Ticking Clock, 1 Day Left

After bearing the constant looks of aggravation from my dad as he ventured into my room and the angry mumblings of my mom as she noted my pig sty, I have finally started to clean my room. Bear in mind, this is no simple task, for in my room lies the collected debris of four long years of high school and beyond. The stratified layers of junk resemble an archeological dig, each deposit representing a different Emma. As I through eras of my life layer by layer, I observe the evolution of Emma’s philosophy on life, note the inevitable extinction of her Hello Kitty phase, and look in wonder as a new species of ideas arises.

As I wade through this jumble of papers, trinkets and photos that are incredibly, foolishly dear to me, I am overcome by a wave of nostalgia. My heart tightens, eyes mist over with an intense yearning to escape back to middle school, to hide in the world where everything is so much simpler. I am no longer in my room but am running through the playground, chasing the wind. BEEP! A car honks outside my window, jerking me out of my reverie and I am no longer 12 years old, but a ridiculous 17 year old sniffling at a Hello Kitty wallet.

This summer has been an odd, shapeless, timeless continuum as I consciously travel from one age to another. In my graduation speech, I said that we were in a strange moment where we are too young for college and too old for high school, words that manifested during these last 2 months of eager waiting mixed with procrastination. This summer has felt unending, yet has passed in a blink, and I am finally coming to the realization that I am leaving everything.   

As the days tick away, I have been trying for some semblance of order. I pretty much finished the packing process, which is exhausting, for despite highlighting, starring and poring over the bridge manual, I still have no idea what to expect. Do I really need two pairs of workgloves? Must I really leave my love, my library, at home? How can I possibly condense 9 months of my life into 70 liters? Am I seriously not going to have toilet paper?!?

One day until orientation, five days until India. So hard to comprehend, yet soon enough I will be waking up in a whole new world.  

So, um… why are you going to India?

Hello! For my first entry, I figured a good introduction to my blog about my time in India would be the essay I wrote as part of my application for the Princeton Bridge Program. As I read it over now, I am struck by my words, only 3 months old, that seem so confident and sure of themselves. In contrast, I am currently riddled with an incoherent pell-mell of confusion, excitement, and fear. But nonetheless, here goes, my first post, my reasons for abandoning the comfort of my home, my friends, and everything I know for a foreign land across the sea.

Why Did You Choose The Bridge Program?

I have been blind for the majority of my life. And for a long time, I have been able to justify it to myself. I usually blamed it on the amount of minutes in the day, saying that there was simply not enough time to understand chemistry and the rest of the world. I blamed it on technology, lamenting how after a few minutes of the news my eyes were unwillingly dragged back to Facebook, consuming me in a fog of prom photos and meaningless monotony that erased reality. I preached that it was the media’s fault for cloaking the truth under blazing headlines of the newest Kardashian scandal. It was so easy to rationalize shutting my eyes and drifting into the utopia of ignorance.

 But I am tired of being blind. I have been given a gift: Princeton; a gift I am not quite sure I even deserve, so I have promised myself that I will not waste it. I have a chance to learn from the greatest of scholars and peers, to dive into the tumult of ideas, to see the brilliance that comes from sleep deprivation and freedom. But with my still shaded eyes, only tiny flickers of this brilliant light have any chance of penetrating. How am I supposed to understand my purpose, to make an impact, when my knowledge of the world is based upon shadows and silhouettes? If I am blind to the other seven billion people in the world, only exposed to the few that have drifted into my little existence, then I am squandering everything I have worked for.

There is so much to discover. Who are the people who live in those exotic far away lands I have only glimpsed from television clips? What are they saying, while I remain deaf to their voices? What can I do when facing the enormous forces of corruption, inequality, and poverty, concepts that I can easily define, but cannot truly understand? And how can I possibly find any answers if I do not even comprehend the problems?

All I can do is open my eyes. If I am part of the Bridge Program, I can only begin to fathom the beauty and corruption of our world; only catch a glimpse of the deep chasm between the rights of women and men, the lack of basic education for the poor, a poverty unimaginable, and the unending list of problems that plague humanity.

I realize that nine months is not enough time to change a country, or even myself. When I grapple with the prospect, the quote, “Whenever cannibals are on the brink of starvation, Heaven, in its infinite mercy, sends them a nice plump missionary,” often drifts through my mind. If I think that my mere presence can solve the world, the joke is on me. It is foolish to impose my culture on a society and assume I am superior, to claim their problems as my honorable burden.

The physical changes I can make will not last forever, for buildings collapse and storms strike, regardless of human intentions. However I still have power to make others see, to make the subjugated and shunned feel worthy. I can share what I have been given as an American, the belief that everyone can transcend their circumstances. And I will cherish the sight these people will have given me, carry it with me through college. I can listen to the discordant clash of two different worlds and weave together a philosophy to live by.

I do not want to accept the hazy, simple world I know. I seek the blinding brilliance of the world, one with extreme magnificence and tragedy. As I behold the star speckled sky and imagine the billions that lurk just beyond my gaze, I know that I am insignificant. I realize that I am one speck within the abyss, a drop of water in an ocean, a tiny voice within the echoing of human consciousness. I know that I am incredibly naïve, and my actions are probably futile. But nonetheless, I intend to stumble open-eyed and foolish, forever believing that I have a power to change a fragment of this warped existence.