A few weeks ago I believed three impossible things before breakfast. As I waited for my roommate's keurig to brew my morning coffee in my small University of Maryland dorm common room, I was struck with a moment of clarity on what I wanted my next semester to be like. One, I was going to Denmark. Two, I was going to live with a Danish family, and three, it was going to be awesome.
It was only until a few hours later sitting in my Economics lecture that I contemplated the impossibility of those three things. It's not as if I haven't colored outside the lines before, but this was a particularly bold idea. A lot of people talk about study abroad, but it seemed like only socially gracious, confident, well-versed, bi-lingual students actually end up signing the wavers. Even my parents were surprised at my hesitant confession on what I had been considering.
Here's the truth about me. I hate being in the center of attention. I wear mostly dark colors. I slip through crowds. I was a cliche growing up: I wrote wistful poetry in dozens of journals and preferred books to conversation. I liked to find parallels between the heroines in the books I read and in my own life. In Alice and Wonderland, Alice followed a rabbit with a pocket watch down a giant hole into a psychedelic world of nonsense purely out of curiosity of why a rabbit should have a pocket watch. It may be a whimsical story written by a very high man, but in a sense, my world is a wonderland of sorts too.
Amidst the safety of being part of majority culture, speaking the English language and generally being able to get by without incident, I spotted a rabbit of my own, whose fraught pace remind me of time. If I have the ability to cross oceans and learn languages and see sites I've only heard about, what am I doing here? There's an established path for a reason, but it will still be there when I get back. I didn't believe anything impossible that morning before breakfast, I just decided that I was going to make it possible.
I am going to Copenhagen, Denmark to study European Politics. Even writing it doesn't feel possible. But here's what I am going to do. I will spend quiet weekends exploring the city on my own. I will eat smørrebrøden in cafes, trying to pick out Danish words I know. I'll commute by bike amidst a sea of tall and graceful Danish professionals in the drizzling rain. I'll cook my host family a Bulgarian dish that my mom used to make. I'll laugh when I get asked about American politics. I'll smile on the day that I am struck with the fact that I've figured a place out that once seemed so alien to me.
And when I return to the United States, with a few stamps in my passport and hundreds of pictures of Danish castles on my phone, I'll experience culture-shock yet again. I'll try to catch up on four months of events, milestones and announcements that I missed. After a few weeks, I will settle back into the routine. But I expect I'll see the rabbit again. I only hope that once again, I will decide that I'll make something impossible, possible.
It was only until a few hours later sitting in my Economics lecture that I contemplated the impossibility of those three things. It's not as if I haven't colored outside the lines before, but this was a particularly bold idea. A lot of people talk about study abroad, but it seemed like only socially gracious, confident, well-versed, bi-lingual students actually end up signing the wavers. Even my parents were surprised at my hesitant confession on what I had been considering.
Here's the truth about me. I hate being in the center of attention. I wear mostly dark colors. I slip through crowds. I was a cliche growing up: I wrote wistful poetry in dozens of journals and preferred books to conversation. I liked to find parallels between the heroines in the books I read and in my own life. In Alice and Wonderland, Alice followed a rabbit with a pocket watch down a giant hole into a psychedelic world of nonsense purely out of curiosity of why a rabbit should have a pocket watch. It may be a whimsical story written by a very high man, but in a sense, my world is a wonderland of sorts too.
Amidst the safety of being part of majority culture, speaking the English language and generally being able to get by without incident, I spotted a rabbit of my own, whose fraught pace remind me of time. If I have the ability to cross oceans and learn languages and see sites I've only heard about, what am I doing here? There's an established path for a reason, but it will still be there when I get back. I didn't believe anything impossible that morning before breakfast, I just decided that I was going to make it possible.
I am going to Copenhagen, Denmark to study European Politics. Even writing it doesn't feel possible. But here's what I am going to do. I will spend quiet weekends exploring the city on my own. I will eat smørrebrøden in cafes, trying to pick out Danish words I know. I'll commute by bike amidst a sea of tall and graceful Danish professionals in the drizzling rain. I'll cook my host family a Bulgarian dish that my mom used to make. I'll laugh when I get asked about American politics. I'll smile on the day that I am struck with the fact that I've figured a place out that once seemed so alien to me.
And when I return to the United States, with a few stamps in my passport and hundreds of pictures of Danish castles on my phone, I'll experience culture-shock yet again. I'll try to catch up on four months of events, milestones and announcements that I missed. After a few weeks, I will settle back into the routine. But I expect I'll see the rabbit again. I only hope that once again, I will decide that I'll make something impossible, possible.
