im Kino

Last Saturday, I holed myself up to rest before I competed in a triathlon on Sunday morning. My friend/neighbor/colleague Robin and I sat on the couch, eating a hefty pre-triathlon meal of roasted vegetables and salmon, while watching “Aus Dem Nichts / In the Fade,” a German film recognized as the 2018 Golden Globe Award for Best Foreign Language Film and as the German entry for the Best Foreign Language Film at the 90th Academy Awards. Naturally, with my German being still less than elementary, we watched the film with English subtitles. With myself and my instructor both on holiday, I’ve been without German lessons for all of August, so the subtitles were good practice to gain familiarity with words and tones. Without spoiling the plot, I’ll leave you with a recommendation to watch it and a footnote that I walked home a bit paranoid and not as relaxed as I’d hoped to go to bed. I’m glad to get into foreign films, to be the outsider who needs subtitles, and to see true stories reflected on the screen.

With today’s near repeat, maybe Saturday nights will be movie nights for the foreseeable future. The first time is an accident; the second time is a tradition. I spent a good portion of today running 30 kilometers around Berlin. Though my training has been subpar at best, I figured doing one long run two weeks before the event would be a worthwhile endeavor. With tired legs, I wanted relaxation for the afternoon and night, and decided to venture to the cinema – das kino – for the evening. I took the train to Hackescher Markt, a quaint series of connected courtyards in the pseudo-posh Mitte neighborhood and waited in line to buy a ticket for BlacKkKlansman, a 2018 film by Spike Lee and Jordan Peele. I didn’t know of the title before I looked at the movie listings today, but the ratings were high enough to intrigue me.

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Only one part of the cinema experience caught my attention: I bought the ticket at the same stand/counter where the refreshments were sold. There was no separate box office. They offered popcorn, bottled sodas, and beer, though the popcorn machine warned “sweet only!,” which I guess means they have kettle corn, not our beloved, buttered, lick-the-salt-off-your-fingers American movie popcorn. I took a rhubarb lemonade with my ticket, then found a seat in the theater, which was otherwise similar to American movie theaters.

Cut to the chase: this film is not for the faint of feelings. Be ready to feel history. BlacKkKlansman follows the true story of Ron Stallworth, the first African-American member of the Colorado Springs Police Department, as he goes undercover in investigating the Ku-Klux-Klan. It’s a timely and necessary story to bring to the surface, with the present day race conversations in the US. Aside from offering an intriguing historical narrative, the plot elevated my heart rate, my hands were clasped knuckle-to-knuckle, and I had to remind myself to let my head rest against the padded chair. It sounds bad, but I actually enjoy a movie when I am able to fear and feel for the characters.

Yet, these weren’t just characters, they are real people’s stories. I sat and witnessed behaviors – events that actually happened – that go beyond “discrimination” as we often see it. Discrimination is more than a white page with black text describing a company or organization’s commitment to not treat people different on the basis of x, y, and z. Discrimination happens every day in verbal, physical, and subconscious forms. The film brought subconscious realities into my conscience.

The German-language subtitles flickered consistently through each frame, reminding me of the city, the country, the history, the Holocaust that once happened outside of the theater. This awareness scared me. As an audience, we witnessed relentless derogatory comments that positioned people as lesser because of their skin colors and their religions. These atrocities rolled from the mouths of the actors like butter on a biscuit in the heat of summer. Meaning everything, but said like nothing. Let me say again: I’m in Germany. This country knows all too well the realities and effects of ostracizing certain races and certain people. Sitting in a crowd of Germans, I watched America with a different perspective. I saw the word “Führer” – compounded with another word – flash across the screen when describing David Duke’s role in the Ku-Klux-Klan.

The film ends with clips from recent events in the US. The sound of a glass bottle rolling along the theater floor. Otherwise, solemnity and air stale as popcorn from last year. I thought of the one character, a Klansman, whose dumbness, drunken stupor, and lack of common sense brought comic relief to the plot’s tensest moments. I’d heard people in the audience laughing, and suddenly, nothing was funny. This is a true story, and though I watched it on a screen, I watched it in a place where people know worse is possible.

The Middle East is Not Singular

I pieced together an early breakfast with the few remaining groceries I bought on my arrival to Eilat two nights beforehand. I pulled the drawstring on my backpack shut. I messaged my parents. They knew my plan to travel to Petra and on to Amman, and they knew there was no actual plan. My nerves hesitated. What other tasks can I justify doing to prolong the inevitable? 

