A Broken Heart in the Backyard

Background:
LMU sponsors eight or nine "alternative breaks" every year. These global service trips are designed to immerse students in social justice issues in order to better form them according to the Jesuit mission of forming men and women for others.
I applied to go to India over this past Christmas break. The two-week trip centered on interfaith dialogue, which is what I (perhaps) hope to study in grad school. What I learned later from the Center for Service and Action is that 50 senior women applied for this trip, i.e. I wasn't placed on it. Rather, I was placed as a co-leader to the East LA trip.
I openly shared with my group how initially disappointed I was. Rather than solidify my passion for ecumenism, I was going into gang territory. I imagined telephone poles, baggy jeans and spray paint instead of colors, chants, and prayer. I became more disappointed when I found that all but one of the participants initially placed on our trip had canceled (shout-out to Trevor! Ain't you the lucky one!). Who wants to go to East LA? A week-long service immersion 30 minutes from LMU? I didn't blame them. Instead, I psyched myself up with wishy-washy expectations--yay, I get to practice my Spanish. Yay, I will learn about conflict resolution. Yay, the pressure of leading is totally off because virtually all the participants knew more about Dolores Mission, where we spent a week, then I did. I resigned to a low-key and fun trip.

Story:
I haven't the words to express what happened to me in East LA. The closest I can get is to say that my heart is broken.
I'd never felt that before. No one and nothing has ever entered me that deeply and then crumpled me. Because I can't seem to process this feeling in blog form, I'm reverting to my journal entry after visiting Skid Row and Juvenile Hall:

My heart is broken. By the young men...the boys...of juvenile hall. I can't stop to think about it too long without crying, shivering, hurting for them.
They all wore ragged gray sweatshirts, loose navy sweats, gang tattoos, buzz cuts. Victims of a system with no escape. What I remember most--what hurts the most--is their eyes. No longer were they sexy Mexican/Chicano bad boys, nervous and smiley at the prospect of talking with a 21-year-old college gringa. That was my stereotyping, my imagination. No, they were terrified children, huddled in the sterile dark, the cold lights of the linoleum room, searching, begging for the good of the world. Is there any?, they often wonder. I desire more than anything to bring it to them.
"God will forgive me no matter what, right?"
Dear Roberto, José , and Ezekiel,
You have pierced my soul. I am in awe of you. I thank you. I pray for you at court today, Eze, though I have little faith to offer. My heart is broken for you, and I never want to forget that. I want to heal it with love. I will fight to remain afloat for your sake, to bring sunshine into fear, so that broken hearts may still rise.

I wrote that post while bawling. My amazing group huddled around me. Emmy rubbed my shoulders and said, "Okay, your heart is broken. How are you invited to rebuild it?"

This story does not end sadly. At least, mine doesn't. Deseo mas que todo que los muchachos de juvy se sientan lo mismo.

Legitimately OreGONE

I have an unfortunate track record for falling in love and getting really good at things and then dropping them promptly--dance (when I was 4), martial arts (when I was 11), piano (when I was 13) musical theatre (high school), calculus, surfing (okay, though I'm not really good, and I haven't quit)...I could really go on for a paragraph. I also have a track record for moving, though that's not really my fault--Santa Monica, Irvine, Greenfield, Los Angeles, Ventura, McMinnville...I don't really have a geographical location I associate with home. The world is my home. ooooooo that sounded sharp.
The POINT is, I hope I don't "drop" Oregon.
If you've been following my blogs you know my parents have moved to McMinnville, a quaint farm town of 32,000 an hour south-west of Portland. I spent a couple days there, with my Aunt Jeanine (one of my three favorite people in the world) and new Oregon best bud Allie. And the city makes me swoon.
Public transportation abounds. Every Saturday the kooky artisans gather in the glistening downtown area for an adorable market. The city is the site of the largest urban forest in the US--Forest Park. I'm gonna go for a run there someday. Today I met a former Jesuit Volunteer for lunch on Hawthorne Blvd, one of the funky neighborhoods in the southeast city. I parked behind a VW van, running on biodiesel, with a Returned Peace Corps Volunteer bumper sticker. On the street everyone was wearing an Irish cap or colorful stockings or carrying a farmer's market bag. The city is extremely young, fresh, organic, liberal--not that I whole-heartedly embrace all of these things, but I certainly love being around them.
And there's so much GREEN. Allie and I drove to Washington Park (part of Forest Park), up a winding blue road and through some smoky mountains, where we entered the forested Portland Zoo and took a cold nighttime train ride through their Christmas lights. It was the most Christmas-y thing I've ever done. When you're downtown, too, you're surrounded by clean, friendly skyscrapers and the MAX (a tram), but around you are pines and grass and hippies. And REDHEADS (the JVI I had lunch with, por ejemplo). So many gingers! Yay! My dad says it's no wonder--the smart descendants of northwestern Europeans are drawn to the northwestern united states, where they contract less skin cancer. Perhaps...
Who knows where I'll be in a year--five--ten. Saudi Arabia would be jiggy (in the right circumstances). But realistically, I could be here for a while. It's more realistic than my other fantasy prospect, London, a place I could never move without annoying my family. I FIT here, and I've never fit anywhere.

Taking my fickle personality into account, I'm sorry if tomorrow my favorite city is Houston. But don't count on it.

SO CLOSE

I can smell the fresh cold air...a dusty bed not covered in assignments...the eclecticism of a Portland Saturday market...my mother's hairspray...my dog's lack of bathing.
My Christmas in Oregon will consist of:
1. Two nights with my homegirl Allie...we will explore Christmas season in the Pacific Northwest like two college students should
2. Finish a Peace Corps application (and beginning one for the Jesuit Volunteer Corps)
3. اللغة العربية
4. READING: Orientalism, Mother Theresa, fiction by Middle Easterners
5. Getting my singing voice back into shape--I start women's chorus in January. YIKES.
6. Skype and phone conversations with long-lost fantastic people
7. Finishing touches on alternative break to East LA
8. Learning to play "100 Years" on the piano
9. Trying to make it to Canada or Washington for New Year's
10. Preparing mentally and physically for my FINAL semester at LMU. ooooooh $%^#.

This post is procrastination. Back to studying for my 4:30 final. Bye.

The 2nd-to-Last Semester Paper Topics of a B.A. in English

...because I think such things are interesting to the general public.

The Jerusalem Syndrome and Orientalism: exploring the Western visitor's first-time trip to Jerusalem, the feelings that arise, and the prejudices that create them

A History of Paradise: from Atlantis to Shangri-La to Thomas More and Marx, a research paper chronicling what has defined perfect societies throughout human history

Baghdad Burning and Modern Journalism: the value of Riverbend's blog from Baghdad to the current political situation and the future of online journalism

Random Thanks #2

I've decided this post is going to become a regular thing, at least in the short-term. I find it keeps me grounded and positive, especially after five days and 23 hours of sleep (which just happened to me).

More things I am randomly thankful for, in no particular order, with no particular agenda:

My rainbow journal, which will be full and join my shelf of full journals in four more pages. Christmas lights. Answered prayers in disguise as coincidences. Alexis Mendoza and Jack McSweeney. The way it's impossible to feel anxious or stressed when I'm listening to Shokolo music (from west Africa). My roommate Naivasha's bizarre sound effects and beautiful eyes. My new sporty, felty sweatpants against my legs. The picture of my sister Earm on my wall. Thursday nights (the BEST). De Colores trips (to come this weekend!). My incredible growth and maturity this semester. And, as always, the written word.

Would love to hear some of yours...