hello, good friend

I’m feeling a bit melancholy today. Maybe it’s the dreary weather. Perhaps it’s that this past Homecoming weekend was crazy fun, and now I actually have to buckle down and accomplish something. My current to-do list looks something like this:

Write word study paper for American Literature before 1900
Read Dr. Faustus for Medieval Renaissance Literature
Finish reading the play Fuenteovejuna for Spanish Peninsular Literature
Compose a monologue for Playwriting class

Before work this afternoon I attacked the fourth task: composing a monologue. The actual assignment is to compose a monologue from the perspective of an “other” in the midst of conflict. Up until yesterday I had determined to write it from the perspective of one of my jazz dance students – she’s Puerto Rican, and it would’ve given me an opportunity to incorporate Spanish. After discussing it with some classmates, however, I changed my mind. And my entire project.

See, I really wanted to write the piece about one of my closest friends who happens to be enduring some significant life changes. She’s been on my mind lately, and I know her situation better than I do my dance student’s. But something about making one of my girlfriend’s real-life struggles into a piece of theatre unnerved me. It seemed so impersonal. Almost heartless. Yesterday I worked up the courage to ask her permission. She’s a good sport – she agreed.

So this afternoon, while the apartment was relatively quiet, I curled up on my bed with my laptop to write my friend’s monologue. The experience was pretty surreal. I struggled to “become” her – to use her vocabulary, her phrases, to contain her personality in words. It felt like donning a character, adopting a new life. At first I was overly cautious. After all, I wanted to represent her story – her life – accurately. Once I resolved to stop using the backspace key, the words flowed easier. Only two pages of dialogue passed before I realized that I was crying. And not just wimpering crying – the full-blown, eyes swollen shut, chest-heaving, choking type.

Where did this emotion come from? How many close conversations had we had – she and I? I had never cried. Granted, she had, and I had thrown my arm around her shoulders, told her everything would be ok, yada yada, but I had never shed a tear. Yet there I was, penning her self to paper, and I was bawling. In some small, probably insignificant way I finally “got” her.

I suppose one can never truly walk a mile in someone else’s shoes. Maybe writing a monologue about her life comes pretty close. There’s certainly a great deal to be said for empathy. And a great deal of burden-carrying to even get that far. But whatever happened between the typing and the tears, I understand my friend, even if only slightly better.

In Professor Sam Smith’s class we’ve been discussing character transformation in Spenser’s The Faerie Queen. As in, bad guy Malbecco evolves throughout the third book into jealousy itself. He goes the usual route: first he starts thinking jealous thoughts, then he commits jealous acts, then he becomes consumed by jealous emotions, and, finally, he sheds everything that was formerly himself and transforms into the very essence of jealousy. In the same way, the Redcrosse Knight (ah, hero!) transforms into holiness. He becomes the quintessence of holiness, of purity, of all that is good. Anyway, that’s how the conversation progressed.

Now, I probably missed some sweeping theological insight when my mind started wondering. Nonetheless, my thoughts went something like this: if we were to freeze frame some earlier moment in the story – before Malbecco ever became jealousy and Redcrosse Knight ever became holiness, before they ever reached their fully-embodied manifestations – we would behold a snapshot of some half-formed, in-between identity. A version of a “halfling,” perhaps. Both would appear as some muddled, mid-transformative, virtue-battling-vice characters. Neither jealousy nor its virtuous opposite. Neither true holiness nor true corruption. Mid-transformation. Faded in places, exposing gaps. And probably, if we were to analyze a character according to that single frame, we would determine that he wasn’t much of a “some”thing, more like an “inbetween/any/every”thing. He would seem wishy-washy, inconsistent, unprincipled, unconvincted, hypocritical, and a whole mess of other undesirable characteristics.

So I was thinking, ol’ Spenser sure understood a great deal about the human condition. Our characters, too, evolve in phases. In some phases – moments of triumph – we seem consistent, led by convictions, solid. But until we fully transform, our faded places and gaps oftentimes trump our opacities. Our identities seem flawed when they’ve yet to become…well, any certain thing. The inbetween-ness of our characters collides with the few moments of conviction.

And, ya know, I bet – if I were to delve deeper into the book - I would discover several moments when the Redcrosse Knight was dangerously close to veering in the vice direction and moments when Malbecco had opportunity to develop toward holiness. Likewise, our lives are peppered with moments of downfall, moments of victory. Phases.

No one’s a finished product, that’s what they say. Really compels me to cut myself – and everyone else – some slack for being distinctly phase-ish.

Last night some of the gals from Acclamation drove to York to see Ballet Magnificat! perform. It’s one of the premier Christian ballet companies in the nation, based in Mississippi. I’ve been familiar with Ballet Mag since I was little – since the year my parents “strongly suggested” that I attend their summer intensive program, and I wailed a protest to the effect of “Please don’t make me I’ll die” because I thought Christian dancers were weird.

Last night, however, I about flipped out over the opportunity to see them perform. They’re an encouragement to me. Seeing other Christians doing art with excellence, engaging in the dance world, while still maintaining their vision – that gives me goose bumps.

Up until attending Messiah I didn’t believe “Christian art” could be done, or, at least, not done well. That got me thinking about how I’ve transformed since being a wee freshman. I remember crying home to my parents during the first months – it seemed overwhelming, having to fill the dance space in my life by myself. I didn’t have a studio, or a coach, or a class schedule, or a dance team. I was out of my element: I wasn’t from the area, I didn’t know the opportunities. And I certainly didn’t have money to pay for any of it. Making the effort to fill that void, doing the legwork, wasn’t something I knew how to do.

