Paradigm Shift: Act Two

I am not going to blow smoke up your ass and say that I had it in me the whole time to be happy in Portland. Or that everything is as dandy as a warm blanket on a cold winter day. I have not reach a higher plane of realization about my life. I'm still alone, in Portland, and no one cares that I am here. But you see, dear reader, none of that matters when it comes to how happy I am.

When I was in middle school, dealing with best friend drama as all twelve year old girls do, I was venting to my mom about how sad it made me when my friend ignored me, (or something else my friend did that bugged me) and my mom laid it on thick. After listening to me for what I can only imagine was twenty or so minutes, whining about how cruddy my life was because of this girl, my mom said to not to let my happiness rely on other people. In fact I think I remember her saying "Stop letting someone else control your happiness. I'm done listening to you complain. The solution is easy, either find a way to make your own days good, or keep letting this girl depress you. Either way, stop talking to me about it."

At the time I was totally convinced my mom was a stone cold bitch and didn't relate to my feelings at all. I'm bringing up this anecdote because, as it turns out, twelve year old me was wrong! So Mom, sorry for thinking you weren't a good person, because this advice is saving me right now.

This concept, that I shouldn't look to others to make me happy, is something I thought I had mastered. I am fine with doing things on my own, comfortable in my own skin and confident enough to go out in the world without an arsenal of friends to stick myself to and do everything with. Sure, I have my main core of friends who I like to do most things, but I have it in me to chose to do things on my own and be independent. KEY WORD: CHOOSE. It is a totally different ball game when you literally have no choice but to do things on your own. It is one thing to say "I just want to do this alone" or even "I need some me-time,"  and a WHOLE OTHER THING to realize your only option is to do everything alone because there is no one to be with on your good days, or any days for that matter.

So coming out to Portland I was patting myself on the back for being so independent and when I got here and put that independence to use, I realized I had taken too big a spoonful of it. Even my Aunt, who isn't a very touchy, sensitive person said to me that she worries I'm not getting enough human contact, not enough human touch. Other than her, my uncle and cousin, I am not yet close to anyone out here. No one to hug, no one to pat on the back or high five. So, she now sometimes will give me a hug, or hook her arm in mine while we are out shopping. She thinks I don't realize what she's doing, but I do. And while I am awkward at walking with another person's arm hooked to mine, I really like it when she does it. But that's a secret I'm gonna keep, I think if I tell her, she will stop because she will have assumed I mentioned it only because I don't like it. Mixed signals people, they are a real struggle.

Back on topic, I've quickly begun to give myself my slack when it comes to socializing in Portland. I've put so much emphasis on meeting people and getting out that I valued myself on how fast I could meet fun people and start going out. And when I didn't make many friends, and the closest thing I've done to being a typical rule breaking college student was sip my friend's martini at her birthday dinner last week, I thought very little of myself. And if you think about it, that is such a twisted thing to do to yourself. I was basically setting myself up for failure. How the hell am I supposed to make friends really quickly after moving out here when I had so much to get accustomed to, so much in my mind, body and spirit to transition.

I won't say that I'm all better now, my mind clear of worries. I won't be walking around campus, earbuds blasting Michael Franti and Spearhead, while smiling brightly at everyone who I walk by. What I will do is chill out. Being alone is not so bad after all. I mean sure, I still wish I was surrounded by friends and had things to do other than wander Portland alone, but all this time by myself has produced some stellar introspection I was unaware I needed.

I've gotten the chance to better understand who I am at my core. I talk with random people in the street and store because it lifts my spirits and keeps me awake. I hate being alone, and handle it poorly. But I am working on that now. The power to be happy does not lie completely out or in me, it lies around me and my perception of the things I encounter. I have to learn to stop looking at other people and wishing I had the company they have. I have to look at my time as a refresher course in how to be productive, and how to keep myself stimulated. Look up the news, get informed, go to events and above all, not to become stagnant and complacent in my loneliness. I take my medicine, I brush my teeth and comb my hair and sometimes I wear the same outfit two days in a row. I'll admit that since getting to Portland, I've gained a few stretch marks on my tummy and hips from all the stress eating I've partaken in. A physical reminder of my struggle of here.

I'm glad I'm here though. I am growing up! Even though I miss my home friends, being within a short distance of people I can spend time with, Portland has offered me a chance to strengthen myself and learn ways to manage and cope. For me, that's the most important part. Truly.

Paradigm Shift: Act One

My first quarter at Portland State University is coming to close. By the end of today I'll be done with my last final, for Conflict Resolution, and the next thing I'll be looking towards is picking up my friend Karin from the airport! Yes, I am lucky enough to have my oldest friend come across the country to see me, but more on that later.

As I sit in the Library at PSU, waiting for 11:30 AM to roll around so I can meet my friends to complete our online Conflict Resolution final, I just want to look back at my time so far here in the Pacific Northwest.

Coming out here, I really had no idea what to expect, the whole point of it was to follow my sense of adventure and seek something new. I say this, but I still had an idea of what I wanted to happen. I was thinking I would make friends fast, commuting would be a welcome reprieve from my busy schedule, I would get along well with my Aunt and Uncle all while barely spending time with them, and that I would hit up some nightclubs, going out with new people and basically living it up in a city setting. Man, it would have been so great if that had happened. My transition from east to west would have been seamless and I would have immediately been supported in my decision to come out here.