Just before 7:30 am, I tapped “Request Ride” on Israel’s ubiquitous GetTaxi mobile app. These would be my last moments with access to internet and the final possibility to rely on Google for the remainder of the day. Had I fully researched and prepared to cross the border and find a ride to Petra? Would I need special paperwork? Would there or would there not be a fee for a Jordanian visa? Utter fear of the unknown, and I uttered nothing other than “toda” – thank you – as my driver dropped me at the border, a dust-coated, sterile compilation of fences and small huts separating Eilat, Israel from Aqaba, Jordan.

One year ago this week, I left the barely comfortable land of Hebrew and hummus, walked across the border with only a backpack, and entered the equally hot and arid deserts of Jordan. The geopolitical boundary separated dark from light in my thoughts and emotions. I desired the experience of Petra without feeling like an outsider in my own sneakers. I sought the taste of Jordan without knowing a lick of Arabic: illiterate, unequipped, alone, cash-less, thirsty, both cold and hot. After six nights exploring Haifa in Israel’s north and the sun-kissed urbanity of Tel Aviv, my yet-to-begin two days and one night in Jordan already felt like an eternity.

The no-actual-plan plan for Jordan consisted of the following:

Winging it, based on advice from a friend of a friend in tourism. Cross the border. Hire a taxi to Petra. Find someplace to store my bag then there will be many private guides waiting for guests. After Petra, hire a taxi to Amman.
Source 1: “If you arrive in Jordan’s southern city of Aqaba by air on an international flight, by sea from Nuweiba in Egypt or by land from Eilat, you are entitled to a free visa as part of the free-trade agreement with the Aqaba Special Economic Zone Area (ASEZA).”
Source 2: “‘Visa on arrival’ is back at the Wadi Araba/Arava Crossing but it is not free of charge any more, it costs JD 60.”

As shown above, internet searches suggest – somewhat contradictorily –  that visa fee policies can vary based on the day and current economic arrangements. I remain uncertain how I would have paid, since there was no ATM and I had not yet procured Jordanian dinar. Lucky for me, there was no fee. Following behind a young man and woman – couple? friends? could they help me if I needed assistance? don’t go too far! – I passed through several windows with paperwork and inked stamps marking my progress into Jordan. The border crossing surprised me with its ease; just like that, I reached the taxi and bus area.

I guess this is where I should ask for a ride to Petra? The young French couple and I negotiated in clear English with one of a few waiting drivers and we agreed to split the fare: 20 JD (28 USD) each for two hours of driving to Petra. We tossed our backpacks into the trunk of his 90s-model green sedan, and we hit the road into Aqaba and onward into the Rum Desert. (No, this is not rum dessert. Though that sounds more inviting than this scary adventure, the desert landscape offered an equally sweet, sensory-awakening experience.) With a weak air conditioning system, we alternated between the forced warm air through the vents and rolling down the windows. I felt surprisingly joyful and calm in the foreign, dry, desert landscape.

Along the road, we stopped at a roadside building for an unannounced bathroom break. Several vendors had wares and souvenirs spread throughout the open floor plan. I knew I would need protection from the heat and hesitated to try on a headscarf. Though there’s natural trepidation in the unknown, there’s also often delight in exploring local customs. Thanks to the salesman who showed me how to tie my scarf, I stayed cool in Petra – you know… I’m cool. I fit in.

After about ninety minutes of driving, our driver mentioned his brother also drove a taxi. We stopped at another roadside building with a scenic overlook of the desert valley, and suddenly our driver’s brother arrived with a slightly newer car. The brother would finish the drive to Petra – hmm… remember, Stephen, trust – so we switched our luggage into his trunk and hit the road for the final stretch.

Upon arriving in Wadi Musa, the town that serves as the entry into the archaeological site, we agreed that the brother would store our luggage for the day and that we should meet him in the parking lot at 4 pm to continue our travels. I would continue on to Amman after we dropped the French couple at their Bedouin camp nearby.

Trust in fellow humans is a paramount quality for travel. People are human everywhere, and they’ll take care of you.

