Once again, a story has swept through social media, has gone viral by a sort of "open letter" and will probably dissipate within a week. In this case, I'm very glad it has gotten so much attention because it absolutely needs it. The sad part is that not much will happen once it dissipates, or once there's a new zoo animal for everyone to grieve over.
If you haven't read this young woman's extremely powerful letter to her rapist, please do it now. Especially if you're male — I'll get to that part later. Now that you know the gruesome details and the pain buried inside this girl for the rest of her life, take in for a moment that this young man got sentenced to 6 months in prison after thrusting his body into an unconscious woman behind a dumpster. Now, here's the real kicker. Someone sane decided years ago that rape should be penalized up to 14 years in prison. But in this case, the kid is a really good swimmer. He's apparently a generally good guy, AND he's white. This Washington Post article lists the rapist's swimming times, refers to him as "baby-faced", and alludes to how horrible it would be if his life were ruined by a jail sentence. Washington Post, could you or anyone who got near that joke of an article pre-publishing imagine how horrible it would be if you found out in the morning that a stranger took off your clothes and shoved a foreign object in your vagina behind a dumpster? And that grown men who witnessed it were completely shaken by what they had seen — a man raping your unconscious body. That is what would be life-ruining. To save this man from a proper jail sentence is to disregard the severity of rape. THAT is what is messed up here. How are we supposed to teach boys about consent? How are we supposed to teach girls that they're invaluable, when our own legal system shrugs its shoulders and says "boys will be boys" when it comes to rape of a woman? Defendants of the rapist look at him like this: he is an average college guy, just 20 years old, he got drunk and was going to take this complete mess of a girl back to his dorm to get some action. This is all true. This is all a very normal college night. Hate to say it, but that college normalcy includes the rape. That doesn't make it any less wrong: morally or legally. From the way the jury handled this case, from the way the rapist's dad referred to his crime as a mere "20 minutes of action", and from the way the Washington Post and other media portrayed the rapist as a swimming hero...it's quite obvious we live in a rape culture. Now the question is, whose fault is it? How do you even begin to reverse that? I'm going to look at this from Brock Turner's point of view for a second. Here's why. I honestly know a handful of guys who might do close to the same thing he did, or would have at age 20. What if he would have been able to get the girl all the way up to his dorm? The rape would have happened there instead, but there wouldn't have been any witnesses. It would have been even easier to victim blame and say she "just got too drunk." This is all horrifying, disgusting, and illegal, but again — typical college occurrences. Most rapist aren't creepy looking men lurking in a corner waiting to attack you on the street. In those cases, it's hard to victim blame. Most rapists are young, otherwise decent college guys with an otherwise bright future ahead of them. They've had a girlfriend or two. They talk to their moms on the phone every week and are still unsure if they're doing laundry right. Since day one of high school (shit, probably before that) they've been told to get as much action as possible. Songs inform them that "pussy is power". (I have to admit I laughed when I typed that.) Every bit of the media encourages them to act aggressively to get what they want. They would never, ever think that they would "rape" someone. Until they do. These guys — these 18-22 year old frat men we knew in college — have never been taught where exactly to draw the line between a drunk hookup and potential jail time. You would think it would be a matter of common sense and human decency, but apparently that can go away with an erection. I won't pretend to know what that's like. By absolutely no means am I saying that all men don't know where to draw the line. I believe most college men are respectable, educated human beings that generally treat women as such. But society tries its hardest to push them in the other direction. And no one's bothering to pull them back. This is a really long way of saying why the hell aren't we teaching boys about consent and men not to rape? We subconsciously encourage rape culture from both ends — sending little girls home from school because her tank top straps are too thin, for instance. By doing that, we're A) sexualizing little girls' shoulders, which is insane, and B) telling girls that covering up their body (to not distract boys) is more important than their education. Awesome. We teach girls to avoid walking alone, to be careful, to not wear anything too "slutty" to a party because someone might grope us or something. And if they do, well, we were "asking for it". In turn, we do nothing to discourage rape from the other side. Brock Turner is a monster, yes, but he's not alone. Sexual assault is crawling all over universities like a plague. One in four girls will be sexually assaulted in college. One in four. I've heard this many times, but where's the statistics warning people that "one in six boys will sexually assault someone in college" or whatever the numbers might be? Women aren't assaulting themselves. We need to start talking to boys about consent as often as we talk to girls about being careful. So it starts with this. My own "open letter" to incoming college freshmen....is coming soon. For now, watch this video.