Yeah, so that didn't happen.

Once out here, I barely spoke to people other than my Aunt, Uncle and three year old cousin. I have only hung out with people on three occasions outside of school, all of which had to end before 10 PM as I needed to get back to Oregon City to get picked up by my Uncle. My time was no longer my own, as commuting dictated my life. Where I went, how far I wandered from campus, how long I can enjoy myself before I had to cram myself on the train with other swaying individuals. Feeling trapped by perimeters controlling my life that I don't remember agreeing to, I truly began just accepting my loneliness. If I never have time to get to know people, and my time isn't my own, then the easiest course of action was to just stop trying to find friends. Stop trying to be more than just a passing face on the PSU campus.

I felt unsure of myself, sad that I was alone, but all the while still glad I was experiencing something new. Each day I would vacillate between being okay with barely talking to anyone all day, and others I would be so frustrated that I would keep my head down all day and keep my mouth closed. Both extremes are unlike me. I love people, and in all honesty can barely keep my mouth shut when I sense that I have an audience who will find me amusing! All these emotions of disconnection and apathy I have learned to associate with my depression. And for a few weeks (three) I was off my medicine because I figured if no one was going to talk to me, then I didn't have to be happy, so fuck it. And honestly, I barely noticed a difference. when I stopped taking my medicine. I mean, I had that shit anyway, the fact that I have to take it. But normally, when I stop taking it, I enter a black hole and seem to only see in black and white, slow motion. This time, I think I didn't notice a difference because my reality matched my perception. I really was alone. If I died, no one would know, and I;ll have gone having made no true friends in Portland. A failure. And it's true. When I'm on campus, no one texts me to ask if I want to hangout.

No one even knows I'm here.

With all this in mind, my first quarter at Portland State doesn't end with me alone in a library writing a blog post about how shitty my life is now after I decided I should be adventurous and move to Portland. If that were the case I wouldn't even be writing this post, I would be in the Student Union Building, asleep on a couch because I have nothing better to do and no energy to even scroll though my phone's contents.

With you reading this post, I'm sure you can tell I've gotten my ass in gear and figured a way around my nineteen year old angst. And I'll tell you how: A Paradigm Shift.

Should I be Guilty? Nah

There is a part of me that thinks I should take up my time on this blog writing about things that matter. Topics like race relations and US tendencies to hold a double standard of judgement when it comes to Muslim Americans (in relation to the minority of terrorists in the world) and gun control. Or even to write about current events and just respond to them in a critical and well thought out manner. 

SOMETHING to contribute to the conversations that are happening in the United States currently But then I remember that the most views I've had in one day was five people, so it's not like I have anything close to a soapbox to stand on for people to listen to me. I literally go to school and barely talk to people right now (to my dismay!), so in reality I'm not squandering an opportunity to be heard. It's not like I'm Kylie Jenner who wastes her position as a person who uses cultural appropriation of black culture to be considered desirable, and then does nothing does to defend the beauty of the culture she is taking advantage of.

So I guess right now, in a weird way I am grateful for the lack of relevance in my blog. It affords me the chance to just write about my life and not have anyone comment on it. So thanks everyone for not paying attention to this blog! Most don't even know about it, and, right now, I like it that way.

Black Lives Matter Essay: Conflict Resolution

I haven't much time to write this, my laptop is about to die, BUT I just finished a paper for my Conflict Resolution class on #BlackLivesMatter and while it isn't perfect (#cramming), I am still very proud of all the research I put into it! There is so much more I want to say, but the paper was limited to ten pages and I have had limited sleep these past few days.

I also want to make clear as the author of this paper that I in no way am trying to speak for #BlackLivesMatter. I am a white female going to school in a city that is known for having a limited diversity. While I speak about the issues at hand; the prejudice, discrimination and blatant lack of value assigned to black lives compared to white lives, I do not live this reality. I come from a place of privilege where I can talk about these things as a person who hasn't really come into contact with people who assign me a lesser value because of my skin tone (my gender, yes, but that's a whole other demon). I respect and admire all the work that is being put into this movement and completely support it myself.

How Black Lives Matter Became A Movement

Conflict Resolution Theories to Support a Change in Race Relations

Megan Blake Keating

Portland State University

The intractable conflict of race relations in America (Burgess).“If lower-power people are continually subjected to harsh treatment, or lack of goal attainment, they are likely to produce organized resistance to the higher-power people” (Wilmot & Hocker, pg. 128). In one line from Wilmot & Hocker’s Interpersonal Conflict, the foundation of the #BlackLivesMatter movement is embodied. When the current system, upheld by the designated power given to police officers to search, arrest and seemingly kill any suspicious individual, was proven to not be working, #BlackLivesMatter was born. Forged from a fire kindled by injustice, this movement has many reasons to be mad.

Founded in 2012 after the murder of seventeen year old Trayvon Martin, the #BlackLivesMatter movement has inspired thousands of individuals across the United States to take a closer look at how fair, or rather biased, their justice system is (Garza). Since then, people have mobilized, actively protesting against unjust deaths of black americans at the hands of police officers. Over the last three years, the #BlackLivesMatter movement has established a narrative that, while imperfect, creates a character set of police departments as the unchecked bad guys, and black americans the victimized minority. This narrative poses a backdrop that many americans felt compelled to doubt prior to the mobilization of the #BlackLivesMatter movement, a racist America; a nation far from having moved beyond racism. This climate, of clear inequality, is even further proven in the statistics that around sixty percent of unarmed citizens killed by police were minorities, despite only around thirty five percent of the United States population being black, hispanic or latino, asian, pacific islander, or native american, combined (US Census).