Trusting that my luggage would be safe until 4 pm offered a fairly negotiated deal considering I had yet to pay the first driver or his brother for their driving. I never guessed that lack of cash would cause the most anxiety in this lonesome adventure. Imagine my concern when I’d taken two taxis and arrived in Wadi Musa still to find no working ATM. I paid for the Petra entrance fee and an additional private tour guide by credit card, then met a mid-30s bearded gentleman who was assigned as my guide to walk me through the canyons.

Walk and talk, we did! Mahmoud originates from a local Bedouin tribe, whose people lived in the caves (formerly tombs and temples) of Petra until 1985, when the UNESCO World Heritage site designation forced their move/removal. In fact, my guide was born in one of the caves in 1983 – see, mid-30s was a good guess! – and he started supporting tourism when he was five years old. While some kids sell wares and animal rides – I saw many of them, including one young girl who casually asked me to marry her as I strolled past! – Mahmoud went on to university in Amman and studied sustainable tourism. Today he develops private guided treks on Jordan’s desert trails. Petra has dealt with an influx of tourism since the 2007 designation (determined by a corporation, cough) as one of the “New 7 Wonders.” It’s no doubt why the rocks enamor us, but not all the locals wanted to win the honorable title. Seeing this site as their home and hearing the words of a native resident, I can imagine why.

As we meandered through the sunlit canyons, Mahmoud explained the current philosophy of the ancient site’s construction and the known purposes of various features: the caves, facades, aqueducts, temples, amphitheaters, etc. For example,

  • more layers of carving above an entryway indicate a more prominent resident, because their edifice brings them closer to the heavenly gods.
  • Petra is an active archaeological site, with most funding and exploration coming from foreign universities and governments, and the researchers believe that the site is barely 80% excavated. This means that many structures remain buried several stories deep by sand that has blown through the area over many years.

Mahmoud greeted various other guides and their animals as we walked and talked, transversing geology, history, culture, and the current state of affairs. Without any Jordanian cash, I offered to tip Mahmoud a small amount in American dollars, and he agreed to give me change in the local dinar.

After settling the tip and exchange, I hesitated to rent a horse named Whiskey from his cousin, Samson. Business stays in the family in Jordan, I guess. Samson aggressively pursued me, suggesting that I’d save two hours of walking by riding Whiskey to the highest canyon viewpoint instead, and I agreed to pay 20 JD to rent the horse. After negotiating the price with Samson, he walked alongside while I rode Whiskey to the back of the canyon, stopped for photographs and a snack, and returned to the main site. Whiskey flawlessly – er, I mean, he didn’t fall! – navigated narrow passageways and rock surfaces that were smooth yet steeply angled. I rode nervously, more like a mechanical bull.

Believe it or not, while I lacked cash, many of the outposts that sold small knickknacks, souvenirs, and snacks accepted credit cards through machines connected to satellites, and the bodega offering sandwiches and juices had WiFi! I paid 6 JD cash for a pomegranate-orange juice and a pita wrap with a small spread of hummus.

Upon return, Samson hustled me for a bigger tip! I had to be stern, knowing that I’d already negotiated a lower price than the original offer – he agreed to the price! – and that I didn’t have much cash. I needed to get water and a snack and to get back to meet my driver. He seemed upset that I didn’t offer a big tip for riding Whiskey. Did they take advantage of me? Did we make a fair deal? Did I take advantage of them? The concept of “fair” is perhaps an age-old question in establishing peace in the “Middle East”.

The next interaction more deeply strained my concerns and nerves. After speed walking and photographing (see above) my way from the colonnade through the main canyon areas – gah, golden hour sunlight, why must I abandon you just to meet a taxi driver!? – I opted to take a horse for the remaining mile to the entrance. Mahmoud had shown me that my entrance ticket included a one-way horse ride for the first or last portion of the main Petra pathway. A gentleman approached me offering a ride, and in a hurry, I figured why not. Along the way, he picked up the reigns of a second horse and verbally acknowledged that I had two horses. You can imagine my surprise when, after the five minute ride, I tipped him 2 JD (almost 3 USD!) and he started harassing me for more cash! He suggested I pay extra for the second horse, which I never touched. A ride that was included in my ticket with a tip that I felt was reasonable… you may have nice horses, but I’m not an American cash cow. Petra is beautiful, but you’re not the rock carvings and you have no cash machines.

