thoughts on being new

As a kid, I never had to change schools. The kids in my kindergarten class walked across the stage with me in high school, and since there weren't many of them, I knew them all. Every once in a while, we'd get a new student, and we'd all become really interested in him or her for a few weeks. Soon enough, however, that new student became just one of us, and we went on with our regular elementary school lives.

When I got to college, I was at the peak of my now draining extroversion, and I made friends immediately. Looking back, my methods were questionable at best; I met two of my best college friends by walking up to them in a huge field full of freshmen and demanding their screen names, and I met another of my college roommates by sharing a bed with her. My dad's never met a stranger, and his approach to meeting new people rubbed off on me tenfold. I guess College Me just always assumed that everyone I met was just as excited to be my friend as I was to be theirs, and for the most part, it worked out pretty well. I'm sure I creeped a few people out, but don't we all sometimes?

Moving to Cincinnati was hard for me because, for the first time, I was up against people who already had friends, thankyouverymuch, and didn't need an obnoxiously peppy newbie to add to their circles. I went to church by myself for months before it occurred to me that not everyone shows up to church sans a posse. The more I realized I was missing out on socialization, the lonelier I became, until my friend Beth invited me to her small group. Beth's friend group largely consisted of transplants - young adults who had moved to Cincinnati after college and were creating new lives there. Despite the fact that I liked the Jonas Brothers at the time, they welcomed me with open arms. Every time I drive away from Cincinnati now, I cry knowing that I don't get to live life beside those people anymore.

When it comes to making friends, Korea takes the cake on ease of execution. I met my friend Kristen by facebooking her a month before I even moved there, and the day we all met Kelsey, we escorted her all the way back to her apartment. All my friendships were on steroids there; everyone remembered what it was like to be new and did everything they could to help ease the transition.

California's not the same.

I've been here for nearly six weeks, and aside from my coworkers, I haven't made a single friend. It's not for lack of trying; I've been to three different churches and two different young adult groups. I've tried to join six different bible studies and only one has actually given me enough details that I could show up. I thought I had found friends at a singles group I found (don't even get me started on how much I hate the concept of a "singles" group), but whenever I'd ask the other women in the group out for coffee, the resulting expression of confusion and annoyance made me want to get sucked into a hole in the ground.

I've never experienced such resistance trying to make friends. I went to a picnic on Saturday, and I nearly had to pull my car over on the way home because I was crying so hard. I think about those Sunday mornings in Korea that I slept through my alarm, only to be awoken a half dozen times as each of my friends realized I wasn't at church, and it physically hurts. Aside from the people I knew before I got here, not a single person has my phone number. I suppose people could have tried to add me on facebook, but since no one has asked me why I'm not to be found, I'm guessing that's not the case.

I promise this isn't just a post to gain your sympathy (okay, maybe a little). This new kind of loneliness I've been experiencing is really causing me to reflect on the kind of person I am when I'm comfortable in a new place. Once I've been around long enough to recognize the regulars, I want to be the person who always notices a new face. The kind of girl who invites new people to small group or has friends over for dinner. I want my friend circle to never feel closed off; I want to always have enough room in my life to spare an evening at a coffee shop to get to know someone who desperately needs a friend.

Before you panic and contact me on every form of communication available to you (Grandma), it's really not that big of a deal that I don't have a lot of friends right now. I'm still getting used to my job, which means I'm the last car in the parking lot at night and the janitor sometimes has to kick me out because he's leaving. I come home and crash on the couch before I even acknowledge what time it is. I spend eight hours a day listening to my own voice, and the last thing I want to do when I finally get home most nights is talk to another human being. It seems my introversion is skyrocketing these days, leaving me little energy to pursue any conversational exploit more complicated than talking to my television screen. For right now, this is my life. And even when it's lonely, it's so very good.

waygookin

According to my temporary driver's license, I am officially a Californian. Tonight marks my one-week anniversary in the Bay Area, but I find myself feeling just as foreign here as I ever did in Seoul.

The thing is, in Seoul, everyone knew I was foreign. If I got in the wrong line at the post office? Whatever, she's white and can't read the signs. If I stared at the bus routes while six buses passed me because I couldn't figure out which one I wanted? No big deal, she's just trying to sound out the names of the stops. If I totally screwed up restaurant protocol and mistakenly ordered a sock instead of a dinner? It's kind of cute; the foreigner thinks she knows what she's doing. It was expected that I'd make incredible mistakes on a regular basis, and I actually had a blast laughing at myself.