This structure of characters, setting, morals, and temporal complexity in any conflict narrative, as outlined by Sarah Cobb, effectively shows the basic elements of an issue, and in the case of #BlackLivesMatter, gives a solid foundation for anyone trying to understand what the perspective of this movement is. Naturally, the narrative of the #BlackLivesMatter movement is in conflict with the narrative established by many of the police officers and their respective precincts and unions they are affiliated with. Arguing that they are following through with their duty to “protect and serve,” it is not seen as a racist act to take down a suspect who is threatening a police officer. They claim it is not a matter of race, just of innocence. The values and morals coming into play for the police are black and white, right and white. The fact that it has been shown that the categorization of incidents of black and white regularly apply to the skin color of the suspect in question is something adamantly argued by police officers in question. These “skinny, underdeveloped plots” with “flat characters” externalizes the responsibility of each instance when a black life was taken by a police officer under abnormal circumstances (Cobb). These conflicting narratives of the two parties, moves the issue beyond who is right and wrong, and into the realm of power.    

Inherently, the police have designated power given to them by the state that gives them the responsibility to uphold the law, and maintain a level of security. The formal authority possessed by the police is meant to establish a level of credibility and accountability, one that is checked by the people that law enforcement protect. With this designated power comes power currencies in the form of resource control in regards to public safety and useful interpersonal linkages that connects police departments with all aspects of the criminal justice system, something they may be able to utilize when someone they care about is in trouble, or, as we will see soon, when they themselves are under investigation and resolve an incident in which they acted under mysterious circumstance without any consequences. Lastly, they have an expertise currency that manifests in their situational intelligence and handling of dangerous situations. All of these aspects of power that characterize american police departments put them in a position of power over the allegations made against them by the #BlackLivesMatter movement. They not only have the option to claim they did the “right thing” each time they must shot to kill while on the job, but in the recent cases championed by the #BlackLivesMatter campaign, the support for the police was immediate and unwavering. The inherent support that comes with idea that any action taken by a police officer during a dangerous situation was the right one because they were “doing their job,” is so powerful. Such an orientation of power in favor of law enforcement, #BlackLivesMatter argues with accurate precision, is dangerous. People feel very strongly about who should have power, and the ways they can use that power (Hocker, pg. 106).

Up to the point three years ago, when #BlackLivesMatter organized an effective media attention towards the practices of law enforcement officials against minority members of society, this idea of power was all the public support the police needed to feel comfortable with profiling certain american citizens as “dangerous” based on their skin color. Mayor of New York City, Michael Bloomberg, even gave great credit to the NYPD’s “Stop and Frisk” practices, which were based on police officers “randomly” deciding to stop and pat down suspicious looking individuals walking in New York City, often using someone’s skin color to decide if they qualified. Even worse, many police officers and captains are in a state of power denial. With each death and abuse of a minority, the claim becomes even more spoken that, the denial more adamant, that there is no racial profiling going on, no racist undertones to the actions taken by police.By denying the very real issue of a racist system, the police are perpetuating the power imbalanace but illegitimizing any conversation to be had on the topic. But, despite their best efforts, the death of Trayvon Martin brought forth the issues being denied, and created an opportunity for #BlackLivesMatter to gain their own power.  

While the police possess a domineering type of power, one that makes nearly all their actions legitimate and dissenters look like whistleblowers, the #BlackLivesMatter movement has its own kind of power. Focusing on the effectiveness of the movement to call together people of all socioeconomic backgrounds, and ultimately all races, the communication skills of the organization are rivaled by none. When Freddie Gray was killed in Baltimore while in police custody because of a spinal cord injury sustained while being violently handcuffed and put in the back of a transport vehicle with not safety belt, #BlackLivesMatter responded immediately with a twitter response, protests and dozens of vigils held in honor of another person lost to police actions. After being choked to death because a police officer didn’t believe asthmatic New Yorker Eric Garner when he said he couldn’t breath while being held in a choke hold, BlackLivesMatter responded in record speed, making sure any news outlet reporting on Garner’s death knew that the husband and father of four was doing nothing to deserve being held to the ground for four minutes until his heart stopped and his children lost their dad. Helping spread the word about police on black violence, BlackLivesMatter empowered twelve year old Tamir Rice’s mother talk about her fun-loving son, who was shot on a playground when a white police officer mistook his toy gun for an actual weapon. The expertise that #BlackLivesMatter has shown in regards to spreading their message and inciting action and emotion from the American people, at this point time far outweighs the police’s power. For once there is a power imbalance in favor of those who have suffered at the hands of the institutions that are supposed to be protecting them.  