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The past month has been a whirlwind. It's just so funny to me how comfortable you can be in a situation before life picks you up and whisks you away, setting you down in a whole new environment and saying, "Ready....action!"
And sure, it's not like all of these things just happen. Whether you're moving cities or taking a new job (or both), it takes hard work and emotional stress and time. But the funny part is, when we go through a big decision like that, we have this wild notion that every step is in our control. Yeah, right. I loved my job in St. Louis. Did I plan on staying there forever, living with my parents and never leaving my hometown? Of course not. But toward the end of March (my half birthday...lol), I got an extra push. I went from intently focusing on several assignments due that day, fingers typing away, eyes glued to the screen...to getting laid off. There really was no transition. It was me and almost a quarter of the company that, due to a major downsizing, found ourselves packing our stuff and walking out for the last time. Naturally, I went straight to the nail salon and got myself a manicure. I wanted to tell the manicurist about my crazy day, but her English was minimal. I imagined how the conversation would go in that suburban salon: "I got laid off...you know, like fired." "You were on FIRE?!" No thanks. So I stayed quiet. It was a weird feeling, but I knew I'd be fine. This was my push. Now all I needed was the shove. I interviewed with a couple big ad agencies - the kind that would have been my dream to work for a couple years or even months ago. One was an agency in D.C. that specializes in progressive politics and nonprofits (um, awesome). The place seemed legit. The title sounded badass. But I sent them an email mid-April saying I was no longer flying in for a final interview. Why? Because I had a gut feeling about this cool mattress company in New York, that's why. It was a little more than that, but I'll spare you the details. The point is, I'm a big believer in listening to your gut. And your heart and your brain. And your parents. And Glassdoor reviews. And the person telling you how much you're getting paid – that's important too. Two weeks later, I took my cat and the clothes on my back and headed out to NYC. Just kidding, I filled my car to the brim and drove half the distance, to an Airbnb in Columbus, OH. Our temporary home was great – I love using Airbnb every chance I get – but it was pretty funny staying in one with my cat. Ali agreed. She let me know by flipping over her entire litter box on the beautiful hardwood floor. Twice. Eventually, we made it. And suddenly we're going about our daily lives in a whole new routine as if it's been this way forever. In the mornings, I leave our apartment in South Plainfield, NJ, drive to the commuter parking lot, wait for the shuttle, take the shuttle to the train station, wait for the train, take the train to New York Penn Station, walk some more, take the elevator to the 11th floor and viola – almost 2 hours later I'm at work. But I'm not complaining. The commute is part of this life I signed up for (or did life sign me up for the commute?). Either way, I'm crazy happy with my job at Casper. And I'm crazy happy living with Scott. I can't even explain how many times in the past year, living in St. Louis, I felt like I wasn't my whole self. Does that makes sense? I felt like I was on a constant winter break from college, only I went to work eight hours a day, too. I knew I wanted to get out – I had always aimed for Colorado. But when Scott got into a rotational program through his work that places him in different cities for the next three years...my focus got blurry. I realized this whole long distance thing wasn't ending anytime soon. And if I wanted to learn what it's like to really be with him, plus push my career forward and satisfy my craving to venture outside of Missouri, I was going to need to take action. My half-birthday surprise was the push. My offer from Casper was the shove. And everything in between was a nice combination of solid effort and pointless worrying. Did I mention the day I got that offer I danced around my house, picked up my cat and spun her around saying, "Mommy got a job!"? Probably not, because that's kind of embarrassing. But also very true. It all came together. All those nights in St. Louis worrying about which job would work out, or which city should I pick, or how am I going to do this, or how can I save my long-distance relationship – they're all over. And I am so appreciative to be where I'm at right now. Ali is, too (she's on my lap). I'm excited to be a New York working woman, a wanderer, an amateur photographer, a writer, a cat mom, a friend and a girlfriend here. Most importantly, I'm excited to be Renée – to embrace my whole self in this new city. I'm not on some extended winter break anymore. This is my new life, and I'm ready for it. life's most persistent and urgent question is: "what are you doing for others?" We all like the self-cuddling phrase "I'm not racist." Today, it's pretty frowned upon to be a racist. Most people reading this would not call themselves "racists". But it's interesting to ask yourself, "Is racism a part of my life?" Whatever your skin color, if you live on Earth and are exposed to the media and/or other cultures: the answer is probably yes.
