the pea coats hung nearby. Neither of the two couples were engaged yet; their relationships were still in the realm of infinite possibility where they could either flourish or dwindle. All of their lives were hinged on that cusp, and if their cheeks were lit with a rosy glow, the potential of their futures was as much to blame as the rapidly diminishing ale. Only their glaringly obvious American accents amidst a sea of British voices made their table stand out from any other. In the small out-of-the-way Oxford pub, so many historic figures had sat in those same booths that to mention them was considered redundant. Laughter and lewdness echoed off the walls as the tables filled with students let off steam as they neared the end of term. The then four brunettes, one redhead, and the two almost-dirty-blondes had never worked so hard in their lives, but neither had they ever been more sure of their success.

Not once did it occur to them, in their fresh faced and big-brained naivete that their impending graduation in the next year would not produce their desired results. Visions of boomeranging back home as an engaged couple due to apartment bug infestations, of answering phones and being administrative assistants, or the concept of a combined debt the price of an average family sized home never once crossed their minds. Now it was a reality and the crush of adulthood cynicism had washed across them, making them jaded before they even hit 25. Some of it was the economy and the dearth of jobs. Some of it was the impracticality of vague dreams of great apartments, careers making a difference, and the storybook idealism of having it all. None of it though, was what they thought it would be.

Their afternoon lingered on and eventually the tides turned to lighter fare. Stories were shared of the engaged couples' new kittens, their starter children for the apartment-dwelling-never-home young adults. Wedding plans and woes volleyed across the table as they discussed bridesmaid dresses, bad photographers, and an early start to in-law horror stories. The mood softened and a new bond began to form far separate from the old. Gone were the days of reminiscing that unforgettable semester abroad that brought such unlikely friends together. A foreign feel of maturity that none of them would have suspected overcame them while they chatted. In their uncertainty they could relate even as they each went in different directions, at times all as unhappy as the other. Surrounded by the people who shared in their moment of unrivaled achievement, they found support, they could see that they weren't alone. For all their plans and goals it was the knowledge that in their little microcosm there were others with untapped potential who were moving forward with no clear idea of what would await them.

Around that small table they unknowingly met for the first time as grown-ups. They were still naive in their hopes that eventually it would all work out, but their idealism kept the cynicism from penetrating too deeply. Bills were due and budgets had to be balanced, but somewhere along the line their friendship made the transition from college kids to the strange variation of adulthood in which they all found themselves. The coffee grew cold and responsibilities called, but as they huddled in the cold in their goodbye circle, they knew it would be another few months before they reached out again. Life as it does, would get in the way. But they never doubted that at some point in time there would be another table, more overpriced drinks, and two brunettes, two redheads, and one almost-dirty-blonde.

Who Says

Hello, my name is Katie, and I'm a 24 year old who lives with her parents.

Don't judge me, because odds are, you are too.

A survey of Collegegrads.com found that 80% of college graduates moved home with their parents in 2008 and not just as a brief transition. College graduates are moving home and staying there, and the statistics keep rising. In 2006, CBSNews reported that 50% returned to their parents, and 44% stayed there for over a year. The numbers grew every year seemingly in a direct inverse of the economy's plummet. Perhaps one of the primary reasons is that c 70% of graduates didn't have a job lined up after college.

In hordes, we've moved home, or in my case stayed home, glued ourselves to our laptops and kept Careerbuilder and Monster open for months on end while we sent out our resumes. We began with lofty ideals and standards of what we wanted in a job; government agencies and contractors, think tanks and NGOs were all I was willing to consider. You see, I had a relevant degree in International Relations in a world at war. I was a Dean's list student. I studied at Oxford.

And then the truth came out.

So did everyone else, especially in the Washington, DC area.

Even more startling was the realization that as the economy fell farther and farther into a recession, a B.A. barely meant anything, even for entry level positions, because there were people with years of experience who were unemployed. They were willing to do anything and take low wages because it was better than the alternative of not feeding their families.
For eleven months I played this unemployment game from the safety of my family's home. I was securely tucked in my room, with my laptop, my new Explorer parked in the driveway, and my mom feeding me home cooked meals every night. I had odds and ends jobs, house sitting, temping at law firms and the circus (don't ask), babysitting, all little ways to pay the bills. But the bottom line was while it was an emotional blow to my ego, I wasn't suffering. If anything I was quite comfortable, staying up and sleeping late, lounging around in my pjs, having a wide open schedule to write and take photos all the live long day if I so chose. I'll admit, there are a lot of days when I wish I could go back to that.