While in the case of the majority of the deaths, such as Tamir Rice in Cleveland and Eric Garner in New York, the victim was innocent, having done little or nothing at all to deserve the death that was brought upon them, one case does not fit so cleanly into this narrative, Michael Brown. Michael Brown did, it seems, act aggressively. He went into a store and stole cigarillos with a friend. After walking some distance, Officer Darren Wilson caught up with him. Moments later, Brown had over eight shots to the body, four of which were from the neck up and Darren Wilson had a patrol SUV with bullet holes and a few injuries consistent with fighting off an attack. No one can agree what happened between that time, some say Wilson shot Brown unprovoked, other claim Brown charged at him first. The facts are that Officer Wilson was responding to a petty theft and the eighteen year old suspect had to pay for it with his life. People were outraged, angry that a young man was deemed so threatening, so dangerous that he had to be shot at twelve times, that he had to be killed. It wasn’t until the Grand Jury’s decision, to not indict Darren Wilson, that people began to riot, to forcibly take the streets. Thanks in part to the direction & promotion, these riots had a clear purpose, and although stores were looted and fires lit, the word was out. “Hands up, don’t shoot” became the metaphor for all unjust police on black shootings, prompted by #BlackLivesMatter supporters to spread like wildfire across the nation. So, you see, with current events, it has become clear the nation is ready for a change, one that is led by the #BlackLivesMatter movement. So while the police remain the possessors of the state's designated power, it seems the #BlackLivesMatter movement has gained its own kind of designated power, that of the american people.

Keeping in mind the power dynamics of this intractable conflict, and the narratives each party tells, it is important to talk about what may seem like a superficial subject, violence. Clearly the killing of innocent lives across the country is violent, but what needs to be address is the systemic, seemingly ingrained way in which it has occurred for hundreds of years. The well respected conflict resolution academic, Johan Galtung, utilizes a specific visual in explaining the aspects of conflict. Using a triangle, each of three aspects of violence is explained; direct, structural and cultural (Galtung). The structural violence, being the process of violence, in this case, is the stereotype in which black americans have been put, socially and economically. “The massive” violence of slavery “over centuries” that has “seep[ed] down and [turned] sediment” is massive structural violence in the form of discrimination (Galtung, pg. 295). This is what is unconsciously driving the police officers to naturally associate black individuals as dangerous, dehumanizing them into an “it,” more akin to an animal that needs to be put down when acting out than an individual that can be reasoned with, a system that echoes black american’s past as degraded human slaves brought to the americans to serve “pale masters” (Galtung, pg. 295). One of the worst types of structural violence against the black community is mass incarceration rates of black men compared to other demographics. Despite making up just over thirteen percent of the United States’ population, black inmates make up over half of the prison population.Along with, the racial separation between the poor black populations and middle class white populations that occur in many communities and the high mortality rate of black men all contribute to structural violence. An example that may be easier to apply would be that white americans who advocate for the #AllLivesMatter movement, do not understand their structural privilege as historically the “master,” and while trying to promote a universal value of all life, in reality show how, because of their privilege, they haven’t had to ever come to the realization that they are not valued any less by society because of their skin color, that not everyone has the right naturally given at birth. They, The second of three types of violence is cultural violence, the outcome or permanence in society. Also known as prejudice, cultural violence “preaches, teaches, admonishes, eggs on and dulls us into seeing exploitation and/or repression as normal or natural” (Galtung, pg. 295). It manifests in the form of associating black males with violence, alienation of black americans in both political parties, and day to day microaggressions and racism actions. Also know as discrimination, cultural violence is extremely difficult to change, as each generation of children are taught by their parents and in school certain ways of thinking that perpetuate it. If you will, it is a “brainwashing” of sorts (Galtung, pg. 293). Lastly, the most, and arguably the only, visible form of violence is direct. Easiest to determine, it is the crux on which the #BlackLivesMatter campaign sits. Fighting to end the direct violence of police brutality, and more specifically the many shootings that have resulted in a black american dying at the wrong end of a police officer’s weapon, direct violence is the superficial result of deep and ingrained structural and cultural violence that has been going on for many years (Galtung, pg. 295). This is why it is so difficult to change the pattern of behavior when it comes to police brutality. Police officers feel justified in making split second decisions on whether a person is a threat by using their skin color, it’s been rooted into their minds and thoughts since grade school, thanks to the cultural facet of the issue, and grow up to act on these beliefs in the form of suspecting those who are darker skinned.

With  all this information, it is clear that something in the American mindset and practice needs to change in regards to how race is dealt with by the police. There are two reasons for mediating disputes, according to Kenneth Cloke, to avoid or suppress so that one mollifies the conflict without ever dealing with the underlying issues, a settlement for settlement’s sake, or to transform a conflict, opening up a deeper understanding of the issue, allowing for a dialogue to occur that achieves a level of understanding of all aspects of a conflict, so that a solution can be reached (Cloke, pg. 1). It is this author’s opinion that the police fall under the former, and #BlackLivesMatter the latter. “Conflict can be seen as an expression of the highest level of social and political responsibility; as a necessary byproduct of justice,” this is why it is so important that #BlackLivesMatter is fighting against the violence perpetuated for hundreds of years against black citizens (Cloke, pg.1). It would the ultimate failure if the lives lost are in vain, and this national discussion about race relations and police brutality ends in settlement and  not resolution. This is all the reasoning one needs to understand the necessity and nobility of the discussion that #BlackLivesMatter is facilitating.