When I announced I was moving to Cali, nearly everyone agreed that this would be much easier than moving to a new country. After all, the language, the currency, the alphabet, and the fast food restaurants would all be exactly the same as Ohio (with the exception of In-N-Out burger and its unnecessarily complicated secret menu). Unfortunately, I've stumbled across some subtle differences that make me feel like I might as well be wearing a t-shirt that says "I most certainly do not belong here."

It's just little things, really. Like when the girl at the grocery store pushed my cart out to my car and helped me load my bags into the truck, I asked her if I was supposed to tip her, and she kindly told me she couldn't accept tips but was just trying to be nice. I felt like an idiot for even asking. Then today at the DMV, the clerk asked for my passport to apply for a new driver's license, and I hadn't even considered that she might want to see that. After waiting for an hour to be helped in the first place, I had to drive home and get my passport, and by the time someone could get around to helping me when I returned, it was too late to take the written driver's test.  The clerk told me I'd have to come back another day to start the process over, and I must have looked like I was about to cry because she changed her mind and let me take it anyway.

Multiple times throughout the day, I find myself feeling about two inches tall as I realize that things aren't done quite the same way here. Thus far, I haven't done anything law-breaking (to my knowledge), but the menial things I just can't get right keep me feeling resolutely in the "out-of-state" camp. In Korea, it was obvious I didn't quite belong and I was stumbling my way through everything. Here, I feel like I'm simply too dumb to complete basic tasks.

If I haven't mentioned it recently enough, I miss being in Seoul. But tonight after making a fool of myself at the DMV, I made soup in the microwave (because I have one!), sat on my couch (because I have one!), and watched a movie on my tv (because I have one!). I suppose once I get to the other side of that ominously steep learning curve, life here won't be so bad.

Having the amazing city of San Francisco a thirty-minute drive away helps quite a bit too. Courtney and I took the ferry over on Sunday morning, and we chatted with some of the most delightful people I've ever met. A Chinese woman who knitted Angry Birds hats, a man selling surprisingly difficult wire puzzles, a hippie photographer who invited me to let me stay at his commune up north whenever I'd like, and a cab driver who offered to pick me up at my apartment any time I wanted a chauffeured ride into the city. I bought some melted wine bottles for my apartment and Courtney stole a set of chopsticks from the best dim sum restaurant in the state before we sat along the water, contemplating whether the Golden Gate had been photoshopped onto the skyline. I'd seriously consider becoming a panhandler if it meant I could spend every day in that city. And oh the languages! One of my favorite things about being in Korea was being surrounded by words I couldn't understand. In San Fran, I swear I heard a dozen languages in an hour. I love knowing I'm smack in the middle of a ton of different cultures, yet for that moment, we're all experiencing the same thing (man, I'm sounding pretty hippie already, huh?).

This post totally derailed from where I had planned for it to go...

... but isn't that the way life is sometimes? And it's those unexpected turns that end up taking you where you never knew you wanted to be.

newer sometimes really is better

I'm in New Orleans this week for a training conference courtesy of my new school. I haven't had much time to explore the city, but I have been able to get out and see a handful of touristy sites. The last time I was in Louisiana was spring break my sophomore year of college. Hurricane Katrina had hit a few months before, and I joined a few thousand other college kids who gave up their spring breaks to dig through moldy old houses and help put this city back together. Needless to say, the city has changed a lot in the last six years. And so have I.

My college roommates and I often say that if we could do college again, if we could share a house again, we'd so it so much better this time around. We'd be less selfish, maybe a little more patient, perhaps leave fewer dishes in the sink. The years that have passed since we moved out of that little house on the corner across from the elementary school have taught us far more than our just-out-of-high-school minds would have acknowledged possible. Simply put, we're better now than we were then.

I often think about this in regards to Korea. If I could get my hands on a Time-Turner and drop myself back on that airport bus that gave me my first glimpse of Seoul, I'd do it in a second. I'm not ashamed of anything I did in Korea, nor do I regret any of the choices I made. I just think I could do Korea better if I had another chance. I could have more grace with the kindergarteners who are struggling to learn an annoying new language. I could focus more of my conversations on what's going on in the lives of my friends instead of pining over a lost relationship that took up far too much of my energy. I could create more exciting activities to use in the orphanage rather than playing with the same flashcards every week. I could travel an hour by subway to see my friends just because I love them.

It's disappointing to think that in some ways I wasted my year in Korea. I didn't learn as much Korean as I should have, and I didn't spend as much time trying to understand the culture. Sometimes I wish I could write two-years-ago Nikki a letter and teach her a few polite Korean words before she even gets on the plane.