I watched this video the other day, and it got me thinking about the difference between being a non-racist and being an anti-racist. It's very easy for many white people to be non-racists. We don't yell the N-word out of our cars, we listen to black artists on the radio and have a black friend or two or seven. Some of us scoff at people who are outwardly racist, and we take comfort in knowing that we aren't like that. We think, "What that person is saying has nothing to do with me." To be an anti-racist means you don't look the other way. You don't separate yourself from derogatory remarks, from the hateful energy taking over Mizzou recently, or from everyday discrimination that may not reach out and grab you personally. You recognize it as a part of your world, and you act against it. Being a non-racist is still a good thing. Being a non-rapist is also a good thing. But if we saw someone getting raped right before our eyes, we'd probably say something. What about if we heard someone talk about it? What if they were kidding? Would we still say something? Maybe, maybe not. My point is to remember that being human is about taking action and lifting each other up. Not watching people fall, acting like we didn't see it, then picking up our iPhones and sending a tweet about puppies. It's still January – let's talk about New Years resolutions. I personally wrote a few ideas in a note in my phone a couple weeks ago with goals like "Drink more water" and "Work out more". I revisited it recently and realized not a single thing on my list benefitted anyone else but me. The world will not be a better place if I drink more water. In fact, my resolving to drink more water is an oxymoronic slap in the face to people who don't even have clean water to drink! Who do I think I am? So yesterday was Martin Luther King, Jr. Day, and this whole post stems from his pressing question, "What are you doing for others?" Not what are you saying about others or how do you feel about them. What are you doing. This encompasses race issues – but reaches so much further. It reaches everything you care about. So why not make our resolutions about taking action when it's so easy not to? "Love" is a verb. So is "help", "try", "listen" and "learn". Some of these things can be done with our eyes glued to a screen, but let's challenge ourselves to find ways beyond that. It's a crazy idea, I know. “It means there’s something that you’ve never seen before, and you put it together into something that is brand new. That others had not seen. You saw what they saw, but now you’ve created a new idea, a new product, a new brand, a new path to solve a problem. Not everyone does that.” - Neil deGrasse Tyson I was an insightful child, and I can recall an abnormal amount of my insights. I don't remember what I had for lunch three days ago, but I remember being a little kid and looking at my mom standing by the kitchen counter and thinking, "When I can see over the kitchen counter, that's when I'm officially grown up."
I also remember looking in the mirror before a birthday party in kindergarten (getting ready..?) and thinking wow, people would look a lot better if they just didn't have noses. I remember purposefully lying two feet away from my kindergarten boyfriend during nap time, and when the lights turned off I bravely and creepily whispered in his ear, "I like you." His response was, "Oh." I remember forcing said boyfriend to attend my smiley-face-themed birthday party that was otherwise all girls. I remember thinking very logically about the possibility of a Santa Claus and concluded that there was just no way. I got in a screaming fight with this girl at recess, and I distinctly remember my reasoning: "HE HAS NOTHING TO DO WITH JESUS THAT DOESN'T EVEN MAKE SENSE." She was silenced. I feel guilty about it to this day. So that little girl already felt like she was supposed to look in a mirror before a party. She quickly found out that it's not "normal" for a girl to aggressively make the first move, and she noticed backfire when she questioned authority about a widespread belief amongst her peers. But she did it anyway. I now can see over the kitchen counter. I have 17 years of education under my belt and 23 years of life experience – listening and learning, seeking and finding. I still look in the mirror, because I value my self image. I tell my current boyfriend I like him all the time, and I usually get a decent response. And when I believe something is truly wrong, I fight it to the death. Fifteen months ago I was leaving Spain after the semester of a lifetime, and I promised myself I wasn't done exploring. Rewind a little longer ago than that, and this Scott Bridwell character and I were wandering the streets of Ibiza, after he and Nick and John met up with me in Spain along their backpacking adventure. If someone would have told me then that next year I'd be back in Europe with Scott....well, maybe I wouldn't be all that surprised. Just another adventure. I hope to write a full blog post about the trip soon, but for now here's my first-ever travel video. I had a blast making this, and it inspired me to explore the creative world of film more – practice makes perfect! Here's the order of where we went: Oslo, Norway Berlin, Germany Pula & Zagreb, Croatia Copenhagen, Denmark Amsterdam, Netherlands My copywriter interview for Mojo Ad was over Skype at 1am my time from my bedroom in Spain. Wearing a nice top with a blazer and hidden Cookie Monster pajama pants, I joked around with Mark Swanson and I guess tricked him into hiring me. Over a year later, here I sit...alive, surprisingly, and still a functioning human being. There were (a scary amount of) times over the past two semesters that I thought this would never be possible...so I just want to give a big shout-out to caffeine, beer and the Chipotle on 9th Street for salvaging my sanity.
