homecoming

Nearly a year and a half after I first stepped foot in India for my yearlong post-bac adventure, I found myself again waving at the security guards to open the white gates into Shanti Bhavan. As soon as I walked into the volunteer quarters, the cleaning lady greeted me with a warm smile. I felt relieved by the familiarity.

Nothing had changed. Although the students were in different grades, had formed new cliques and new crushes, little startled me. The students remembered me – mollifying a facetious, yet somewhat genuine concern for many of us former volunteers – and were older, but still as jovial as I recalled them to be. Though I was only there for one day, I was able to see that my dance students were still excitable as ever, eager to please me, and able to perform many of the dances I had taught them.

The new kindergarteners were small and round and bashful and displayed the precise combination of cuteness to make your heart completely melt. Since I had left in 2011, classrooms for the smaller children had been painted differently, with bright colors and playful themes. With mouths full of newly grown adult teeth, the fourth graders joined me during PT and demanded stories. Keenly curious eyes peered intently at me as I retold tales of ghosts in the sports closet and giggles filled the air as they countered my imaginary characters with skepticism.

I only wish I had more time.

I wish I had more time to relearn their stories, to remember each student’s quirks and interests, and teach again. Shanti Bhavan is truly a magical, unique place and reminds me to count my blessings every time I visit. The children there retain their innocence in a way that isn’t possible outside of the white gates, and the staff and administration are always warm and welcoming to all volunteers. Though I won’t be able to relive the same experience I had in that year, re-establish all of my relationships and connect with the students on the same level again, that year – and all of the individuals that made it – is permanently imprinted on my memory.

To my former students, friends and family at Shanti Bhavan, until next time.

note to my future self

Remember that one day, a young person is going to look at you with hope, lingering on your every last word, studying you, listening – really listening, in a way that your peers have long forgotten to listen.

She will remember what you tell her and whether you keep your promises. She will observe your body language, your slang, your presence in the room, the way others react to you, whether even you are fully aware of it or not. Remember that she will wonder what you were like at her age, whether she can be as successful as you, whether she can be better than you, whether she has the same tenacity in her. She will look at you with a mixture of curiosity and awe.

Remember that it is young people who have fresh eyes, perceiving things that you may have not noticed in years. She will wonder how you acquired your knowledge, and what she has to do to become as well-informed. Her actions will reflect her respect for you, but not her envy – that she keeps buried, shrouded by her eagerness to please you.

Remember this, one day, when you are someone’s manager, teacher, or mentor. Your every action, email, sentence, compliment and criticism – she will hang on to those. Remember this, because you are that young person today.

internal monologue

When I was ten years old, I thought I’d be a fully grown, all-knowing adult by age twenty. In fact, I remember thinking I would be just that. A tall, smart adult knowing “everything.”

Things didn’t exactly turn out that way.

I went to India after college in anticipation of learning some answers about the world, myself, and what I could do in the world. The experience was exactly what I’d hoped for and more, but it didn’t help to assuage the feeling of uncertainty of being an American twentysomething. I’ve done a lot of reading about this recently, and while this ethos is unique to our generation, it’s already a tired concept. Numerous books and articles and psychological works have already been published referring to the Millennials’ “quarter-life crisis.”

On the one hand, it’s a little ridiculous. Largely, the quarter-life crisis idea refers to middle-class Americans of my generation who were raised believing “you can be anything.” Now, it’s as if there are too many options but nothing is quite as we expected. Older generations describe ours as one with a delayed adulthood, in which twentysomethings are still trying to “find themselves,” and are getting married much later; many still live at home or are supported by their parents financially. They say that Millennials feel more entitled than previous generations, are always seeking for the next best thing, and aren’t satisfied easily.

In spite of the palpability of the delayed adulthood of our generation as a whole, however, I have no answers. I’m not sure how we turned out to be this way. For many (like myself), our parents struggled and wanted to provide us with better lives, giving us more than they had. In part, this meant keeping on the training wheels until the end of college, rather than gradually giving us independence – resulting in many man-child twentysomethings who didn’t know what to do when the wheels came off.

