Wanderlust: Am I running away from something?

Because I can't take you seriously
with all that Kool-Aid on yo' face...

Hey, people. We're gonna get a little heavy this week. Just a little. We're going to talk about wanderlust and its psychological underpinnings. I mean, I have to at some point: It's the namesake of this blog's URL.

Let's start by quoting some interesting stuff I read on Wikipedia's "wanderlust" article:

Wanderlust may be driven by the desire to escape and leave behind depressive feelings of guilt, and has been linked to bipolar disorder in the periodicity of the attacks. Or it may reflect an intense urge for self-development by experiencing the unknown, confronting unforeseen challenges, getting to know unfamiliar cultures, ways of life and behaviours.
In adolescence, dissatisfaction with the restrictions of home and locality may also fuel the desire to travel.

Interesting, right? And as one of the affected, I have to wonder: Does this apply to me? Let's start with the easy part. Yes, in my adolescence I was dissatisfied with my home and locality. This is no secret. As a gay, liberal, Pagan in Indiana, it doesn't take much to explain how out of sync I was with so many people around me. I also think that if I weren't so dissatisfied, I wouldn't have moved to New York at the tender age of seventeen. Considering I left my adolescence behind ten years ago and I'm pretty much as over it as I can get, I'm not sure that applies to me beyond mere coincidence. Besides, what person wouldn't say they were dissatisfied with their "home and locality" in their childhood? I'm not sure it's that unique.

Being chased by the "depressive feelings of guilt" monster?

Now, what I do find interesting is this: It's both possibly an attempt to run away from "depressive feelings of guilt" but also "reflects an intense urge of self-development." I've had a few people in life who I trust and whose opinions I value posit that perhaps I am running away from something. And maybe they're right. The only problem is I can't think of what that would be really. Perhaps it's the hard city life of living in one of the most expensive lands in all the land, New York City? If that's it, sure, I'm doing that, but once the shine wears off from living here, which it will do after ten years, why stay? Unless you're making theatre or a lot of money (I'm doing neither), there's not really any point for the needless struggle. I don't really think this is what they're talking about though.

But, let's pretend I am running away from some sort of emotional issue. I think this might be the symptom and the cure all at once. Why? Well, the second part, of course! Could these intense urges for self-development be the kind of thing that someone running away from their feelings might need? If you're having trouble accepting something about yourself, going through the trials by fire collectively known as "culture shock" might be just the thing to help you figure out what to like about yourself, to develop a positive sense of self that can help you face the things about yourself that you feel unable to face. The challenges of culture shock are really internal challenges of adaptation and flexibility masked as external challenges. It's about becoming a more flexible, open, and accepting person, and guess what: That applies to your own self just as much as to anything else!. It's interesting that if you're doing it for the right reasons, then this can be the thing that helps you through the problem that causes it to begin with.

I, however, like to believe that I'm not running away, but it's undeniable that I have an intense urge for self-development. Hell, I have an intense urge for career development. There's a lot of solid reasons why I'm leaving the country and taking this amazing opportunity, but I wouldn't be so motivated if I didn't think that the world didn't have a lot to show me, to show all of us who are willing to go see it. It's only by leaving your comfort zone that you really see who you are as a person. It's then that your mettle is tested, and tests--the kind that aren't graded--can be some of the best learning experiences. Like I talked in my previous post, I don't expect it to be easy, but it will undoubtedly be rewarding.

By the way, you should check out the Wikipedia article about wanderlust for more interesting tidbits about the phenomenon from the etymology of the term to how its view in sociology. It's a short but nice read!