Works Cited

Burgess, G. & Burgess, H.(2003, November). The Culture of Mediation: Settlement vs. Resolution. Retrieved November 3, 2015, from http://www.beyondintractability.org/

Cloke, K. (2005, December 1). The Culture of Mediation: Settlement vs. Resolution. Retrieved November 3, 2015, from http://www.beyondintractability.org/

Cobb, S., & Portilla, J. (2003). Sarah Cobb. Retrieved November 14, 2015, from http://www.beyondintractability.org/audiodisplay/cobb-s

Hocker, J., & Wilmot, W. (2011). Power: The Structure of Conflict. In Interpersonal Conflict (9th ed., pp. 105-141). New York, New York: McGraw Hill Companies.

Galtung, J. (1990). Cultural Violence. Journal of Peace Research, 27(3), 291-305.

USA QuickFacts from the US Census Bureau. (2014). R

Los Angeles Thinking

For the Thanksgiving holiday, I went with my Aunt, Uncle and Blake to California to the house of Jenna's college friend Lisa's House. Being invited along was honestly so great, considering I can't spring the $800+ for a round trip airplane ticket. I met Lisa at my Aunt and Uncle's wedding five years ago, and we got along quite well.

Actually, my mother had a spiritual moment and psychically discovered a personal fact about Lisa's family that bonded the two of them, and since I was fourteen at the time and, for the wedding, stuck at my mom's hip, I was front row to their new friendship, so Lisa ended up liking me too.

Moving on though, I was really excited to see Lisa and her family again. So, two days of driving later (fourteen hours of total driving time, plus a hotel stay), we got to LA and tucked into Lisa's small but comfy Burbank home.

While there, I got to watch Blake run circles around the house, reacquaint myself with Lisa and her lovingly oddball self (and I mean that in an extremely affectionate way because I absolutely love Lisa), eat the most delicious Thanksgiving dinner I have ever sunk my teeth into, and to top it all off, Lisa and her Disney Studio employed husband, Rubik, took us to see the Dolby Theater and Chinese Theater in Hollywood. Driving down Sunset Strip, looking at palm trees and sunsets. That was my Thanksgiving, and it was perfect. I had a great time with everyone, I felt just as welcome there as the rest of my family, and I even got to spend time with Lisa's daughter Olivia, who seems to idolize me! So, when I had to leave on Saturday morning and fly back to Oregon because of school obligations, I was sad. It didn't hit me how disappointing it was until I was back home and the house was silent. And it is going to stay this way until Wednesday night, when I return from Faria's party.

I'll be honest with you, yesterday night I kind of broke down and cried a bit because of all the alone time I am facing. In reality, it isn't that long, but I really rely on the company of the Wienbergs to keep me sane after each day. To not have them here is kind of like taking away the counterweight on my social balance, now the loneliness has nothing to equal it out, and it's taking up my mind. But, I know I'll be fine, I just have to see this time as a gift, not a curse! Easier said then done but I'm strong!

I go home in less than a month to spend Christmas and New Years with my family in New York. MY best childhood friend, Karin is coming out the 13th for a week to visit me and explore Portland. I am truly looking forward most to this. Until then!

What It's Been Like (So Far)

By this point, I have spent just under three months in Oregon, going to school and learning new ways to live my life. Three months that haven't been perfect, but haven't been a disaster either. I am being honest in saying that there have been many nights where I've gone over in my head, memories of fun times at Seton Hall. How comfortable dorm life was for me, allowing the chance to make friends quickly, as they lived only a short walk away. Countless nights of hanging out in other's rooms, playing games and having heart to hearts.

I have had days when I go to school and puff up my collar and put on a no-bullshit face while walking to class, convinced that I don't need to go out of my way to be nice to people who won't take the time to get to know me. In my mind I say a stern "Fuck it" and go to class without talking to anyone, behaving according to a stripped value of human interaction, jaded beyond friendly gestures

Moments when I've been so desperate to have someone who knows my name, wants to spend more time with me than they have to, that I've exaggerated myself, acting overly friendly and excited to be talking to them. They are all nice, of course, but few have actually asked to grab lunch with me, even less know my name.

Despite this though, I have made friends, I have joined clubs, and gotten lunch with others. During Portland State Orientation, I met a girl named Faria, and we quickly struck up a conversation. Her transferring from Portland Community College, me from New Jersey. Mutually interested in the other, we struck common ground and exchanged numbers. Despite only hanging out with her once since then, her and I have kept in contact, and I am going to her birthday dinner on Wednesday night at Pioneer Square in Portland.

Me at the Hozier Concert ( a random woman
in the crowd took the picture.)

Sharing both my PSU classes with her, Chelsie has been a kind person I talk to while on campus. For my birthday I decided to buy myself a ticket to see Hozier in concert at the Moda Center, unsatisfied with spending my special day (or as it turned out the night before) alone and at home sad. Chelsie had tickets for the same show, and despite never asking to go together, I was talking about the concert in class and she overheard, beginning our friendship. Her and I walk between classes each Tuesday and Thursday together, and even ventured past Burnside Avenue on the Portland Streetcar to grab donuts at Blue Star, something she had never done before! She even showed me the Queer Resource Center, that while it was not established for the demographic I fit into, is still an inviting and busy place.


And I joined both the Student Sustainability Center on their Media Task force, promoting on Facebook, Instagram and helping out with my task force leader Anky's podcast, "Shades of Green," and volunteer at the Women's resource Center as a desk assistant. Both have introduced me to people on campus, giving me a place to go on Tuesday at 2, Wednesday from 9am-1pm, and Thursday at 4.  Despite not hanging out with anyone I've met at these places outside of our meetings, I still get the chance to talk to people and feel like I have a place in the PSU community.