Who determines what is a fair, middle compromise amongst a politically and culturally diverse and de-centralized set of communities, languages, and cultural norms? What is culture? Simply my thoughts: culture is the spoken and understood identity of a place or group of people. It’s the combined sensory experiences – unconscious and conscious behaviors, sounds, flavors, scents, rituals and habits – the perception when you close your eyes and hear a name or place. I have to imagine that my negotiation and tips could be truly wrong in their eyes and that their willingness to shame me would also be acceptable. This is their world, not mine. This is Easter, and I’m dressed as a Halloween ghost. The misfit has a right to be scared, even when they wear the scary costume as a guest to a not-scary party.

I could go on, and maybe I will write more in another post. The abbreviated summary:

  • Instead of the brother driving me to Amman, I rode for four hours with their cousin and then paid him for all three taxi legs. Do business and money both stay in the family? The “taxi” cars became progressively nicer, while the English fluency of my drivers grew worse. (Dear cousin, “your” and “my” are not to be confused, especially when calling my friend Lauren to arrange where to meet in Amman. No, driver man, it’s my friend, not your friend. I was tired. We managed.) I was cold and sleepy, but afraid to snooze in the car with a stranger, so my headscarf became a blanket.
  • I saw men walking arm-in-arm on the streets of Amman, and this was certainly not the culture I expected in Jordan, a country dominated by Islam which forbids homosexuality. Most likely, they weren’t gay. Women fraternize with women, men fraternize with men, and this is an everyday way to accompany your friends out in public.
  • Amman was as hot as Israel, but I couldn’t distinguish signage for a toilet from a cafe, as everything was Arabic-only.
  • Taxi drivers especially tried to charge higher prices with Lauren, despite her living in Amman, knowing the fair rates, and speaking some Arabic.

A day in Petra and a day in Amman gave me many of these experiences, ones strange and eye-opening to me and perhaps everyday life for Jordanians. Plentiful observations and sights in Jordan, yet my arrival in Amman sticks out.

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Lauren stands alone under the reconstructed dome of the empty Umayyad Palace at Citadel Hill in Amman.

My emotional tank stood empty from the nerves of travel and the excitement of seeing Petra. My stomach sat pruned, with little cash and barely enough time to see Petra. Pulling up to a shopping mall to see Lauren relieved both of us. I dropped my bag in her shared apartment at the language school, and we promptly left to find dinner. She apologized that she only knew a few places where she felt safe and comfortable to walk in the neighborhood. It was cheap, too. 3 JD for both of us, cheap. I told her not to apologize:unun

“it’s hard to step outside your comfort zone when your comfort zone is not all that comfortable.”

The words thoughtlessly rolled out of my tired brain, maybe from the deepest canyon of my empty stomach, and the words resounded with the chimes of every call to prayer we heard the following day in Amman. I can hardly imagine Lauren’s experiences over six months. To be a single, white woman in a culture that actively discredits femininity is to be the face painted witch at that Easter brunch. My ghost’s white sheet innocently veils my ignorance, while her masked skin suggests she wants to be accepted like any painted egg, yet we’re all scared of what we don’t know.

The beauty overwhelmed me, and my unfounded fears kept me grounded. If Israel felt foreign, Jordan felt extraterrestrial. We call this tapestry the Middle East, but the only middle I can find is that people are people. There are common genes where there is not common ground. These aren’t bad people or bad hosts. They’re different people. They welcomed and chauffeured me. Different is neither good nor bad; it’s different.

To see more of my two days in Jordan and perhaps a more celebratory perspective of Jordan, read Beit Sitti: My Grandma’s Kitchen or watch the two videos, from my Instagram daily stories, below (coming soon!)

 

Copenhagen… ❤️

I found some pieces of my heart in Denmark, scattered in every nook and cranny of Denmark’s celebratory air, in the cross-hairs of the two white stripes that adorn a field of red. The Dannebrog wavers on flagpoles against blue skies, spotted with clouds. She hangs neatly from a wooden stick, resting gently on the edge of a basket filled with freshly pressed waffles. A frosted-white cake, ready to be cut, each slice marked by paper banners on wooden toothpicks; the sugary canvas is a LEGO-sized memorial to the pride of a nation.

Danes love their flag, and not in a nationalistic sense. Whereas American patriotism has become a visual marker for conservative elitism, and Germans reserve their flag for occasional stately affairs and national sports events, Denmark has elevated their simple red and white banner to a symbol of intimate celebration. The Danish flag welcomes friends and family at the airport for their homecoming; peppers gardens and tabletops during birthday celebrations; stands gently on castles and seaside overlooks; drapes the compassionate hearts of her people, gently bundling them together with a strong white ribbon.