Living in India gave me perspective on one thing: globally, twentysomethings do not share this American zeitgeist of instability and vague sense of limitless possibilities. In India, this is for a few reasons – the imposed marriage timeline, fewer years of school, and greater responsibility in the house. From an early age, society enforces the notion of “marriageable age” and family members commence the search for their child’s spouse, whether or not their child is on the same page. Schooling is more grueling from an early age for those with higher education – aspiring physicians begin medical school at 18. Moreover, most Indian children are taught from a young age how to fulfill their role in their home (through chores or other responsibilities). All told, Indian adolescents are plunged into adulthood more quickly.

The ten-year old inside of me is wondering why I don’t know more right now. Why I feel uncertain about life, why I’m not on the fast track to achieving clear, distinct goals. On the surface, I appear to be – I have a professional job, I graduated from a reputable university, and am on a career path – yet, I cannot shake my uncertainty about ambiguous future. My mind is racing with questions. (Grad school? Different roles/companies/industries/cities? So many possibilities! When should I think marriage and kids?) Sometimes I wonder why I feel so unprepared for this decade of my life.

Then again, sometimes I think exactly this is how I’m supposed to feel right now.

where's my seat?

It's summertime but not summer vacation, and these days, running is my stress release.

While some days are truly hectic, it would be silly to pretend that my life is brimming with complicated, demanding activities. As the youngest female employee in my office at a major consulting firm, I realize that relatively, my life is rather uncomplicated. I do not have children, a husband, a house, a mortgage, or any of the other things that cause real stress. Running is simply what breaks up the monotony of staring at Excel spreadsheets, PowerPoint slides, and general work at the office.

I have become acutely aware of what a privilege it is: the ability to run after work. As a young professional, you find yourself suddenly lumped into the greater workforce, but you may not have the same “adult” responsibilities cluttering up your personal time. Just yesterday, you were in college (and two seconds before that, had curfews under your parents roof!) and no one took you seriously besides your peers. Professors seemed wise, even admired. They were definitely not your counterparts.

Now, all of a sudden, they are. You are in an office room full of people twice your age. They are telling you about their kids and spouses and about going golfing this weekend. They might have 20 more years of work experience than you have. Yet, they are your colleagues. Not only are they asking you to complete tasks, they are asking for your opinions on things. They actually value your input.

You’re not at the kids’ table anymore.

You are, however, desperately trying to find your seat at their table. They value your opinion and ideas, yes – but they are the ones that will get the credit. No, they aren’t stealing anything. That’s just how it is for now, you precocious entry-level. You might’ve created that PowerPoint presentation, but don’t think for a second you will be the one delivering it. In fact, you might not even be in the meeting. They are your colleagues, they will be in the same room, and they are going golfing – but you aren’t invited.

So until it’s my day to golf, I will navigate these dynamics of corporate America. I will appreciate that I have a more leisure lifestyle than the executive with three kids and a mortgage, but I will understand my place – for now – at the lower end of the office totem pole. I will maneuver this double-edged sword of the young professional’s life. I will stay hungry and foolish. I will accept my seat at the table, but look for opportunities and never become content.

And after work, I will run.

growing up and being a grown-up

It’s an interesting time in your life, starting your first job. You might be on the brink of youthful idealism, ingenuously anticipating the opportunity to “make a difference” and be really important. You are getting paid, so you must be, right? In any case, I wanted to share my thoughts on the past few weeks, during which time I’ve moved out of my hometown and begun my career.

Unlike many recent university graduates starting their first job, a lot of things are familiar. I’ve returned to my college city (a metropolitan hub boasting one of the highest crime rates in the US, nonetheless!), and experience led me to set pretty low expectations for the living situation. My apartment in college was just a small step up from my living condition in India. Somehow, however, Craiglist worked out, and I have two very amicable roommates in a large, refurbished row house. And to my good fortune, I still have some university friends around as well. Old is gold.

Other things, however, feel very unfamiliar. I have bills. Lots of them. And I have to pay them with my own money – which didn’t come from a “research assistant” post. I have a 401k, which just sounds adult. I work with people whose children are my age, and thus any colleagues within a decade of my age are considered peers.