Fortunately, I'm not 100% a Debbie Downer. I also recognize that had I moved to Korea the day I graduated from college, I'd have crumpled like an autumn leaf under an elephant's shoe (elephants need to wear shoes for the sake of hyperbole. just go with it.) before I even made it to baggage claim. I'd never have been able to navigate Thailand as fearlessly as I did, and I'd probably have eaten McDonalds every day due to the sheer familiarity of it. When I moved to Korea, I was the best version of myself yet, and I experienced it the best way I knew how at the time.

I guess this is all rolling around inside my head because I'm starting my first "real" year of teaching in a few weeks, and I know I'm not going to be magnificent right out of the gate. I'm going to finish the year, look back, and think, "Man, I could have done a million things better if I had known then what I know now!" I'm going to make a lot of mistakes and I'm going to do a lot of things I'll have to forgive myself for. But as long as when I get to the end of the year, I'm better than the girl who is about to walk in the door in two weeks, I've done alright. It's only if I get to the end of a year and haven't changed even a tiny bit that I'm failing. Everything else is just a learning curve.

Author's note: If you've been around the blog for a while, you're probably wondering why I haven't posted in two months then come back with this weird blob of self-reflection. It's just been that kind of a summer, folks. But don't worry! I've found all kinds of spectacular story-making activities in California, not to mention my upcoming school year with a bunch of awkward middle schoolers. And who knows, maybe we'll get lucky and Cali will fall off into the ocean. That'd make one heck of a blog post, don't you think?

just a job

As I fill out hundreds of online job applications and tweak my resume to fit everything I can find, I'm struggling with what, to me, is a very important question.

Do I need to have a job with purpose, or will a meaningful life suffice?

I could go right back to Cincinnati and the temp agency that hired me before would take me back and find a desk for me to fill. I can join another company that doesn't so much need employees as trained typing-monkeys and use the money they give me to pay my bills while I live the dream. But the dream doesn't ever have me wondering who stole my stapler.

I've always been a huge proponent of "don't live to work - work to live!" Back when I was desperately low on cash and trying to find any possible way to pay my bills in Cinci, I would have taken nearly any job. As long as my job gave me enough money to pay my student loans, I reasoned, it didn't need to be the most fulfilling job in the world. I just wanted to make enough to go bowling when my friends did.

Now, however, I'm standing on the edge of that same cliff, wondering if automatically deposited checks are enough. My job in Korea wasn't my favorite; hagwons are all kinds of messed up and I'd much rather be teaching Macbeth than Old MacDonald. But I knew every day that what I was doing mattered, that my efforts caused noticeable changes in the lives of my students. On top of my 9-5, I was involved in so many things that made my life exciting and left me feeling full. That job gave me the freedom to eat out with my friends after church and travel to Thailand during the summer. It was pretty much a win-win.

So the issue that I'm faced with is whether I want to return to a job where I'll basically have to tune out during working hours. I want to teach again, but I want to teach in an inner city school with underserved kids who maybe wouldn't have the opportunity to go to college unless someone can help them. Is it enough to just teach in any old school? Could I live in a nice little suburb and teach polite-ish kids who are automatically on the fast track to superficial success? What if I have to go back to a temp job in a cramped office? One year from now, will I be glad I stayed in America or will I wish I'd returned to my home-away-from-home?

Granted, if I go back to Korea, I'd be teaching the same little rich kids I had before in the same affluent area I'd gotten used to. However, in Korea it was more about what I did on my evenings and weekends than how I punched a time clock. I could go back and volunteer at an orphanage again. I could work at the soup kitchen again. If I went back, I'd really like to get involved with North Korean refugees this time around.

Can I make a life here that's just as meaningful as my life there was?

When people ask me what my favorite thing about Korea was, I tell them I liked who I was there. I liked that even when I was eating ramen and watching Friends, I was on an adventure overseas. I liked that I made a concerted effort to love others in whatever tangible ways I could offer, teaching English or ladling kimchi jjigae. I like that I always knew exactly how much time I had left there, so I made sure never to waste it. I'm scared I won't be as good at that here.

So that brings me back to the question I can't figure out. If I happen to be offered a job that doesn't offer any intellectual stimulation and doesn't make the world a better place, can I still be content knowing that my only opportunity to make a difference lies in my extra-curriculars?

i know you mean well (i think)

I'm on a search for a new city to live in. I've been at my parents' house for a week and a half now, and after my vacation to visit Lauren in San Francisco, I have to figure out what comes next. I know I'm not going back to Seoul, but that only rules out one out of a few hundred thousand in the world. After living in Korea's capital, I really miss my big city, so I pulled up wikipedia's list of the biggest cities in the US. I scratched off a few I'm not interested in and called the rest my potential homes.