Now I'm employed, in the job I initially scoffed at, and I'm still living at home. For my position and this economy I'm making good enough money. Some would argue that right now making money at all makes it good. I have a number of friends who make roughly the same as I do. They have their own tiny apartments and they live by a tight budget in order to make rent each month. For all intents and purposes it's what you're supposed to do in your twenties, embrace the lean years and put your nose down so you can make something of yourself.

Though survey says this generation's not necessarily doing that. We're moving back home and getting comfortable, and letting Mom and Dad take the sting out of the transition. Maybe we pay rent or pull our weight, perhaps we're so busy we rarely see them, and more often than not we're probably complaining about the dent it puts in our social lives. Still we stay. We let mom feed us dinner as we rush in the door from work, grab our school bags, and rush back off to class. We let our dad field the call as the insurance company calls and demands we take our car to B-F Egypt in the exact opposite direction of work, squarely in the middle of the day. We let our aunts and uncles ferret around our resume to shamelessly hand to their heavily connected friends. In short, we're letting others help, and not facing this brave new world alone. We're walking forward into uncertainty with the comforting embrace of the familiar wrapped tightly around us.

And by we, perhaps I only mean me.

I've resoundingly fallen back on the safety net of my family to make life a little easier. The alternative is daunting. Moving out and living by myself and making ends meat is a part of growing up. It's a right of passage and in an age when we don't move comfortably from our parent's arms to our spouse's embrace anymore, it's an important one that teaches us independence. Tradition dictates that through the struggle and the loneliness it helps us find ourselves.

Or maybe, just maybe, this generation is trying something new. Call us coddled or spoiled. Hell, call me that if you like. But while we're living at home and working, reveling in the creature comforts of our parents hard earned lives, we're saving. Perhaps as in my case we're putting it toward financing school without any more loans. Maybe we're putting it toward skipping the sketchy first apartment in the bad end of town.We might even be careless and reckless, blowing our money on high heels and Grey Goose.

But if there's one thing I've learned is that we'll figure it out. We'll make our way in our own way regardless of societal expectations.

We can be generation LZY.

Crash, Into Me Now

I had a strange dose of reality today. One could even say it crashed into me.

Literally.

I was driving home from work this afternoon, preparing to turn into my neighborhood when a car in the lane next to me decided it wanted to turn into me. Now personally, I don't understand how a Ford Focus can fail to see the Ford Explorer looming directly over it. But she did, we hit, and suddenly as my Explorer locked up and shook as if to say, "what the hell was that?" I was in my first accident. Not bad for seven years of driving, and at least it wasn't my fault.

The usual procedures occurred; we pulled off the highway, got out and asked if the other was hurt. It being 2009, we whipped out our cell phones and began to take pictures, as we looked at my scraped and disjointed front wheel fender. I was irrationally angry, though thankfully I didn't take it out on her. My car, my camera, ipod, laptop, and phone are my material babies. You don't touch them, and you sure as hell don't hurt them. Two months after getting my Explorer it was keyed in a parking lot by a

little kid, and the entire right side had to be repainted. Let's just say the redhead temper wasn't just a myth then.

But this time I acted like an adult, held my tongue and proceeded with dignity, and then perhaps a bit of embarrassment at my own reaction when I saw her car. It maybe, kinda, sorta got the short end of the stick. My SUV kept me safe and I barely felt a jolt, while she got sucker punched as she drove into me. To be fair though, it's one of the reasons we bought the car in the first place.

The girl was nice, she was a college student who clearly knew her way around an accident scene. We stood around in the cold and waited for the police to arrive 45 minutes later and made small talk. Both of us were a little shook up, but were none worse for the wear, and hey it was her fault, so it would be more her problem than mine. (Except for the scar on my car that I will obsess over until it can be fixed.)

So what was my grand slap with reality? Was it the touch of vulnerability as my normally speedy (though this time I was only going 10 mph) driving felt its first collision? Was is it the adrenaline rush that reminded me of my immortality? Was it the fact that if I rely on my local police to show up when they're called in an emergency, I should essentially just make my peace with God and man and kiss life good bye?

No.

It was the fact that two girls in their early-to-mid 20s first actions were to call home.