Wait, what is Mojo exactly? It's the country's leading student-staffed ad agency through the J School at Mizzou, where three teams of 10 spend the semester in competition, creating and eventually presenting fully-integrated campaigns to national clients. Oh got it, thanks. Anytime. Despite my sporadic negativity (brutal honesty), I am indeed very happy I was a part of Mojo for two semesters, with two teams of crazy talented people and two challenging clients (Blue Diamond Almond Breeze and Nestle Purina). Although I am alive and somewhat sane, I know my fellow Mojo'ers would agree that we're just not the same people we were before we willingly donated our souls to advertising. So I put together a little list. What One Year of Mojo Ad Will Do to You 1) You'll fast forward the TV...to get to the commercials. While the rest of the room is talking over the ads and lowering the volume, you'll be silent and enthralled - analyzing strategy and critiquing execution. "What's the big idea here?" you'll wonder with a twinkle in your eye. You may even happily wait through YouTube pre-roll ads or almost crash your car from reading every billboard. This is reason #1 why your non-Mojo friends will shun you. 2) You will dream Mojo dreams. They range from the realistic, like your food disappearing from the Mojo Office....to the extreme, like the client turning into a three-headed dinosaur, eating a member of your team, and telling you that you're just not cut out for this industry and to get out while you can. It was a stressful week. 3) You will cry Mojo tears. After at least a month on Mojo, you will notice a heightened emotional sense you never had before. Mojo tears can occur at any given moment, and they are almost always followed by Mojo hugs and Mojo nods of agreement. 4) You will put the campaign above literally everything else. You have a final exam and a project due in two other classes? It's your dog's birthday? All your friends are going out? You were offered a free trip to Cancun? Forget it - you have a six hour team meeting and a few lines of copy to write, and they are so much more important. Your GPA will slip and you kind of won't care. "The campaign is life," you'll mutter in your sleep. But you love it, and that's reason #2 why your non-Mojo friends will shun you. 5) You won't settle for the lowest apple on the tree. Or the highest. You'll take a mental spaceship to an imaginary tree on the moon if you have to. Because of Mojo, you're used to Plan A or B through Q not working out, so you never stop coming up with ideas. You'll push yourself in everything you do because you now know what you're capable of. 5) You'll expect board meetings in your future to be themed. And Mojo has prepared you to come up with original ideas on the fly, like printed bikini bod t-shirts or all ten of you dressing as Steve Jobs. 6) Your Mojo team will become your family. And no one else will understand. When you spend over 200 hours outside of class with the same ten people, not only do you know (far too many) details of their lives...you understand their flaws and appreciate their strengths. Teamwork takes a whole new meaning. After client presentation, you're left with this tingly sensation that's either from lack of sleep or pure pride that your team came together as strangers and left with this beautiful baby.....that you could have never created alone. I'm talking about the campaign....That got weird. So if you're considering applying for Mojo Ad, I hope this post was educational. Just close your eyes and ask yourself, "Am I willing to lose my mind...and find it at the same time?" Throw in a curse word or two in the question if you prefer, and allow yourself time for an internal debate. Once your brain figures out you're talking about a capstone and not a drug, it might just say yes. If so, apply away. You're in for an unforgettable experience. Digging my fingers in between the squishy heel of a pair of Nike tennis shoes and the tiny brown foot of an 85 year old Guatemalan woman, I heaved with tearful, uncontrollable laughter. The heel of the shoe kept bending over and rejecting her poor foot - coated with dried mud from the day's activities and wrinkly with experience. And the woman's reaction? The loudest, most genuinely adorable laugh I have heard in a while - causing me to immediately join in. I kept telling her in Spanish, "I hope I'm not hurting you!" or "Almost there!" and she would just hit me on the back, flat-out cracking up. She hugged me when we finally got it, saying how thankful she was for her new shoes, and then continued to crack herself up, blabbering incomprehensible Spanish to all of us and then bursting in laughter. Seeing me laughing with her, Kait asked, "What is she saying?" I replied, "I literally have no idea." That was at the last village we visited, when I had already found out what it was like to make someone's day