Myself and my task force leader, Anky, on a SSC field trip to BullRun Watershed.

But it is hard. I hardly ever hangout with friends. I feel like I forget what it is like to just spend time with people, without having to feel like I still have to earn their favor so they will hangout with me again. I am more anxious about my social life than ever before, and it is driving me insane.

I so, so value all the people I have met, truly. They are all I have, in every sense. At this point in time, I see that I am being forced into an uncomfortable position. Being alone so often has made me introspect to such a point I thought unnecessary for an individual. I fear that I am alone too much. But then again, it has taught me many great things about my real nature. While I have long counted myself among those considered "independent," I realize that trait only genuinely manifests when I have the choice to do something on my own. Being isolated, being forced to go it alone is something I truly hate. It's like an unraveling of my mind's quilt, slowly picking at the loose threads.

I have figured out that I actively avoid staying in one place, I look for things to do. I have gone to many places in Portland already, exploring attractions and streets, searching for interesting landmarks and bites to eat. And in that curious exploration, I love talking to people at my destinations, learning more from them about the place and why they themselves are there.

So, what has Portland been like so far? A mixed bag. I am unwavering in the belief that being here is the right thing for me. I am being tested in all the right ways, academically, socially and internally. I am loving the chance to start over out here and try new ways of expressing who I am. It is truly inspiring. And while being alone is honestly one of the most difficult things I have ever done, it is for the best. For when I find friends, establish my integrated place in the PSU community, I'll know that I fit the great rapper Drake's lyric- started from the bottom, now I'm here.

My Living Situation

When I figured out that I was serious about coming out West, and not just thinking about it in an ideal head space, I knew that I would have a long road ahead of me. Don't get me wrong, there was plenty of optimism in my young heart, and it blocked out some rational that might have kept me from jumping so headfirst into moving, but at the time, I figured I would coming out to Portland because it would bring some kind of challenge that Seton Hall couldn't. So, I called up my Uncle who lives in a Portland suburb and asked him what he thought. And this people, is where I got so fucking lucky I am still in disbelief. My Uncle Fred flat out said to me, "You would love Portland, truly. You can stay with us (him, my Aunt Jenna and three year old cousin Blake) while you go to school. We can figure it out together." 

I should mention that the only reason I even was aware of the fabulous-ness of Portland was because of Fred and Jenna. From what I understand of it (and this is an immensely abbreviated version of it), Fred and Jenna dated in high school and once they both left for college, they broke up. Years later, after Fred had been living near my parents and I in Upstate New York, him and Jenna, who was now living in Portland, Oregon, reconnected and realized their love for each other never left. So Fred packed up and left for the West Coast, to marry and have a kid with the woman he has always loved. Thanks to the supportivness of family, I was able to visit the two of them (Blake was yet to be born) a few times on my own, seeing the best of Portland with them. In conclusion, it is the fault of Fred and Jenna that I even had a glimmer of how awesome Portland is, and so I blame them for re-falling in love and opening my eyes.

 So yeah, I'd say I owe them a huge debt for introducing me to this great place. And with their offer to let me live with them, I am even more indebted to them. Not even a really kickass Christmas  gift could re balance the karmic scales of gratitude I have towards them. Just saying though, if I ever become a wealthy woman who has extra cash to throw around, I'm gonna donate to a program that helps kids and teens see the country and experience an education at any location they wish. Hold me to it. I still have to consult my future financial adviser about how to make this work, so it's gonna take a few years, but I think it can work. I'll call it the Frenna Fly Anywhere Education Program (utilizing the stupidly lazy name I came up with my aunt and uncle when I was in eighth grade).

Back to the point, I am able to be writing this blog about my experience transferring schools across the country, because of these two people, and their generosity in taking me in. Without them, I would probably still be going to an overpriced school in New Jersey, or even more likely, going to community college in my Upstate New York county, back home with my parents, something I promise to you, I was not willing to do.

Instead, I'm sitting at the counter in the lime green kitchen ,writing this post while Fred and Jenna are watching a television program on fishing. Sometimes I feel like their second child, only more awkward and with a lessened utility in helping out around the house. Other days I feel completely independent, commuting to Portland Tuesday to Friday. Regardless, I'm figuring it out as I go along. And it can be awesome, getting to chose my own adventure and truly start from scratch out here. But it's also scary. I would be lying to you if I said that everything is working out. Money is tight, friends are few and each day I come home, I'm exhausted. Some days I am sure that this is the place I am meant to be, learning new things everyday, and others I go to bed missing the amazing friends I made at Seton Hall. It's a balancing act. No day is perfect, but each day is new, and I get the opportunity to attend a campus event, join a club or explore the city that is now my home. 

It's hard to always be optimistic, so I don't force myself. For me, it works best to take it one day at a time and understand that because everything is new, I have to get a chance to adjust. And that's what I'm doing.

My beloved succulents of which I bought at Home Depot for $4 and are now dying because apparently plants need water and I'm too lazy. They're still alive, only a bit...browner than in this picture.

My *Confusing* Journey away From New Jersey

Remember that post I wrote back in April, during my English class? The one where I was talking about not returning to Seton Hall, and possibly going out to Portland, Oregon? I mean, how could you forget, the post I'm talking about is literally right below this one I'm writing now...!

Well, I did it.