It’s an interesting time in your life when your parents start to become relatable. I think most people go through the same phases and feelings towards their parents: you know everything and are smart grown-ups (childhood); you don’t know anything, so stop bothering me (teenage years); thanks for funding my education, housing, and/or food (college); I guess your advice could be useful since I have a job now too… (post-college). I’m told that they become even more relatable once we become parents ourselves. Hopefully my babies won’t be as whiny as I was.

To know that you are fading out of the innocent idealism fast (I blame office politics), accepting your parents as real people to whom you might be able to relate, and gaining full responsibility of your own life is a transitioning phase – to real adulthood. I’m currently knees deep in transition.

It’s an interesting time in my life.

is there an app for that?

Today I stumbled upon a YouTube video of a 12-year-old girl divulging advice to her peers on dating boys in middle school.

When I was in seventh grade, there was no YouTube. In fact, I can’t really remember what the internet was like before “Google” became a verb. I didn’t have a cell phone, let alone a smartphone with a webcam like the advice-dishing seventh grader. I called my friends on their land lines. People actually had land lines.

There were no ipads, nooks, or automated books to make reading more comfortable. I packed in paper-bound novels into my backpack, along with my ruler and pencils. We didn’t carry around laptops in our backpacks either. It was a time before Facebook, Twitter, or Gchat; until college, most of my peers used AOL Instant Messenger to communicate with each other. Videos were shot with video-cameras and photos were taken with non-digital cameras.

Besides realizing that I’m old and that technology has changed the “childhood” experience in the last ten years, what is my point? Aside from watching a braces-touting preteen counselor today, I also ordered a smartphone. I succumbed. I’m always a little tardy on the tech bandwagon, but what I’ve realized is that it doesn’t matter how long you resist: technology is going to continue advancing, and we will all eventually need to be somewhat tech-adept to survive in the workforce. (But that doesn't mean we can't reminisce over simpler times.)

My main purpose in buying a smartphone, however, was for the navigation capabilities. Sure, it will make other things easier, but since I’m relocating to a notoriously unsafe city, I would like to evade losing my way. What people did do without cell phones when they got lost, only ten or fifteen years ago?

Then I remember my seventh grade: I would have used a paper map, or called someone for help with a payphone. Remember those? Google it, 90s babies.

little steps to conquer joker

Passenger seatbelt unbuckled. Passenger seatbelt unbuckled.

As I backed out of my driveway yesterday, the little words were flashing in red.  I glanced over to the empty seat in puzzlement, which quickly turned into irritation. Staring up at me was the culprit: my organic chemistry textbook.

In college, the material covered by this dense hardcover had been the bane of my existence. One semester of organic chemistry I, another semester of II, and then the weekly five-hour lab that took up three credits for yet one more semester.

And like so many pre-med hopefuls before me, it broke my spirit.

At some point in your life, you feel like you aren’t good enough. For me, orgo was that slap in the face. I gave it everything I had, but my efforts were always in vain. Have you ever tried so hard to achieve something, over and over and over, until you realize that maybe it’s just not “your thing”? Well, somewhere between organic chemistry and biochemistry, my jaded undergrad self decided that maybe medical school wasn’t “my thing.”

You might be wondering why then, three years after the class gobbled up my spirit and spit out something cynical, I am in arm’s length of the textbook. (Where in the world could she be going with it? Special orgo text book bonfire?).

I am tutoring – yes, as in teaching – organic chemistry.

Turns out, I actually did learn something in that class. I may not have been able to ace the exams in a time crunch, but I understood the concepts. And that’s the basis of teaching any science. Although organic chemistry at Hopkins was grueling, it forced me to learn the reasons behind the reaction processes. Maybe I can’t figure out the most complicated synthesis on a timed exam, but I sure can explain to you why it happens that way.

So yesterday, after I lifted my textbook off the passenger seat (stop the blinking! It’s not a person!), I drove to my fifth tutoring session – to help mend another spirit broken by our common enemy.

It’s like I’ve made peace with my arch nemesis. I have to say, it’s a good feeling.