with an article of clothing or create a lasting connection in one precious moment. Before that, we spent a few days returning to the village Pueblo Modelo, getting to know the children there, providing medical and dental care, building bookshelves, bunk beds and chicken coops, and donating clothing and supplies. Pueblo Modelo was my first peek into the poverty of Guatemala - and what a shock it was. Some "nice" houses were made out of cement, others just had the dirt ground as their flooring. Some were made out of pure trash or sheet metal, and the contents were just nothing. These people don't have toothpaste, they don't have refrigerators, they don't have socks. But they show us their houses with the most genuine pride and contentment. In one of our group discussions we talked about how these people are experiencing poverty of material things, but they aren't lacking in very much else - spiritual and emotional wellness, community, family strength. Their pure admirable happiness and pride makes them richer than most of us. There was one little girl at Pueblo Modelo, Iris, who became my friend for the next few days. She would hold my hand and ride on my back, she'd make me swing her up in the air. And she'd look at me with the sweetest eyes and tell me what she wanted: a house. She said (in Spanish of course) that her dad died and she looked over her younger brother and sister while her mom was working. "Work" for them meant manual labor...most likely outside of the village, in coffee bean fields or elsewhere. When she told me she wanted a house I felt like a failure, like a Santa Claus phony denying a child's one wish. I hugged her and told her she could show me where she lived tomorrow, and we were attached at the hip from that point on. If the living conditions of Pueblo Modelo were saddening, those of the next village were sickening - just inhumane. Families' "houses," made of straw, tarp, sticks, mud and trash bags, surrounded one heaping trash dump. We watched silently and solemnly as truckloads of garbage added to the pile, and Guatemalan families scavenged through the mess - as they did everyday - to pick out recyclables that they could later trade for coins. I walked around, taking in the scene - the kids laughing in the trash pile having a blast, unashamed. The mothers walking their kids back to their houses, satisfied with the new clothes we had just given them. The breathtaking mountains in the background - which we all had to comment on at some point, whether it was here or a different village. If this land were under a different government, like America, we'd say...it would be worth millions! In our arrogance we imagined the billion dollar homes and the restaurants. It just further proves our American consumerism. For these people, this is life. This heap of trash is constantly on fire to create space, filling their lungs with smoke in and outside of their homes. And here we see mountains and think, "What a beautiful place for happy hour." I started talking with one little boy at the dump, who was throwing a circular piece of cardboard up in the air as hard as he could, then running to grab it and doing it again. It looked like a mix between fetch and ultimate frisbee, but he was having the time of his life. I got him to pass it with me a little bit, trying to teach him to throw it like a frisbee, and he was loving it. I realized this piece of trash was his new toy for the day and the whole idea made my stomach turn a bit. When we got back to the bus, Danny Howe was standing in the bus door with one last duffel bag of donations for the kids, holding up a brand new highlighter yellow soccer ball. I watched the cardboard frisbee-throwing boy catch it and his eyes light up like it was the best day of his life. The third village we we went to seemed a little more developed, although they still didn't have much "stuff." Everything was so intelligently and resourcefully built, using the little materials they had - from the door hinges made of sheet metal to the dish-drying racks hanging from trees. The houses were built with patterns of sticks and mud patted down to create a strong foundation. It all made me feel pretty dumb to be honest - if I was left with sticks and mud to build a home I'd be utterly screwed. We distributed water filters to several families around that village and showed them how to use it, supplying them with clean water for the next ten years. Before the filter, they had to stock up on clean water from outside villages and use extremely sparingly before they could fill up again. Each family was incredibly grateful. At this village, like the other ones, we set up medical and dental clinics, put together soccer goals, donated clothing and played with the kids. I spent a lot of time in medical and became a little pharmacist that day, handing Dr. Montgomery and Dr. Rios baggies of Ibuprofren, vitamins and