Whose first words were, "Mom/Dad I was in an accident, can you come meet me?"

And they did. My dad arrived and made sure we were okay, tracked down the wayward police, and reaffirmed what I knew I had to do. He didn't take over, but he was there, and my mom was waiting at home with dinner ready, anxious for me to walk in the door so she could hug my guts out. My sister went and found my camera and sent it with him because she knew I would want to document everything. Even my dogs fretted over me when I finally got home an hour later.

They were a safety net. A much needed one at that. And tonight I realized that while I don't know what the hell it means to be a grown-up, I've got a helluva support system to keep me afloat until then.

And that's worth almost anything.

Even my car needing plastic surgery.

We Are Living in a Material World, and I am a Material Girl

I grew up believing that a girl needs three things to get through any situation.


A Great Lip Gloss

A Set of Pearls

Black Sunglasses

And when things really get rough, sometimes you need something extra :

The Perfect Dress

Walking into a room full of your peers, strangers, VIPs, or whomever it may be, is made easier because of the confidence these staple items bestow in you. It's a touch of class and elegance that can calm your nerves and put to rest one line of worry about how you look. After all, it worked for every stylish girl's icon:



Before Sex and the City there was Holly Go Lightly, an urban girl, not far off the farm, broke and aimless. She was the original fake-it-til-you-make-it girl, and between the beaus paying her to powder her nose (awkward), to the parties her mere presense made better, nobody knew who was underneath. Nobody knew who she was beneath the glamour.

It's not healthy, but sometimes it's necessary. It's the armor we can put on to face the world, to feel like we're perservering when we don't have a clue. We can look stylish and professional even when our job is crap, school is unsatisfying, and all we can see is our life unraveling. It may be shallow, but being able to look in the mirror and see something positive can be the one ray of hope in a dark situation.

But sometimes it's more than that. Sometimes by making the extra effort in an attempt to make yourself feel better, others start treating you differently.

Maybe the women in my family were right:
Look like a lady, be treated like a lady.

My younger sister is 17, and is in the midst of finding her own style. Some of it's indie chic with cute dresses, boots and scarves. Some of it is straight out of her boyfriend's wardrobe: skin tight pants, ugly loose graphic t-shirts, a plaid shirt, Buddy Holly glasses, a pleather 80s biker jacket, and smudged eyeliner. Oh, and can't forget the Chucks. Last week the two of them went to the movies, dressed quite similarly (though thankfully he didn't have the eyeliner). They looked like hooligans, and despite being good kids, were treated as such. Management harassed them the whole time, and threw them out of the R rated movie they were seeing. They let them into Toy Story 3-D, but then threatened to call the cops because my sister had some skittles leftover in her purse.

Clearly these people were overreacting, stereotyping, and being all around jerks, but this routinely happens to these two. It doesn't matter that they're in honors and AP classes, involved in peer mentoring programs, work with animals, and go to a Catholic school. They look like punks, and they're therefore treated as such.

Why? Because we're judged on how we look. We can make a statement and damn, "The Man," but personally, I left my teenage years behind, and that's just not as satisfying as it used to be. I want to feel good about myself because my outside reflects how I want myself to be inside.

With that in mind this past week I've made an effort with my appearance. I thought maybe if I look the part of a young professional (though I maintain I always did) my boss would start treating me like one. Perhaps I wouldn't be her equal, but she'd have to see me as someone she had to behave respectfully toward, and not treat me as her lackey.

It didn't work with her.

But it did with two other people.

The head of our legal/contracts department approached me and said, "I need a project done. I need someone with a brain, who can write, and can be meticulous. You're the only one who qualifies around here." Turned out she wanted me to write/compile/edit a major government contract, and she needed it done in a week. She didn't care that I had never done anything like that before or that I was mildly terrified by the prospect. She wanted someone confident and capable enough to complete the task she didn't trust anyone else to do.

And I did. I did it in a day. Flawlessly, I might add.

Look the part, get the part....

That same night, high on my success, and rocking an adorable cardigan and a ribbon in my hair, I approached a door leading out of the Performing Arts Building on my way to class. At the same time, a co-ed in a button down, tie, and snug fleece beat me to it, opened the door, and swept out his arm to gesure me through. As I said, "Thank you," he responded with "Your welcome, have a good evening." Now maybe it had nothing to do with how cute my outfit was, perhaps he was just raised well. But it stuck out enough for me to think of it a few days later, and for that small act of kindness to make my crappy week brighter.

