As stated in my previous blog, my time here in Philadelphia is fading quickly, a daunting fact indeed. What was once all shiny and new has now grown familiar, leaving me feeling rather peculiar and—honestly—unfulfilled at no fault but my own. I'm exploring the city, meeting the people, and embracing the life, yet I feel as though something is missing—something for which I can't help but try to reach. Unsettled is not my feeling of choice, but what more can I do than try to explore these hollowing apprehensions.
I find myself reaching, reaching, reaching.
At work, I reach for home, craving a comfortable, warm bed away from the never-ending flow of tasks and the draining undertakings required day to day. As we escort our refugees from office to office, I dread the hostile workers we encounter, angry, yes, but who I’m sure are just reaching, as I am, to get through another day and to find their own comforts back home.
Once home, I reach back to NSC and the feelings of pure joy working with these refugees gives me. I want to run back; I want to provide what little I can for these people I am lucky enough to be able to help in my own small ways. They look to me like I’m a saint, treating my mediocre help as if I was giving them treasure. Yesterday, a woman asked me how much I was being paid at NSC. It’s incredibly difficult to explain what a gap year program is to a partially-English-speaking Syrian, so I settled on telling her my work was able to be voluntary, thanks to my generous parents. She began thanking me profusely, in disbelief of my seeming benevolence. Nothing I could say would successfully convey why I should, instead, be the one thanking her. Thanking her for bearing five brutal years in a refugee camp in Egypt, undergoing intensive vetting and reliving trauma with each repetitive interview. Thanking her for bringing her four little children to America, where she knew nothing and no one, but held on only for the hope a better life. Thanking her for braving the streets of the US, where people stare at her hijab, dehumanizing her instead of taking the time to distinguish her peaceful religion from the acts of terror we all fear. Thanking her for pushing through the shame she feels due to her inability to fully speak English, as she apologizes profusely each time she reaches for a word that just does not yet exist in her growing vocabulary. I should be thanking her for making this country a better place, just by stepping foot within our borders. All my words lose meaning, however, when America’s cruel actions and prejudices demonstrate the very opposite of thank you.
I reach for hope in these seemingly hopeless times and for answers to the unanswerable questions that, undeterred, still manage to fill my mind.
I reach for the past—the familiarity of home and the comfort of my friends who will never again be “mine” in the same sense they were when I left them. I reach for my parents, unable to take back the past ways I’ve treated them but thankful each day to see all that they’ve poured into me be put to use. Through my regrets I see opportunity; I just hope those I’ve wronged will see in me the same.
I reach for the future, the paths displayed before me shining brightly, each promising an intriguing life but not revealing which is the right (is there a right?) one. I pass my days daydreaming of the many outcomes my life may have. Some days I see myself as a filmmaker, evoking deep emotions with my movies and capturing a story’s beauty eternally through film. Other days I am running for office, brainstorming campaign strategies, figuring out ways to change the brutal systems I’ve grown to detest so, and working to take the corruption out of politics. Maybe I’ll be a simple shop owner, spending my days planting and selling succulents with my shop dogs by my side. Heck—maybe somehow I’ll figure out how to do all three. I’ve always been told to close my eyes and picture my goals before I can make them happen. That’s a little tough to do, though, when my eyelids display a new possibility each time they flutter shut, like a child’s view-master, cycling through reels of my future’s endless and overwhelming possibilities.
I’m stuck between reaching for the past and present, arms outstretched wide in either direction. Looking down, however, my feet seem to be planted firmly in the inescapable and undeniable present. For what am I really reaching? Why must I be reaching at all? Perhaps I’m not reaching for anything as much as reaching away from the present. It’s a scary place after all! Growth, indecision, difference making, and change all happen in the present. Emotions and fears and anxiety all lurk in the present; it’s no wonder I find myself pulling away.
As I read my companions’ blogs, I envy many of their wise words and personal stories of realization and growth. I can’t help but panic, fearing my words will be unable to live up to and echo their tremendous efforts. My logic-centered brain has real trouble with this emotional journey, but I’m trying and hoping to get better each day. Luckily, I have devoted leaders watching over me, who encourage me to be vulnerable and open as I fight these tough, personal battles. I have compassionate friends, who allow me to explore our relationships as I grow to better know myself and who can sympathize with my journey as we all travel through the year together. I’m in an environment tailored not to coddle me, but to push me, stretching my boundaries and allowing growth to flourish within me, and for these reasons, I can be confident in my discomfort, knowing it’s all part of the process.
I’ll let you know if I ever figure out just what it is I’ve been reaching for, but for now, my arms are tired, so I entreat that they may rest.