other medications left and right. People of all ages were coming in with all kinds of problems. A mother wanted medicine for her sick toddler, an older man had pain in his chest, a pregnant woman wanted to know if her unborn baby was still alive. The simple medical attention and over-the-counter medicines that we take for granted were groundbreaking for these families - HUGE thank you to our doctors (and translators) for making all those smiles possible. Besides playing pharmacist, I also got to play dentist back at Pueblo Modelo. Actually, I was more of a combination between dentist and kindergarten teacher - explaining to a "class" of five kids at a time how to brush their teeth in Spanish, then giving toothbrushes and toothpaste and applying dental varnish to their teeth, marking the names of kids whose teeth were "really bad" - which turned out to be a whole lot of names. I saw teeth that were crumbling, black and jagged. When I was their age, I had already been going to an orthodontist for years with a mouthful of braces and rubber bands. That realization made me feel both privileged and disgusted by what my teeth would look like by now if I were in their shoes. On our last day at Pueblo Modelo, we gave backpacks filled with school supplies to the preschool children and donated hundreds of books to create a school library, which was just so awesome and rewarding to see how excited the kids, parents and teachers were. The school even had a little assembly to thank Kristin Halford for making it all possible...It was so special. Leaving the school with lots of happy kids and their new backpacks, I saw my little friend Iris looking upset. She told me she wasn't "technically" enrolled in the school so she didn't get a backpack, and all she wanted was one book. I told her the new library would have hundreds of books for her to choose from, but she wasn't satisfied...So I took my colorful bracelet from Tomorrowworld and put it on her wrist, and took my cheap tribal sunglasses and put them on her face. She looked like a mini Guatemalan Renee with new jewelry of her very own... I think we were equally ecstatic. The last project we did there was what we liked to call the "life-changing concrete slab." One ten-year-old boy in the village has muscular dystrophy in his legs, which has increasingly gotten worse to the point where it is very difficult for him to stand or walk on uneven surfaces. He spends majority of his time standing on his neighbors sidewalk because it is the only flat concrete nearby. So using rocks, water, dust, and shovels, the group of us created a concrete mixture that was then spread flat to create a big foundation right outside the little boy's home. When we finished, his dad thanked us, telling us there was no way he could ever repay us...there were tears in his eyes. I gave the boy a hug on my way out...he's only expected to live two more years, and we helped make those two years a little bit easier. Seeing the emotional gratitude in that father's eyes, creating a special bond with Iris and sharing the most hilarious moments with that 85 year-old woman made me realize one simple truth. Even with how incredible the mission work is on a trip like this, it's so much more about the genuine, lasting connections made and the new outlook we have as we come back and continue to live our lives. Some say that mission trips don't really do that much...that they're just short-term immediate help and can't even begin to solve the problems at hand. After getting to know the Guatemalans and seeing what they (and we) are capable of, I completely disagree. We may not be able to do it all, but at least now we've seen what needs to be done. We've gained an understanding that couldn't be obtained any other way, and made the most beautiful friendships while doing it. Traveling is learning, learning is understanding, and understanding is peace. By traveling to Zacapa and holding the hands of the children there, I feel connected to them...and that's never going to go away. Of course, we owe everything we were able to accomplish in Guatemala to the awesome program Hearts in Motion. The HIM staff were some of the most inspiring and humble people I have ever met, and I only was with them for a few days. They showed us what the program is all about and the facilities they have around Zacapa right now: an orphanage, a physical therapy center, a daycare, a medical clinic where they make prosthetic arms and legs in a pizza oven (really)... It was beyond impressive how far they have come and what a significant difference they've made in Zacapa. On the first day, the founder Karen told us that for her, working for Hearts in Motion was working for HIM but it's also working for Him - I really loved that, and have never been more sure in my life that I was working for Him all week. This was a note in my phone from May 26, the day I left Spain.