It made me feel like a lady.

My boss might still use a peppy voice and treat my like a second grader she's employed for slave labor.

School is still a mess I'm trying really hard to not think about.

But for now, my lip gloss, pearls, and sunglasses are helping me fake-it until I figure it out.

Slow Dancing in a Burning Room

Today I am having the epitome of a quarter life crisis, all because of one email from the Office of the Registrar informing me that I could search for classes. As a graduate student I now have first pick of the classes, and can arrange my schedule to best fit me.

Except that is a complete and utter lie, since there is only one class that I can actually take in my program; tech writing, perhaps the one class I wanted to avoid the most. There are however, over ten that I could take in the Politics program. You know, that field I actually got my degree in, am actually interested in, and was actually pretty good at?

Perhaps I should start at the beginning. In the last year I've rediscovered my love of writing. I was on the newspaper all through high school, and while in college I legitimately enjoyed writing papers. I love arguing and making a point, and since my Politics and International Relations degree wasn't getting me employed in this economy, I thought I needed to switch things up a bit. Perhaps I could combine my interest in politics with a love of writing, but first I felt like I needed the piece of paper to prove that people could hire me. Visions of writing/editing for the Council of Foreign Relations danced in my head, and gleefully I sought out a program to help me get there. Journalism seemed too broad, communications made me nauseous, and then I saw that my old/local university offered a Professional Writing and Editing program. It would take a year to complete, not cost an arm and a leg (just a few fingers and toes) and I would have a piece of paper saying HIRE ME.

But then I got a job. And then it was time to register for classes. And then said job said, "We can't work with you, your schedule is 8-5 and we can't arrange for anyone to cover you to leave early for class. You need to decide what your priorities are." Right, because I'm going to choose a receptionist job over a master's program.

Except I did.

I did the "Responsible" thing, and put economic security ahead of completing my degree within a year. So perhaps it was after a three week hissy fit in which I was determined to quit and pursue my hazy, still unformed dreams. I didn't though, I scheduled the only two 7:30 classes that even remotely fit my requirements. So the semester started, I was very excited to start back at school, to learn, to read, to write again. To fall head first back into my nerdy habits of loving school.

Except I didn't.

I have fun in my blogging class, it forces me to write, and moreover it's provided me an outlet to work everything out in my head. Or at the least to accept that maybe I just have to ride it out. But my other class? It's everything I hate about academics. I haven't learned anything, I dread the class, I find it unbearably boring and even worse is it has forced me to question whether this program will actually benefit me in any way. I'm not learning to be a better writer or editor, I'm being trained to enter the academic field of rhetoric. Which let me tell you, is resoundingly not my cup of tea. If I was going to pursue a useless academic field, I would be rotting away at some tiny liberal arts school, up to my eyeballs in classical and modern philosophy texts. Instead I'm stuck for three hours a week debating the power of the technical writers, excuse me, "technical communicators." One class I finally broke down and started talking about real responsibility hierarchies in the form of the ICC and ICJ. My classmates stared blankly at me, and I went back to hiding in the corner, trying to grasp why any of this mattered.

Which was fine. If you haven't noticed, pondering irrelevant matters with no real answers is kind of my forte.

But now I have to actually find an answer. About where I'm going, what I want to do, and if I should really keep pursuing this degree, or if I should stay at the job I have. Big questions for 9 a.m.on a Friday.

Do I prolong this program even longer, and only take the one class that I don't want to take just so I can still be doing my masters? So that I can feel like I'm working toward something instead of standing still? Do I even want to stay in this program with no guarantee that I will come out with the ability to get a writing/editing job at the end of it? Or do I eat this semester's tuition money, and just switch back into Politics, into the realm of power struggles that have tangible relations to the world around us? Would any master's degree work?
Will I ever learn to write without using the Socratic method?

What about my job?(The answer is apparently not.) Do I stay at a place that refuses to work with me in any capacity? Or with a boss who micromanages my every twitch? Just today she came and reorganized my desk. A few months ago she pulled me into a one-on-one about young professionalism because I had lowered my chair since it made me hunch over the desk at that height. A thirty minute lecture because I was trying to stop my back from hurting and my neck from cramping. She told a group of people going to lunch yesterday, and who had invited me to come along, that she supposed just this once she could "grant permission" to let me go to a slightly longer than 60 minute lunch (everyone else in the office takes close to two hours). She promised to call me and let me know I had been invited, and yet for some reason my phone registered no new or missed calls. I can't go use the restroom and leave the calls on voicemail without being paranoid about being lectured. It's like a nit-picking form of guerrilla warfare and it keeps me on edge all day.