Now, in retrospect (of course), I see God’s generous provision. First, there have been countless opportunities: the summer after freshman year, Jill Osielski – a Messiah alumna! – hired me as an R.A. for the Central Pennsylvania Youth Ballet in Carlisle, just 20 minutes away. Acclamation dance classes have provided not only a weekly dancing outlet, but also several of my best girlfriends. Volunteering at Messiah professor Della Cowall’s company in Harrisburg has taught me a great deal about dance instruction. And, of course, seeing performances by companies like River North Chicago and Ballet Magnificat! have reminded me that dance is alive and thriving.

What’s most important, however, is that I’ve witnessed dancers engaging faith and art. I’ve seen creativity spring from belief. I’ve learned that dance – like all art – means little apart from God. After all, he’s the creator.

Trading this experience would’ve meant missing out on tremendous blessings. At times like these I’m most thankful that God didn’t give me what I thought I wanted.

A year ago I was in Spain studying at La Universitat de Barcelona. It was an incredibly fulfilling (read: sometimes fun, sometimes scary, sometimes homesickness-inducing, always challenging) experience. Seriously, I must credit Messiah’s EpiCenter for making experiences like that so accessible to students. My abroad term didn’t cost me any more than a normal semester…besides the hundreds (maybe thousands?) of euros I invested in the Spanish textile industry. (I’m still in debt to my parents for my less-than-wise use of funds.)

Lately, however, I’ve felt nostalgic for Spain. (I attribute this renewed longing to the recent, ubiquitous re-runs of America’s Next Top Model, the Barcelona season.) Since I’ve yet to devise a plan for spending yet another semester abroad, I’ve decided to reminisce in another way: below I’ve posted an excerpt from an e-mail I sent from Spain exactly one year ago. Enjoy.

”You may recall my art-major, Manhattanite roommate Tiah? Right-o. I live with Tiah in my host mother’s home. She’s an American exchange student, too. We have fun together. Tiah makes me laugh. Intentionally. I guess I make her laugh, too. Probably unintentionally. One time she smoked at the dinner table. She is Jewish. She does not speak Spanish. I am not lying. Sometimes we buy English fashion magazines and exchange them. Sometimes we go to Starbucks. We share toothpaste. And a bathroom.

Tiah has been having problems in the bathroom. She describes them as such:

“I actually haven’t been able to use the bathroom for three weeks.”

Yesterday Tiah returned home from Berlin with laxatives. (She did not go to Berlin specifically for the laxatives.) As Germans apparently down pills the size of micropixels, we decided to read the dosage instructions so as not to induce explosion. (I felt that my personal involvement - i.e. sharing a bathroom - merited genuine concern.) Alas, neither Tiah nor I understand German. So when the instructions read (phonetically) something like \Doff heinerschmitzle droogen blat\ we decided to hold off.

Tiah proceeded with her rather torturous day sans laxatives. Cum fibrous buildup. Being classy women, we discussed these conditions in great detail.

This evening Tiah returned home late. She threw herself, rather dramatically, onto my bed. She was wearing a Weezer T-Shirt and a white Prada overcoat. I knew something was desperately wrong.

“Will you puuuh-LEASE go to the pharmacy with me and translate my problem so I can get some medication?!” (Also a direct transcription.)

This was serious business. I was happy to oblige. First, I had to do some research. I looked up “constipated” in my Spanish-English dictionary. Then “build-up”. “laxative”. “digestive tract”. Now I was fully armed.

We left without delay.

Tiah led the way, but, to my surprise, we did not visit a medical pharmacy. Oh no. Instead we ventured into the world of Spanish Natural Foods Stores. This was uncharted territory. I had yet to encounter “green” Spain. Or Spanish “Natural Foods.” (I’m admittedly wary of American Natural Foods. Give me bleached wheat and processed grains, please.) As Tiah does not speak much Spanish, I initiated conversation with a curly-headed bald guy behind the counter. Before I could utter “constipation” (the dreaded word), however, Tiah proclaimed:

“No puedo ir al bano! No puedo ir al bano! Por tres semanas! Tres semanas!”

That broke the ice.

The man stifled laughter. “That is a very serious problem,” he said.

I used my new vocabulary to explain to him that my friend had been unable to…use the bathroom (”cargar”, in case you’re wondering)…for a very long, painful period of time. He was sympathetic. He began pulling items off the shelves. Muesli. Herbal supplements. Dried prunes. To me, they all sounded great. Pick one and leave. I was anxious to get out of there.

Tiah wasn’t having it.

“No quiero mas fibre! No quiero mas! No quiero fibre!”

(Sometimes when one believes that foreigners do not understand, one has a tendency to yell. Loudly. Repeatedly. Thus, all the organic food junkies in the Spanish Natural Foods Store knew that Tiah did not want fiber, already had enough fiber, and had been trying to flush the fiber out for three weeks.)

Tiah’s public declarations of fiber-cloggage must have worked, though, because the light bulb suddenly clicked on in Natural Food Man’s head. “Ah ha!” he cried, finally grasping the desperation of the situation.

And then he theatrically unlocked a tiny magic box and removed the glorious pill of heaven. I heard an angel chorus.

“This pill,” confided our ally, “will cure everything. It will flush everything out of your system!” (Ooo!) “It will unclog your bowels!” (Aaah!) “It will arreglar everything in just six hours!” (Gasp!) Our facial expressions must have read uber-relief because he gave us the Miracle Laxative for free.

Tiah and I skipped home holding hands. (That is an exaggeration.)

When we arrived safely from our adventure, we braced ourselves for the unveiling of The Laxative. Much to our dismay, it basically looked like a dog bone of vacuum-packed prunes. Tiah ate it all.”

And that, my friends, is the value of a Messiah College education. When they claim that your global communication horizons will broaden over your four undergraduate years here, believe them. It’s true.