Welcome, Home.

“So, here are the keys: two for the door, one for the mailbox, and three for the cellar storage.”

Nope, I didn’t buy a house. Yep, I’m renting my own flat in Berlin now.

When I moved here in October, I settled into a WG (a shared flat) with a lovely couple of guys and their yippy Dachshund. I experienced far better luck – or better strategy? – than most in the Berlin housing market. Within a week of my arrival in late October, I enjoyed my own large room with a balcony overlooking the park. We shared two toilets and an average size kitchen. When a friend occasionally visited, the guys let me borrow the spare “Schlafzimmer” (sleeping room), which functions as a guest room when needed. While it wasn’t my home, it was home for the time being, and I’m grateful for the soft and welcoming landing pad.

When the Formlabs office was slated to move to the far east side of Berlin at the end of May, I started eyeing other neighborhoods and considering a place for myself. While I thrived in a social home with 3-6 roommates in Boston, my first months in Berlin demonstrated that I valued alone time more than I realized, and a single-room or studio apartment is within my budget in Berlin.

Many newcomers and long-time Berliners have horror stories of the weeks and months that they jump between short-term rentals and desperately pursue a place where they can settle in.Can you imagine what my colleague endured, with this many people viewing a single apartment? Honestly, I’m not sure what made my search different, but I’m fortunate that I didn’t struggle. The WG where I lived for the first seven months was the first and only flat I visited on my arrival, and my recent search was nearly as simple.

I limited my online search to Friedrichshain, and contacted a handful of landlords whose listing descriptions and photos I liked. I visited one ground floor flat; though described as luxury and probably above my ideal budget, I applied and was rejected. The second flat I liked was nearby. I arrived on Thursday evening for the group viewing. Fear not, reputation of Berlin, I was ready to compete with dozens of people mingling on the sidewalk to see a flat. To my surprise and delight, me and one other guy waited outside until the English-speaking (lucky me!) landlord’s agent came to the street to let us in. Within a few seconds, I could see the apartment was exactly as described and shown: – a main room – a bathroom – an “equipped” kitchen – all clean and well-maintained – on the second (third, by an American perspective) floor – not on the street and not with a balcony – with decently-sized windows overlooking the garden courtyard.

The other prospective tenant looked around, asked for the application, and went on his way. Without much more to explore, I figured I was interested and may as well introduce myself. Hell, if it’s just me and him with equal credibility in our applications and paperwork, I automatically win by saying hello to the landlord. So, I talked with Frau Schroeder for a few minutes to explain who I was and what I was looking for. Then I was on my way “home” to compile the paperwork.

By now, the process has come and gone. They offered me the contract, and I accepted. I arranged to move my belongings on a Saturday morning. Friends referred me, and i contacted a guy with a moving van. With immense gratitude to a handful of close friends who helped me, we carried boxes, bags, and dismantled furniture up and down flights of stairs. We loaded the van, drove 10 minutes, and unpacked the van. Within an hour and a half, I was home again.

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Homemaking is a craft that takes time and patience. After a week, I received my refrigerator and washing machine by home delivery. I needed several weeks to make time to purchase a table and chairs. I’ve yet to procure a wardrobe, relying instead on two perfectly good clothing racks and a less ideal assortment of clothes piled into open duffel bags. Sure, there’s appeal to move into a fully furnished flat. I’m happy to accept the challenge to make my own home, especially when the doors sits between a bakery and a plant shop.

The Italian No-no Menu

By the nature of having an office that covers all of Europe in a multi-cultural city like Berlin, my colleagues are quite cosmopolitan. Maybe we don’t tick the definition’s “sophisticated” box, but we’re well versed and worldly on the whole. The fact that I speak only English with an educated-but-not-so-practiced understanding of Spanish makes me feel quite inferior at times. (The fact that I keep our translation projects moving is another story.) More importantly, I have constant opportunities to learn, and I value that personally.

On paper, I’m learning German, but in reality I’m learning much more. While we’ve been on a break for most of April and May, I’ve taken classes in levels A1 and A2 over the past seven months. (Europe has a standardized system for measuring language proficiency and designated courses: A1, A2, B1, B2, etc.) I’ll be resuming lessons again soon with the same teacher, and I am honestly eager to return to having my brain re-wired with German vocabulary and grammar in the 8 am sessions. Nothing like the mind-wrenching confusion of 30+ German articles for a breakfast buffet, am I right?