The thing is, the more I talk to people here, the more discouraged I get. Every time someone tells me that I need to "just get this out of my system" or that I should "do this while I'm young so I can settle down soon," a part of me curls up inside and hides away. I don't think that my desire to travel, my desire to make friends all over the world, my desire to see cultures other than my own and learn the way the world is so intricately knit together is a virus my immune system is working to get out of my body. I don't think this is some kind of inferior state, a mistake where I'll recognize my folly and come to my senses and have a "normal life." What if this is just me? What if these passions are part of my DNA, what if this is only the beginning of a life that seeks to know the world in a way you can't simply by reading about it?

I know people mean well when they tell me that they want me to live close by. I know deep down that they are just trying to find a way to say, "We miss you when you're not around. Please stay." But when I throw out a city I'd like to explore and it's met with a "eh, how about Columbus?", I feel like they're telling me I'm a failure. I'm not saying that everyone who chooses to live in Columbus is a failure by any means. What I'm trying to articulate is that when people tell me I shouldn't live in San Francisco or Chicago or Bangkok, I hear that I can't. I know they're just trying to keep me close to home so they don't have to drive as far to visit, but what I hear is completely different. I hear that I'm not clever enough, not strong enough, not brave enough, not capable enough, not something enough to handle living the life I dream of. And all it makes me want to do is prove them wrong.

Honestly, I probably wouldn't mind living in Columbus, but I want to move there because God tells me it's the next step on my journey, not because I "can't handle" living anywhere else. I want to know I chose my next city on my own terms, not because I was afraid of disappointing everyone who refuses to drive more than an hour to get to me. When things get hard (as life inevitably does), I want to stand firmly on the conviction that I'm living exactly where God told me to be and not have to wonder if I'm somehow in the belly of a whale.

I went to the doctor the other day, and the woman who checked my weight and blood pressure and such asked me if I was excited to be home. I told her I'm excited to start a new adventure, and she said she hopes I get this out of my system before I have kids. With the most polite smile I could muster, I informed her that when I have kids, they'll just have to come with me.

home, ish.

I've been awake for three hours, and it's not even six am. Oh jet lag, you think you're so funny, but I assure you that you're not.

I'm home, I guess. Back in America anyway, but I can't quite decide if that's home. I've lived in five different cities in three different countries in the last six months. I'm in Colorado Springs right now, tomorrow I'll be in Springfield, and less than two weeks from now I'll be in San Francisco. Then, who knows.

I know for a fact I'm not going back to Korea (right now). I don't know how or when I'll get back, but that little peninsula has stolen my heart and I know I can't stay away forever. Much to the delight of my parents, I'm staying in America for the time being.

The thing is, friends, America's pretty big. I've made a list of about fifteen cities I wouldn't mind living in, and the best plan I can come up with right now involves driving coast to coast sleeping on couches until I find the place that fits me next. Even though I'd drop this plan in a second if God changed his mind and sent me back to Seoul, I'm actually getting a little giddy about the prospects. I honestly don't know what comes next. I know I'm staying with Lauren in Cali for three weeks, then - nada. No plans, no agenda, no path.

I'm a big planner. Every time I've come up with a new passion, a new life plan has come with it. Decided I liked writing fiction? Bam - my imagination's already got me doing book signings and interviews on Ellen. Stumbled into teaching kindergarten overseas? Bam - started planning how to start a school in (arguably) the most hostile country in the world. Found out about modern-day slavery? Bam - dropped out of grad school before I even started to do a Justice & Mercy DTS and actually tried to get Not For Sale to hire me on sheer zeal. I, um, like planning.

But this next season, it appears that God's tying a blindfold around my eyes and whispering, "Just trust me." One of the girls on my team prayed for me a few weeks ago, and she felt like God was telling her that the passion I felt for Korea is nothing compared to how much I'm going to adore this next step, that I don't even know what love is yet. I'd be lying if I said I'm not a tiny bit thrilled. The only thing I like more than planning is brazen adventure.

So tomorrow morning, I'll hop on a plane back to my parents' house. I'll be there just long enough to maybe unpack a bag before I head off to the west coast to build blanket forts and tear San Fran apart looking for decent Korean BBQ with my favorite Lolly. Three weeks later, I'll fly back to spend Easter with my family, and that's as far as I know.

I'm unemployed, homeless, and ridiculously in love with Jesus. Let's go, God. We've got a story to write.