Travel

I've become "the traveling type".
The type that does not stand still.
The type that, on a whim, takes to the road.

So many windows I've looked out of. Windows of trains, of cars, of buses, of vans, of planes, of hotels, of hostels, of coffee shops, coffee shops, coffee shops. My favorites are the view from the front window of my car as I approach Boulder: the star on Flagstaff lights up at night, the Flatirons glow like gold during the day. Denver as I approach it on the way back down from Boulder or from the mountains, out of my front window, or my mother's passenger side window, or the window of the BV/BX/BF bus. Southern Illinois and Indiana in the colorful months of fall, crossing rivers after river. Minneapolis from the window of a plane, the landscape is like a work of abstract art, with rivers and lakes swirling through the land, the houses, the roads. Iowa from the window of a car, the hills of black dirt sing tunes of lovers that will someday be. Connecticut from the window of Amtrak on the way from New York City to Boston: when you've come to New England, you feel it; the beach, with sailboats on the water and children on the sand flashes before your eyes for just a few moments, and then you keep moving. And, of course, cities. Chicago from the 50th story condominium window of a family I babysat, New York from Rockefeller, Central Park spreading beneath, a rectangle of green in the city, and in DC, don't bother with windows, just stand on your feet on the National Mall. My least favorite are the flat plains of Nebraska, and the frozen hills and sleeping forests of Wisconsin in the winter. The wind is strong, yelling with terror, the landscape is barren, but you keep moving. Always keep moving.

I wake in the ungodly hours of the morning, and curl up to sleep in those window seats. Us traveling types, we can't afford the luxury of a reasonably scheduled trip. I caught the red-eye from Hawaii on Christmas Eve with my family, when the plane was nearly empty. I've caught the red-eye to DC, and spent two hours during the break of dawn in Charlotte's airport, waiting for my next flight. I've emerged from a friend's place in DC at four in the morning, after two hours of sleep and still drunk from the previous nights festives; it was so early, the Metro wasn't running yet, and I took a bus to Union Station, sitting beside the poor wretched souls of morning going to work. I braved the Monday morning NYC subway from Brooklyn to Manhattan, only to brave Penn Station at 8AM; a man apologetically, but without hesitation, cut in front of me as I was buying a bagel, saying he was late, and I just smiled at my first New York Moment. I caught the 5:22 Metra from the Chicago suburbs to downtown, once again searched the faces of early morning commuters for any sign of life (I found it), and jumped over snowbanks with my suitcase as I rushed to catch my bus; it was the morning after Chicago's third largest blizzard ever, and I knew that just miles away Lake Shore Drive was crowded with those abandoned cars we saw on national television. But I kept moving forward, always moving forward.

My laptop remembers the WiFi I've used, in coffee shops, hotels, and airports around the country.

I learned how to see the best of the city: you follow the used bookstores, they'll guide you through the best neighborhoods. Stroll near college campuses, the neighborhoods built for the youth are always full of life and hope. Google "anarchist bookstore", "anarchist coffee shop", "progressive bookstore", "radical bookstore", "radical coffee shop". You'll feel like a sell-out, but I promise that it will be worth it. That's how I found Red Emma's in Baltimore. Take a look at the back of your Slingshot planner, it will also give you a hint. That's how I found Women and Children First in Chicago. Of course, your best source of information are locals. Reach out. Message people on FetLife, on OKCupid, on Tumblr, on CouchSurfers. Ask your friends and family: they have friends and family, too. Don't be afraid. We're all just looking for a chance to reach out. The typical tourist attractions? Visit them, but in moderation.

Learn to navigate public transit: in the end, it's the same in every city, and you can get anywhere if you learn to read a subway map, and you'll get there quickly if you learn to buy a subway pass. Keep small change: most buses and many subways and trains don't give change. Pack light. Fall in love with your suitcase, but keep a small duffel bag around just in case. Fall in love with your backpack. Keep your laptop in your suitcase, it'll tire your out if you carry it on your back. Fall in love with your water bottle.

Don't be afraid to be alone. Don't be afraid to speak to strangers. Don't be afraid to make a friend. But if you are afraid, listen to yourself.

Since moving out of my mother's house twenty months ago, I've lived in Boulder, Washington DC, and Chicago. I've traveled, with friends, to visit friends, or just by myself. I've driven from Denver to Washington DC and from Denver to Chicago. I visited Washington DC, Grinnell, Iowa City, Washington DC again, New York City, Boston, Baltimore, Albuquerque, Lincoln, Omaha, Des Moines, Grinnell again, Iowa City again, parts of Chicago I've never been to before, and, today, Minneapolis.

I've become the traveling type, writing this as I sip a coffee, looking out another coffee shop window.

Home, Revisited

The title has two meanings.

"who journeyed to Denver, who died in Denver, who came back to Denver & waited in vain, who watched over Denver & brooded & loned in Denver and finally went away to find out the Time, & now Denver is lonesome for her heroes" - Allen Ginsberg, Howl

I came home for Thanksgiving break. Home. Funny how I can now say that word, and know what it means. It's a bizarre feeling, really, to have a hometown. To miss one place more than any other, to look over the city and know it's where I belong. To rediscover it each time I return, but each time to feel like it's the place I left my heart. Denver is my city, my home.

I walked the streets each day, smiling.  I wandered down sidewalks, through bookstores and coffee shops, looking up and West to remind me I'm just where I belong.  On Thanksgiving, the streets were deserted, and I could stand in the middle of roads.  I met a kind homeless man, spoke to him about Autumn and life.  I visited a community space with Denver's Zine Library. I visited a radical pizza shop, and I had a sandwich at Paris on the Platte.  The Platte passed beneath me, caught my tears like a lover, and reminded me that I'm alive.  I spoke of philosophy and history at Stella's, cigarette smoke like a cloud on my lips, and I never wanted to leave.

