What are Your Plans for the Future? A Long Answer that Isn't Really Even An Answer.

All of a sudden I am the person I spent so much of my life preparing for: the young woman who has studied abroad and is now going to graduate from college. Cue the real world? Whatever that looks like, whenever that comes, I’m having a hard time answering to it. Most people have never heard of my major, and when that inevitable follow-up question tumbles out about my post-grad career, my response is never really straightforward. 

I have stood steadfastly by my academic and professional decisions from the start, but that belies the twinge of uncertainty I feel every time I explain (or inwardly justify) my vision for my future. I am so scared that I screwed up or that I am about to screw up. Comfortingly, I'm pretty sure I'm not alone. I’m surrounded by people like me: young and on the precipice of the very future whose promise has carried us through every tough moment up to this point. We are pumped full of our families support and praise and we are scared shitless about what comes next. We swim in this pool of fear as we are asked by people, by society, by the voices in our heads what we plan on doing with all that we've been given and all that we’ve worked for. The answers we give are the life jackets we cling to.

As I admit all this, I can’t help but feel presumptuous and ungrateful. I mean, I’m a first-generation American student. My parents immigrated here and worked their asses off so they could help their respective families avoid struggle. Then they met each other, got married and continued to work their asses off so that the family they created together didn’t have to struggle. As a result, growing up (you guessed it) I didn’t really have to struggle, at least not in the same way they did. I have been blessed with the luxury of being able to discover my passions and build my life around them.

That’s the point, right? My parents did all that they did so that I could dream big. They’ve supported every decision that I’ve made, and have respected that I have pursued my own wishes, even when doing so contradicted what would generally be expected of me as a studious, focused youth who is competent in the hard sciences (read: medical school).  I don’t believe that I’m disappointing my parents-that’s proven hard to do, they’re pretty special people-but becoming a doctor (or lawyer or businesswoman or engineer) are good ways to give back to this world that has so graciously accommodated me at the same time as doing justice to all the work my parents did, all the hope and pride that aunts and uncles and grandparents and teachers have had for me over the years. Isn’t it?

And yet, if you ask my parents what they hope for my future, they say without reservation, in all the languages they speak and with every ounce of sincerity they possess: “I want her to be happy.” There are no contingencies; they even give me the freedom to establish my own definition of happiness. Sure, they have their fears, they don’t want to me to settle, they want me to see myself as big as they see me and my future. But they always come back to this simple answer.

So, Mom and Bob, I promise you this: No matter where I am or what I’m doing, I will understand happiness (Shari's already on top of this). When I’m unhappy, I will remember that it’s okay to be so and that I will be happy again at some point. I will take care of those I love, of this world around me and I will do my best to share my happiness. I will raise a family to carry on your legacy that teaches about the potency of love and the pervasiveness of joy. I will respect myself and take strength from my decisions, because that grows the roots of happiness deeper. I will sometimes call you crying and then come to you later when the tears have dried and there’s a smile on my face. For right now, that is the best way I can think of to thank you. Knowing you two, I have a feeling it will be enough. 

That is, of course, until the time comes for grandchildren. 

Lots of phrases that describe my best friend.

I knew I’d miss a lot of people when I left the country, but I don’t think I expected that the person I’d miss the most would be my brother. Tonny, or Tushar, or as everyone calls him Shari. I guess it makes sense; we’ve always been close. For a while, a lot of that came from me being really protective. But I haven't necessarily been able to relate to him all the time. By that I mean we don’t always enjoy doing or talking about the same things. I know that that's natural for a brother and sister, but beyond that, I've felt the compulsion to censor him, because he is the least censored person I know, and I am the most censored person I know and I project that onto him, which most definitely isn’t fair. It’s like I try to mold him into a person that fits into the framework in which I relate to and understand everyone else in my life. I hate the way that makes me sound, because it's basically everything I stand against. But it’s not like it works anyway. Shari will be Shari regardless of how I relate to him, as long as I love him. Ultimately, my controlling tendencies seem to be irrelevant.  And I am so glad for that. It’s something I’m working on, just letting him be, not caring how he sounds or appears, because I think that will annoy him less and will help me grow more. I tend to feel guilty that I do that, and that I seem to require so much to be sure and content and he so little. In the past I’ve thought about sharing all this, but I think at that time I was looking to be reassured that I shouldn’t feel guilty. That never felt like the right reason to talk about my brother, because there is so much more to him than all of that. So now, I'm putting all my cards on the table because that helps me see them better for myself. I think I’m at this point because I understand the concept of guilt better. It seems like guilt has dictated so much of my life, but I think I’m growing out of it. It almost feels childish now, like I’m using it as a crutch to get by, using it as an excuse for holding back.

Which is stupid, because if Shari teaches you anything, it’s to not hold back. And if anyone knows how to be happy, it’s him. He tends to make a life simply a happy affair. Pizza on Wednesday? "Heck yeah!" Run into a teacher or friend at Walmart? (I will bet 3 scoops of gelato that the very next time he goes shopping he will run into at least 2 people who know him). "How are you?! It's good to see you! I love seeing them!" Wanna dump a box of brownie mix in a bowl and call ourselves bakers? "Hell yes. Let me get my apron." Want to clean the house? "Hell no. I love being lazy." Want to chase the doggies around, calling for them in little voices and drawing on their fur? "You are crazy, Sister."

Being around him has a way of lightening the air around you. I guess I’ve taken for granted how much it means to just be in his presence. To be downstairs and hear him shout weird things at the T.V. from upstairs, to have him bug me to do something fun or to get him some candy, to call him from his room to get me a blanket, to hear his sarcastic laugh when my dad says something cheesy, to watch him make a mockery of the choreography on Just Dance, to hear the way he greets my mom (she always gets the most enthusiastic welcome). And he actually wants to hang out with me, he is excited to see me. I’ve had this idea in my head that he’s not supposed to be that excited to see me, that siblings are supposed to be reserved with their feelings, and by default, scorn each other. But screw that shit. My brother is the coolest, greatest guy I know and I want the world to know that I think that. I mean, he bugs the crap out of me, he is stubborn as absolute hell. But my god, I love him.  

Pieces in Florence

Ponte Santa Trinita 

During World War II, the bridges across the Arno River were bombed and destroyed, save for the Ponte Vecchio (“Old Bridge”). Among the ruins was the bridge most beloved by Florentines, Ponte Santa Trinita. The people of Firenze so adored this bridge that following the war, they set out to comb the bottom of the river for the pieces and put it back together. In 1958, they succeeded. And now I walk across that bridge every day to get to school.

Italians: Romantic even in the face of city planning and reconstruction

These people of Florence saw a feature of their city they had loved for centuries, and rather than abandoning it to the will of war and time, they were obstinate with their loyalty to the landmark and their hope for its resurrection. They patiently put her back together, piece by piece. Because that’s how you treat the things you love. And this city will teach you nothing if not about love—love for people, for history, for food, for life. That’s how I know that my time here will be more than an "experience." It will be a relationship, a story of Banicia and Florence, Firenze e me. And as I travel more and create more stories, I think I’ll discover more pieces of myself through those relationships.  

Maybe that’s what wanderlust really is: not simply a desire to see the world, but the pull you feel from actual parts of your spirit that are scattered across different lands, resting in the hands of new people and on the shoulders of historical legacies; at the bottom of bowls of fresh food and beautiful desserts; floating among a few of the seven seas; waving at you from across a stretch of rolling hills; revealed to you in different languages, in old paintings and candid pictures. 

Oh hey, there you are. 

It’s like you become more you as you discover and unite with these aspects of yourself. I guess you can call it one hell of a souvenir.