"It's official. As I write this I'm on sitting on the plane from Philadelphia to St. Louis enjoying my first real Diet Coke in 5 months. And I know it's hard to believe but the "culture shock" of being back in the United States is almost even more shocking than arriving in Europe. Being surrounded by English is very, very weird. Purely American English at that. And I haven't even left the airport! So anyway, if you know how my semester's been at all you can expect that leaving this morning was one of the hardest things I've done in a long time. I absolutely promised Pedro and Asuncion that I would come back to see them, and I will hold to that promise. And the goodbyes with many of my other friends were spread out over time, because people have been gradually leaving since April. So I guess that makes it easier, but not by much. Because I'm not saying an official "goodbye" to my friends...I can always keep in touch with my international friends and the ones from across America...and I'm not saying bye to Alicante, because surely I'll come back. I'm saying goodbye to the semester and OUR Alicante experience that we will never be able to do again. But what makes it slightly okay is that I know I lived this semester to it's absolute fullest. Every single day in Alicante or traveling was spent meeting new people, challenging myself in one way or another, and just having a freaking blast. I've never felt anything like how I felt there, and whatever it was was good. So in my last post I got all emotional about my host parents, but this one goes out to my Mizzou/Alicante friends. Sometime about a month ago is when the first one of us left to go home, so naturally the night before the group of us (including French Charlie) grabbed some bottles of wine and headed to the beach specifically for a late night memory discussing/tear jerking pow wow. We popped champagne and each went around and made toasts - to Alicante, to how grateful we are for each other and the amazing friendships we created, to the semester turning out 10 times better than we could have ever imagined...we got pretty detailed and deep. To hear each one of us, especially the guys, open up about how much we all mean to each other...that was pretty awesome. It's so apparent that this semester had a huge impact on all of us in some way or another, and we can see it in each other. We've literally grown together over the past 5 months and have seen each other at our best and absolute worst moments." So that's where I stopped typing. I'll leave the "absolute worst moments" up to your imagination, but I know my crew knows what I'm talking about. So what about now? I'm back in the swing of things. People stopped asking "How was your trip?" and it's turning into a thing of the past. I use that exact quote because that's the question I got most often, and it honestly bugs the hell out of me. Which trip? My trip to Morocco or Dublin or Budapest? Certainly they can't mean Alicante, because that place was my home. To wrap up the iPhone love note, I've got three words to my Alicante friends: somos una piña. I've explained it in some post before because I think we started using it when we were in Prague. It literally means "we are a pineapple," but in Spain it's a way of saying we are all one, we're united, we're a team. Cheers to my pineapple. The semester would not have been the same without you guys. There's no way I could actually put the Camino into words, but I guess I'll attempt...it was unbelievably beautiful. The scenes I saw and the air I was breathing was like nothing I've ever experienced. On top of that it was extremely challenging, mind opening, thought provoking, and rewarding... This post is going to sound very contradicting because I have to tell you that the entire time we were actually in a lot of pain, pushing ourselves to the limit and walking up steep hills with backpacks when we could have easily collapsed. Basically my joints and muscles still feel destroyed...but pain is glory, right? But we're wimps, honestly. We walked about 105 kilometers over 4 days. During that time we met people, many who appeared much older than my parents, who had been walking the Camino for several weeks or over a month. The entire Camino usually takes a few months to complete, and all year long there are people out there from all over the world completing the journey for whatever reason - religious, personal, spiritual, or undecided by the peregrinos (pilgrims/what we were referred to the entire way). Armando told us as we started out on the first day that it's essential to think about our potential reasons for doing the Camino while we walked - and "for class credit" or "exercise" doesn't count. In the end, we would officially mark down our "reason" when we became official peregrinos in Santiago. The first day was the longest and the hardest. We slept on an overnight train until 4:30 a.m. and then started walking in the dark from the town of Ourense. As the Sun came up, we walked up the longest and steepest hill you could imagine, that was ironically named "little hill" in Spanish. If that stretch would have been at any other time in our journey than the very beginning, I think we'd be crawling. So we went on...during the entire Camino, our group of 18 or so would divide into smaller groups or pairs, come together again, eat together, separate again...we felt like a team but at the same time we could separate to the point of getting lost, which we did...a couple times. That first day we met together for a picnic lunch in one of the towns, in an open field next to an old stone cathedral. After all that walking, giant loaves of bread, fresh churrizo, cheese, tomatoes, and unlimited wine was exactly what we needed...and afterward the entire group passed out in the field in the sun for a good 45 minutes surrounded by the remains of our feast. The scene had to have looked hilarious