An Autobiography

It seems fitting that the last assignment I'd have to do at APU is a philosophical autobiography. (Not only is this school all about self-reflection, but as graduation looms nearer it also seems like a pertinent time for self-reflection). I thought I'd share my final paper...


Age 10. I am in South Africa. My body levitates with the awe of watching four male lions devour a zebra 20 feet from the car that shields me. Life and death become instantly tangible, instantly natural. I experience the vibrant purple of Jacaranda trees in full bloom. But I am struck, struck by an image that embeds into my soul. A shanty town, built with cardboard and corrugated plastic, falls into an engulfing diamond mine. I begin to understand poverty.
Age 15. I am in Spain. I am with my family on a road trip. My senses are twisted, distorted by the maze called Madrid. My intellect is twisted, distorted by the opulence of those who once ruled. An organ reverberates through a cathedral. Sunflowers stretch as far as the eye can see. A tenth century monastery hides beneath a cliff. People from a dozen nationalities share supper in a high mountain hut. A Candyland castle teases my taste buds. Remnants of Christianity, Judaism and Islam crisply, colorfully blend. A jigsaw puzzle. Life’s jigsaw puzzle, piece by piece, begins to build.
Age 16. I am in Russia. I trail our guides through Moscow. Olga, the exchange student who stayed with us, and her family have invited us to visit. I ride the subway system that carries more passengers than the New York and London systems combined. We ride just to see the underground cathedrals. Each subway station swallows us in stunning mosaic masterpieces. Stunning…stunned… realizing forced labor was used to build this labyrinth. Sugar and salt. The sugar of St. Basils cathedral spiraling upward in dance. The salt of red square eventually, inevitably evoking images of a regime since fallen.
Age 16. I am in Argentina. I ride a bus from Buenos Aires to Rosario where I will spend the next three months as an exchange student. Alone for the first time, I’ve been stripped of linguistic and cultural fluency. My emotions yo-yo. I commit every social faux pas. I slam car doors. I learn to shut them gently when a taxi driver starts cussing at me. I make friends. My Spanish becomes less disjointed. I begin to laugh. I use laughter as my weapon against loneliness and awkwardness. I grow. I grow independent. I grow adaptable. I grow perceptive. In the end I take off the navy blue school jumper, kiss my friends on the cheek one last time and breathe in the magnitude of the experience.
Age 18. I am in New Zealand. I hike through valleys curtained in waterfalls. I traverse the toe of a glacier. I swim through a glow worm sprinkled cave. I kayak over rolling waves under the singeing sun. I experience a country free of lawsuits and litigation. I spend New Years with my family sipping champagne in a restaurant perched above the city. I talk for three hours with a girl from Israel—another perspective on a dynamic, complicated, ever-shifting, yet stunningly gorgeous world.
Age 19. I am in El Salvador. I touch the cherry on a coffee plant for the first time. I pick pineapples with my bare hands—prickly. I plant bamboo shoots. I start to link the food I eat to the ground squeezing through my toes. I walk numbly through the town of El Mozote—the scene of a brutal massacre. I look into a gulf made by a U.S. made bomb. I hear, first hand, the stories of those who suffered. I feel sickened by political “cause.” I see hope: pride for a well-maintained irrigation system, attention to the preservation of a cloud forest, energy pulsating through a futbol stadium. A passion particular too Latin America begins to develop.
Age 20. I am in Vietnam. I travel with a group of students and seven veterans. I visit a school, hospital and home for Vietnamese affected by Agent Orange. I sit at the feet of two veterans who have tears streaming down their face, both of them exclaiming that “there ain’t no reason to go to war.” I sit around a breakfast table with three veterans. I don’t eat. They relate memories of combat, special operations and returning home. A bond, solidified by a few glasses of rice wine, develops between us.
Age 21. I am in Guatemala. I am on my own for five months, scared and happy. I attend Spanish school and volunteer. I travel via chicken buses so jammed that breathing is a chore. I buy mangoes and avocados for pennies from the sprawling market right outside my door. I climb the volcanoes piercing the fertile air. I fall in love with people—not a person but humanity as a whole. I spend hours talking, sitting and talking. I listen to the experiences others share. A Mam couple in the park tells me about their farm in Almolonga. The Spanish school director tells me about receiving death threats at age 13 because of her active opposition to the government. A dear friend from Germany daily relates the triumphs and trails of working in an orphanage. Stories too numerous to count, sometimes heart wrenching, sometimes gut wrenching.
Age 22. I leave for Argentina in a week. It is my birthday today and I am struck by the impermanent nature of life. Much has changed within me since I was last in this country. I saw a sign on a friend’s wall this morning. It read, “Grow where you are planted.” Traveling teaches me how to do just that. How quickly the necessity of life’s “necessities” disappears when I am wandering the world. I’ve been to twenty countries total and I have an insatiable thirst to see more. I definitely believe in the saying, “not all who wander are lost,” for I wander, but I feel far from lost. From traveling I have learned many things. I have learned that there are obstacles, but never road blocks. I have learned that my daily tribulations ought not to be taken too seriously. I have learned that people are good. And I have learned that freedom and simplicity make phenomenal guides.