Alternate woes

Before I get into it, some thanks are definitely in order. As far as I see it, this was a group effort between me and so many other people. So super special, confetti-in-the-air thanks are owed to:

• 

  Nothing says confetti like Rip Taylor
  and a mariachi guitar player

  Gabrielle David, 2Leaf Press' publisher; Maria Cornelio and Adrian Izquierdo, my former translation professors; and Michael Jackson, my coworker and friend, for writing wonderful, amazing letters of recommendation;
• Myrna Evans, Hunter's Fulbright advisor, for guiding me along the way from beginning to end;
• Nick Lazor, a good friend, all-around smart guy, and Spanish language and culture enthusiast, for being the final eye on my essays;
• John Nolan, a friend who has pushed me from the very beginning to get out of my soul-sucking night job and find one that will really excite me; Rene Ugarte, venezulano extraordinaire whose patience with me knows no bounds; Susan Trowbridge, the Colombian aunt of Cheryl Trowbridge-Miller (who is the paternal grandmother of my niece); and Amy Obermeyer, a friend and comparative literature PhD student at New York University doing some really cool research concerning the relationship between Japan and Latin America (ask her about it sometime), for giving me challenging practice interviews in English and Spanish, which proved to be ample preparation;
• and of course Jesse Hicks, my boyfriend, who deserves a special beyond the call of duty sort of mention because he had to live with me and bare my neuroses over the six month waiting period. This goes double for the week that I hung in alternate limbo.

I couldn't have done it without all these people's help and the emotional support of a lot of friends, family, and even strangers sent to me by fate who would say a strange comment here and there that inspired me to stay hopeful. And I did stay pretty hopeful... until I got the email notifying me of my placement status.

I was in the middle of San Loco in the East Village drinking a Modelo after a very satisfying and very large burrito with guacamole when my phone flashed with an incoming email. Before I could even open it, the big "A" in the subject line had slapped me in the face with their decision: Alternate. The burrito nearly made its escape from my stomach on to the table and down Saint Marks Place right then and there. After six month of waiting since turning in my application, there was the answer. Out of the blue. Right there. One minute waiting, the next minute: Pow! Right in the kisser!

Footage of me in
the San Loco bathroom

I told Jesse, and I think he might have been more shocked than I was. I excused myself to the bathroom where I promptly started to imitate Shelley Duvall in The Shining. In a moment of desperation, I prayed to anyone who would hear me, “Please let me get it!! Please let me get it!!” As a Buddhist, I had written off prayer, at least in the sense of a sort petition, as something that increases your attachment to desire rather than frees you from it. I think I changed my mind that day. Sometimes you need to say something out loud to whomever or whatever will listen in order to really let it go. These little daily lessons. They come to us suddenly like that. Just as suddenly as watching all your dreams potentially fall through, like that slow-motion moment right before the glass of red wine you bumped falls on the white carpet.

By the time I had left the bathroom, I had pulled myself together. I don't think anyone had noticed the harrowing freak-out I had in the bathroom, but I was still undeniably upset. Jesse suggested a taxi home, and uncharacteristically, I gave in pretty easily. Unfortunately, it was around five o'clock, and if you've been running late at five o'clock in Manhattan, you know that's the time you will have to elbow an old lady for a cab, if you can even find one at all. And we didn't. I rode the hour home doing my best not to cry on the street, at the ticket machine, on the subway platform, on the train, anywhere with foreign eyes. I made it home with most of my remaining dignity and fell asleep and slept for twelve hours.

I called out of my graveyard shift job proofreading financial documents. I was in no mood for that. I was in no mood for French class the next day. I was in no mood for anything. It was Depression City, USA, population one, no trespassing allowed. Wednesday my loan repayment plan was denied. Friday I got sick with the flu and had to call out of more work. It was an all-around bad week.

This sums it up well.

So imagine my surprise when only a day and a week later, it all changed around! I was, once again, stunned. Since I woke up late for French class then had the gym and work directly after, it was only mid-document, at about 3:30 a.m., listening to Imagine Dragons' “On Top of the World,” that my eyes misted over because I realized my dream had in fact come true.

Why do I write all of this you ask? Because sometimes alternates do get selected. And sometimes your dreams do come true when you least expect them to. And I wanted to remind you all of that. It's the least I could do.