to passerbys. So the entire Camino went as such. We'd walk for hours on end, following the shells and yellow arrows (symbols of the Camino), then come together to eat unreal amounts of carbs, walk again, stop to chill at beautiful secluded spots, give each other much needed back massages, stretch, and walk again. One of the days we stopped at a river to jump in the freezing bright blue water under a bridge that's older than Jesus...casual. We'd go hours with great conversation and we'd go hours just being - one foot in front of the other, listening to music or nature or nothing but our own thoughts. Sometimes we'd stop in towns to grab a beer and put a stamp in our stamp book...all peregrinos receive a book and collect stamps as they go from village to village. And then we'd reach the albergues, the shelters where we showered and slept, which weren't too much different than your average hostel. Except the second day....after Christina and I wandered off and lost the group for a good few hours/several kilometers out of the way, we finally got to where we needed to be....Our delusional, worn out selves found the entire group drinking wine and relaxing poolside at a beautiful old lodge in the mountains called Casa Grande de Fuentemayor. It was dreamlike....like something out a wedding video. After wandering for hours with our backpacks and pained feet, I literally busted out laughing at the sight of the whole group. It was a "this can't be real" kind of moment. All along the Camino we'd pass by other peregrinos or people living in the villages and exchange the words "Buen Camino" every time. It was just a mutual understanding between everyone along the route and a little piece of encouragement. As we passed one church getting nearer to Santiago, a group of 20 or so people jumped out of the door and came out clapping and cheering for us saying "Buen Camino!" and wishing us luck and congratulations. We could not stop smiling for a long while after that. For many more reasons than that, I decided Northern Spanish people are some of the nicest there is. Finally reaching Santiago on Monday was an awesome feeling. But honestly, most of us agreed that we could have gone for longer...if we started taking it a little slower and tripled up on Ibuprofen. On the fourth day the Camino was beginning to feel like a lifestyle...but I also can't say my body was complaining when we finally got to rest. In Santiago, we visited the tomb of St. James in St. James' Cathedral (which is the traditional "destination" of the Camino - also referred to as "St. James' Way"), and then we attended the official mass for peregrinos there. It was a surreal feeling being surrounded by all these "fellow Camino-ers," as we more commonly called them, in the exact place where people have been completing their journey for centuries. And after the priest read off a list of that day's peregrinos to pray for, including "el grupo de estudiantes de Alicante," they raised a giant incense container up and made it swing like a giant pendulum down the aisle until it almost touched the ceiling of the cathedral. I mean about ten men in robes were pulling down a giant rope to make this thing swing to the point where we had to lean our heads all the way back to watch it soar across the cathedral...it was the coolest thing I've ever seen in a church that's for sure. So that's that. I truly want to come back and do a different part of the Camino for longer time, if the busyness of life allows for it. Well honestly it's more like if I allow it into my life...ooh gettin' deep there. Basically, the Camino de Santiago was a walk to remember....lolz. But really, I'm very glad I did it.
Other stuff. The end is near. I'm sitting at 9 days left in Spain. I'm going to Ibiza next Thursday-Saturday, then will only have one more day in Alicante. I seriously can't express how painful it is to leave this place behind. I never expected coming to Alicante that at this point I would walk around the city running into people I know, being welcomed with open arms by all these new, good friends of mine from all over the world...that I might never see again. I've become so comfortable with this city and this country that it feels like a part of me. I'm speaking almost fluent Spanish for Christ's sake, who knew that would happen? And what really gets me is leaving Pedro and Asuncion. It's all manageable until I think about the possibility of not seeing them again and I could cry at the drop of a hat. I have seriously become so close with them, to the point where they know everything about my life, we have inside jokes, we have debates, we have nights where they argue with each other about the type of person I'm going to marry...we are quite the trifecta. I am going to have a huge hole in my heart without them. And they're actually about to have another girl live with them this summer, just for a month or so. They just found out yesterday and she's already coming tomorrow, so I get to meet her. I'm going to be honest, right when they told me I felt like a toddler who just found out her mom's pregnant. I'm being replaced?! But I am truly happy for them and hope the new girl is awesome. Pedro and Asuncion are meant to do what they do, seriously. They have impacted so many girls lives and have "daughters" all over the world that feel the same way I do. That's pretty special. I'm excited to meet this new girl... should I haze her or what? Just kidding. I get to tell her that she's in for the best summer of her life. And hey everyone back home - despite how depressive I sound about leaving, I am getting pretty pumped to see you. It's bittersweet, but being able to come home to such amazing people will always be a blessing. Hopefully I'll get another post in after Ibiza. Thanks for reading people. Ciao. |
Renee Fleddermanncopywriter Archives
June 2016
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