But who quits over the simple fact that their boss is a pain in the ass? I have no guarantee that I would be able to get another job, nonetheless one that allows me enough spare time to work on homework, and has a 40 minutes or under commuting time. Honestly I don't know if I have the wherewithal to have my ego bruised quite as soundly as it was in the last year of searching for jobs. Having everything you've worked for, all your good grades and gold stars be deemed irrelevant is daunting.

So now I'm at a crossroads again, with my job and my education going in two different directions, and I have to choose between them again. And I'm not even sure if either of them is worth choosing.

Or I could just yell at the English Department. Would it really kill them to offer more 7:20 classes? I know by nature of studying English or Philosophy, we have to resign ourselves to choosing our cardboard hobo box early on, but stop crushing the dreams so early. Let us enjoy a little fiscal stability at least until graduation...

I know You are but What am I?

This week I'm switching things up a bit, and letting someone else take the helm. After all, my whole reason for starting this blog was to relate my own experiences as a new college graduate with others experiencing the same thing. For my first guest blog, I asked an old friend of mine who I've known since early high school, but who haled from that other coast on the west. He went to a small liberal arts college, majored in politics, and scared the hell out of me while he studied abroad in Israel. He has since defected to the good coast (though he'd argue otherwise), and has been kind enough to take a moment to step back from his job and his ocd compulsion toward following the news, and give a brief interlude into his own thoughts.

So without further ado, I present Kevin, author of the blog, "The Partisan,"(http://www.partisansblog.blogspot.com/):

Pragmatism vs. Idealism While Coming of Age in an Era of Pragmatism vs. Idealism.

2008 was supposedly the year of hope and change. Politicians clambered onto the bandwagon for fear of falling off the face of the earth if they couldn’t adequately harness discontentment with the outgoing administration and genuine unease regarding the status quo. It was determined that nearly every aspect of industry and infrastructure needed sweeping reform and repair, and that such reform would be undertaken with new resolve and a new sense of unity.

2009, of course, has shown itself to be the year of running up the deficit like it’s going out of style (which clearly it isn’t) and/or shouting surreal incomplete sentences at town hall meeting after town hall meeting after Presidential address before Congress. Reform efforts have stalled or been forgotten. The newly-minted age of “post-partisanship” lasted half a year at best, unceremoniously smothered by ill-conceived Nazi comparisons and members of the House of Representatives formally voting to ‘express disapproval’ with one another.

A sizeable chunk of my undergraduate experience consisted of applying all things sociopolitical and socioeconomic to the beloved ‘pragmatism versus idealism’ dichotomy. Granted, at the time I cared more about passing required courses than arriving at earth-shattering realizations about the world. It also all largely took place in the freakishly homogeneous confines of a small, well-off liberal arts college (albeit in hapless Michigan). I learned to view the world’s various goings on through those goggles, nonetheless. I would consider myself to be rather idealistic, but I’ve worked to remain grounded in reality in such a way as to keep myself reasonable. Perhaps forever in conflict with the sliding scale.

So it was with great confusion that my various utopian dreams and cynical rebuttals followed me out of school in 2007 -- as happens for class after class, year after year -- and headlong into the much-vaunted ‘real world’ from which there was no escape. I arrived in a land in which jobs no longer served the purpose of occupying oneself during summer vacation (R.I.P.), and set about paying the bills.

A year or so passed, and I found myself in the aforementioned world of hope and optimism versus, at least in part, the straightforward fear of not being able to make ends meet. Like so many of my peers, I grappled with working to be an agent for positive change in the world or working until it was simply time to clock out and go home. To date, I still fall into the latter category, left to wonder whether or not to take a risk for something in which I believe and how big that risk could or should be. I question whether or not it’s even worth investing energy and emotion into a world increasingly dominated by all manner of unproductive and bitter politicking.

Then I remember that I always wanted to work for something other than mere financial stability and accomplish something greater than the bare minimum, and I arrive back at square one, left to struggle with conflicting thoughts until it’s time to get up and go back to work.