I am writing this post from Portland State University's second floor computer space in the library. It's amazing that this is my reality now, one where I've dropped everything on the East Coast and come out to Oregon on a whim of living to my full self, and trying something new in life. And it's been a crazy ride, one that is not even close to being over yet! So let me go back and just quickly run over how I went from a small catholic private university in New Jersey, studying International Relations, to a large public institution in Portland, Oregon studying Conflict Resolution.

Back in January of this year, I went to an event on Seton Hall's campus, one that lasted from a Friday to a Sunday. Rounds to join a sorority. Now anyone who knows me would not peg me as one to join Greek life. My best friend on campus and roommate, Amani, was floored to find out I got a bid, Morgan, who was one of the first people I met on campus and a friend of mine was surprised to find me a part of rounds, and ultimately getting a bid from the same sorority as her. Even my friend Steve was surprised. Granted he was joining a fraternity and was super pumped we would be in Greek Life together. Point is, I am not a traditional fit for a sorority, but I wouldn't let that stop me. I wanted to make more friends, and get a chance to be a part of an organization on campus that was involved and had a lot going on, and I found that with the sorority I was chosen to join. And in all honesty, the girls I met were so kind, and fun to talk to. Honestly, I can see why so many people wanted to join the sorority. To have a bunch of people to support you and keep you active is so fantastic and I still think that if Greek Life is for you, then go for it!

For me though, once I had a bid in hand, I realized that in order to be a part of this sorority, I would have to commit nearly all my time to it. My friends would be my sisters and people like Amani, would have to be sacrificed. I had to give up loyal friends to get loyal friends. It was tough, but I chose to give up my bid and stay out of Greek Life, all the while watching many of my friends, like Morgan and Steve, have a great time meeting new people and being busy every night. I don't regret my decision to not join, but once I made that decision, it became clear to me, more and more each day, that it wasn't the place for me.

Seton Hall is a small school, which I liked, but its events and social life seemed hinged on Greek Life. For many, many months I barely talked or hung out with my friends who joined Greek Life, and while I understood why I barely saw them, it still stung to be left sitting in my room, realizing the people I hung out with so often were no longer there to relax with. Each day I would see them, walking by me, but because they were so wrapped up in their fraternities and sororities, and I don't blame them, they couldn't talk. I began to look for other ways to spend my time, of which there were few. Other than Greek Life and Multicultural Events, of which I both attended and helped out with (Shout out to the African Student Union's killer fashion show, and Amani KILLING the runway) there wasn't much to do for me besides hangout with friends and filling our time with Smash Bros, movie watching and heading over to the cafeteria for a sub par meal. And gradually it became more clear to me that this small school, its limited view of the world (i.e. intense Catholicism that in May got the Head of Campus Ministry fired for supporting the NO H8T campaign) and overpriced tuition and housing, wasn't working for me. I mean, I know that in the 21st century going to college is hand in hand with going into debt, but $20,000 in debt after ONE YEAR at this school was too much for my mind to fathom. My idealistic view of Seton Hall was getting chipped away, and it stung and burned because it meant I had made a mistake going there, costing me time and money.

Soon, Amani and I began stay up  late nights, talking about our Seton Hall grievances, bonding over our mutual frustration of how inadequate we felt our days at SHU were. While I still felt passionate about International Relations, I realized I didn't want to be a diplomat at the United Nations (gratitude to my IR professor for the debate assignment that helped me to realize how ineffective the UN as an institution is!). While the curriculum at SHU taught policy and bureaucratic methods, I really wanted to learn about people, how to help them, and about non profit organizations. I didn't see that happening at Seton Hall, or at least, not to the extent I wanted, for the amount of money I was paying.

Soon, months rolled by, spring break passed (which I spent on a perspective altering volunteering trip to El Salvador with SHU's volunteering services) and April was here. I wrote the post preceding this one during that time. All my thoughts on how my morals and values didn't align with Seton Hall's, the massive amount of debt that was looming over my family's head after just one year, and the great paradigm shift I experienced once I gave up my bid for the sorority lead to me effectively leaving Seton Hall on May 13th, deciding I would not return.

Atticism Endeavor

So I'm sitting in my English 1202 class, listening to a Seton Hall librarian tell my class how to find peer reviewed resources using databases. You see, my professor assigned a research essay (6-8 pgs.) about a chosen drama. I chose A Streetcar Named Desire by Tennessee Williams. With total candor, I really loved this play, tragedy and controversy fully embraced. Assigned to read it a few weeks ago, I blew through Stanley Kowalski's and Blanche Dubois' banter like each word would unlock the hidden meaning behind this play so many talk about. And when we watched Elia Kazan's adaptation (1951) I was floored by Marlon Brando! This is coming from a girl who cannot seem to appreciate a black and white movie to save her life! Twas quite a riveting movie I think!

So that was an aside for the day, onto bigger things.  I am considering (or dedicated to) not returning to Seton Hall next year. I am feeling locked up, not able to allow my curiosity and individuality grow here, at a catholic university. I own no harsh feelings on the topic of SHU's religious identity, but since I do not share it, and it has a huge influence on the curriculum here, I will not allow my education to suffer for it. I am looking to Portland State University! I have family out there and I think it could be good for me!

As I Sit Here Now....