While business predominantly happens in English, the conversations around me at work are peppered with Dutch, Italian, Spanish, and French, and German pops up everywhere in my life. As someone who’s highly attentive and observant of my environment, it helps to have conversations around me in other languages. For one advantage, there’s no need, desire, or ability to be distracted by eavesdropping. When I step out of the office at the end of the workday, I sometimes surface a conscious reminder: “Stephen, you’re in Germany. Be prepared to hear German.”

Admittedly, I’m rarely prepared enough, but I try! I would benefit from a tattoo on my forehead that reads: “I’ll try to understand your German if you speak slowly for me.” Fortunately in Berlin, I can almost always switch to English in public interactions. When I’m out and about and want to practice my German pronunciation, I simply read the signs around me and listen to other peoples’ conversations, merely to train my ear in hearing the sounds. I think it’s working, more or less.

Nonetheless, I socialize quite a bit with my colleagues, and I’m pretending to fit in to each of their backgrounds and languages. I’ve learned one Italian sentence: “Posso havare un panzerrotto per favore?” (Can I have a panzerrotto, please?) An affirmative response – “si” – should be followed by “grazie mille” (thank you very much). All of this must be said with grandiose Italian intonation and gesture. While that’s all the Ital-lingo I’ve learned, there are some critical lessons about Italian culture that I wish to impart on my non-Italian readers:

  • If you want to order a sandwich, order a panino. Panini is plural, and we ignorantly look like hungry misfits when ordering “a panini” in Italian.
  • Don’t serve cheese with fish. Ever. And if you’re offered cheese – for example, grated parmesan – on a seafood dish in an Italian restaurant, you better second guess their origins.
  • Don’t serve chicken with pasta. Ever. This one blows my mind. What was my American childhood? According to my sources there is no chicken pasta primavera in Italy. I’m sorry for all of us who have been wronged.
  • And if your heart isn’t broken yet, I’m sorry. Fettucine alfredo (and the whole concept of alfredo sauce) is an American invention that you won’t find authentically in Italy. 

I’ve got a short trip to Malta coming up in July. Maltese? Italian? English? If I’m not lucky, my brain will switch to Spanish when I return to Germany, like in 2011 when I returned to Denmark from a weekend in Germany. And if I am lucky, I’ll avoid any culinary sins and misconceptions.

You can brag now. Thanks, Mom.

It’s 6:22 am. Steam billows over the top of my blueberry-adorned Maine coffee mug on the ledge of my balcony, the Earl Grey tea inside half-consumed. Gradually cooling to being drinkable, the tea pries my eyes open. The sun continues rising, shedding a plain of warm yellow light onto my face, forcing my eyes to squint. Car tires simmer on the street below, coming and going like ocean waves. Street trams and ambulance sirens join the symphony. The sputter of a motorcycle’s exhaust, now gone.

Ten years ago, all of my five alarm clocks would still be waiting to sound, waiting for my hand to begrudgingly reach and disarm. Thud. The floor interrupts the fall and finally triggers my brain awake. I crave more sleep, but time is up. A paper, two exams, a newspaper assignment… all due today. I dress myself, stagger across the chilly tile floor, and tap Mom awake.

“Will you proofread my essay,” I say, somewhere between a request and a statement. I needed her vote of confidence.

Despite knowing that I stood above my peers in schoolwork, I cringe. I’ve read that if you don’t cringe when you look at your past, you’re not improving. Advice that seems mildly wise – can cringing be good? – feels fully validating to acknowledge my parenting. Mom bragged about me, and I told her to stop. I needed comments that made me feel better, not stories that impressed adults. Change one comma. The essay is great. My heart slows.

Twenty-seven feels weird. I’m youthful but adult-like. I’m free to make my own choices, yet I still share them in search of agreement. I have my place in the world, and the world has many more places to offer me. I became, and I am becoming.

I smile when I look in the mirror, and it’s because I’m proud of who I see. Two brown eyes stare back, pried open by warm tea and forced closed by warm sunlight, ready to face the day. It’s 6:49 am. My mind spills off the balcony, thinking of my bike below. I know each day is mine.

You raised me, and I’m still growing up. You can brag now. Thanks, Mom.