As I sit here now, I am listening to my professor discuss the impact of the Cognitive Research Model on rational actors in foreign policy. I am, by my paper work, a Diplomacy and International Relations major at New Jersey's own Seton Hall University. It's a small college, there is only about 1,300 freshmen that attend, and even more defining, it is a catholic university. Before I tap my foot further on the lake of frozen ice that are religious conversations, I want to clearly state: religion is not part of my life in regards to maintaining faith and practice. I am fine with people who do define their days and actions by the decree of religion. With that said, everyday I pass by a beautiful chapel, that I never attend. All undergraduates must take a faith based course, Journey of Transformation, in their freshmen year and Christianity in Culture in their sophomore year. There are more courses to take in your junior and senior year, of that I'm sure, but as I sit in my Comparative Foreign Policy course, and chose to write this premier blog instead of hear another lecture on GroupThink and cognitive consistency, I cannot be sure about the classes to take in my last two years here. Suffice to say, religion is an everyday thing, a field of tall grass placed at your feet, forcing you to walk through it than around. This is a defining part of Seton Hall, they are entitled to making undergradutes take these courses, just some days I'm more inclined than others to be made to study the life (myth?) of Jesus Christ.

This place is a study. When I applied here, I read on multiple websites and school reviews that this campus is gorgeous. I recall images of trees tufted with pink flowers, and vibrant grass ripe for Frisbee and soccer to push down its blades. But, as I sit here now, I look out the window of my classroom in the Campus Ministry Building (odd place for a foreign policy class, I know), and see only snow, blackened by the wear of many days on the ground. There is no sun, only grey clouds adding the cold sting to wind that constantly blows in my face and through my hair, pushing my hat up off my ears, making me even more frigid. We are in New Jersey. Not the most glamorous state. In fact, it's so ugly here, I worry that it will lower my standard of how well maintain our Earth and land should be. Grey buildings, which I'm told are newly renovated or built but still look run down and poorly kept. The main field, the Green, where the campus seal rests is full of geese poop and soggy dirt where the nuclear shelter built for 1950's bomb threats melts the snow that lays on top of it in a clear line perpendicular to the paths that lead across the Green. So much of the campus, of New Jersey, seems poorly kept. But, I know that there are beautiful places here, I just haven't seen them yet. I can only speak of Cape May, that I and my childhood self, love.Hopefully my time here in NJ will allow me to see more of the state and discover the hidden gems of beauty.

As I sit here now, I am tired. My eyes are brimming with tears brought on by copious yawns originating in my head space that, since August 2013, hasn't been able to shake an omnipresent fatigue that impacts everything, and everyone, in my life. The people who take me seriously call it Chronic Fatigue, and the people that think I overuse the excuse of "I'm just really tired" too much just scoff at my bent back in superiority and disbelief. I am not going to fill up my first post with when it started, all the doctors I went to (neurologist, dietician, cardiologist, etc) and all the tests I went through only to hear that there is no found medical evidence that explains why I am so tired all the time. Granted, every person feels the need to suggest that it could be teenage hormones or a bad sleep schedule, but they seem to be under the impression that I haven't already thought of that simple conclusion. I can't blame them though. It was (is) a struggle for my parents to see this Chronic Fatigue as a legitimate problem that impacts my life. And, as I've experienced thus far, I have no way of controlling. I've tried different sleep schedules, different foods, exercising more, less and even antidepressants. It seems as though my actions have no impact on my daily energy levels. This fact, or what seems to be a fact, is extremely disheartening. I feel like I am giving up, not trying my hardest, when I say that I'm tired and don't have the energy to participate in the activities of college that make it the best time of your life. When I sit in each of my classes each day and fail to maintain my attention on the current topic, I make it harder for myself to pass. But I fall asleep, zone out, feel devastatingly tired, all without intent or purpose. It just happens. Without being too hard on myself, I feel like I am failing at life. If I'm not awake enough to pay attention and do well in class, then I do badly in class. When I cannot get out of bed because I just took a nap and I have a club to go to, but instead I literally cannot manage to get myself up and walking outside to the meeting, I am taking from myself the chance to meet new friends, have fun and build my resume. And the only people I can keep up and be friends with are the people who sit around and talk all the time (let it be known, I love my friends and rely on them for support and understanding. Without them, I would have dropped out), I'm missing out on crazy spontaneous adventures that could be had with energetic college students. It's difficult feeling like you are missing out on life because of a sensation (exhaustion) that most people can shake with a good nights sleep. For me. I always have fatigue pulling on my lashes, closing my eyes. My head has cotton in it that lets me hear, but not understand. I waste my days sleeping and zoning out. That's not a life. That's pathetic.

I decided to start a blog because I was inspired. A went to high school with a girl who gave into her free spirit. This girl, SunnGypsy, graduated and went cross country to California to work on a farm growing weed. During her time there, which was suppose to only last a month, she fell in love and developed tangible wanderlust. So, she began a nomadic lifestyle in the United States and traveled around, putting photos of her journey on Instagram about her free life, each with its own inspirational quote about seizing the moment and life's fleeting pulse. And then, she jumped on a boat and moved to St.Johns on the Virgin Islands and has been living on a boat and drinking water out of shelled coconuts. She began a blog and wrote about her life since high school and she has inspired me to pursue the special things in life that will define me. If I cannot be high energy,then I should go someplace high energy, maybe it will rub off! I need to satiate my wanderlust too! But my first step is writing a blog, to keep up on my times.