Still, I couldn't live in Denver today.  I love the streets, the coffee shops, the people, the places, but the place where my parents live is not my home.  In the months after I moved out, my bedroom was turned into a nursery, its red and black walls were repainted in baby green.  It wasn't a huge loss: I'd only lived in this bedroom two years; but it was a big symbol.  One day, I fell asleep in front of the TV. I woke up, went up stairs, opened my bedroom door - and remembered that I don't live there anymore.  My mother laughed at me as I stumbled downstairs into the guest bedroom.

DC is an interesting place. There really isn't anyone from DC. You meet people that are from San Francisco, Denver, Chicago, Pullman, New York City, London, Tokyo; you don't meet many who are from DC.  Everyone here is in passing, coming through for a few years, then leaving.  Oh, and there are those who call DC home.  Young folk who find life and hope in the city.  In the end, they, too, move along.  I watch autumn fall over DC, the trees turn red, then brown, then fall.  The sun turned to rain and clouds.  I know DC as a local.  I know it well as I wander the streets each weekend, my heart beats quicker because I know I love it, but I can't call it "home".  Not in the same way I call Denver home, and not in the same way I call Khabarovsk, Pullman, Chicagoland, Palo Alto, and Boulder home.  Everything's in passing.

I hope Chicagoland can be my home.  I'm afraid because I'll be living fairly far from the city, and because the ChiTown just isn't the friendliest place to live.  But I know there are so many amazing people there, I know the culture and the places are phenomenal, and I believe I'll find my place there.

But, when someone asks me where I am from, I can now confidently answer:

Denver.

What if I dropped out of school?

What if I took off a year, or two, or three, or five?

What if I spent some time growing up? What if I learned how to cook and how to look for jobs? What if I learned how to make friends in the real world, how to reach out to communities and people, how to interact as an adult, how to not be alone?  What if I dedicated myself to real-world activism?  What if I learned how to make change happen outside of college campuses, and what if I developed skill in the areas of direct action, mobilization, and making change happen?

What if I took some time to find myself?  What if I read all the books I never had a chance to read?  What if I transitioned to a place I'm comfortable in? What if I changed my gendered last name to my stepdad's gender-neutral Nagai, and started going by Cale? Doesn't mean I want to live male full-time, but maybe dress androgynous more often than I do feminine?  What if I figured out what my political beliefs really are?  What if I decided if I'm a radical anarchist or a libertarian conservative, or, more importantly, what if I discovered how to do radical anarchist activism even though I have fiscally conservative beliefs?  What if I advocated for the well-being of marginalized groups I don't belong to, and what if I made some change?

What if I moved in with my step dad in Chicago?  What if I grew closer to him and opened my life up to him?  What if I made up for all of those years growing up without a father in my household?  What if I discovered my place in Chicago, fell in love with the city?  What if I worked there, advocated there, dreamed there? What if I went to the Art Institute every weekend?  What if I traveled?  What if I found a job abroad, maybe in England?  What if I came back to DC after a while and worked here, lived my life here?  I really don't want to leave this city...

What if I came back to school later, after I learned who I am and figured out why college is going wrong?  I remember my first month in school, feeling thrilled with my classes, thrilled with my homework, growing intellectually every day.  I remember telling someone how happy I was, how I can't imagine a place I'd be happier than a college campus.  Then why is it still going wrong?  Why don't I like it here, even though I was sure I would?  Why is there something missing in my life, and I can't tell what it is?  I can't find what I'm looking for if I don't know what it is, if I don't know who I am.  I can't find what I'm looking for here.

What if I still got my PhD someday?  What if I came back to finish my undergrad at the perfect school, in the perfect place?

What if?

Lessons of a Canvasser

I spent the last few weeks working as a canvasser on the streets of DC, primarily around Dupont Circle.  After a few weeks of work, I quit.  Although I was really good at it and got paid really well, canvassing proved to be more emotionally exhausting than I was able to handle, and as the cold, rainy days of fall came about, I simply could no longer subject myself to the stress and the rejection.  In those weeks, I learned some real-life lessons that I never expected to learn. Here they are:

1. Sexism is real.  Being someone who is perceived as a female and working on the streets put me in a position where I had a lot of sexism directed at me.  It was frustrating.  The mildest form was when people would call me "cute" when I came up to them.  It was totally infanticizing and disrespectful.  Worse were comment from men asking me to look at them or to pay attention to them: not because they were interested in what I was doing, but because they felt entitled to my attention.  The company I was working for is an environmentalist group, and one of the worst incidents was when a man asked me to look him in the eyes because "all green people have green eyes".  When I ignored him, he shouted after me, insisting that I should give him my name so he could call my boss, because he'd signed up for the e-mail list yesterday.  It was disgusting.  Another awful incident was when two men who I approached stopped to listen to what I was saying, and then began asked me about my accent and started asking me to speak Russian, commenting on how cute and hot it is.  Feeling insulted, I asked them if they want to sign up or not in a rather aggressive tone, and they commented on how "bossy" I am.  This double standard made me really upset.  When will there come a day when people perceived as women don't experience misogyny on the streets?

2. On being overlooked.  A canvasser is overlooked.  The reactions of the folk I approached quickly began to eat away at my heart.  People looked right through me, or they didn't look at me at all.  Some people wouldn't react at all when I approached, pretending that I didn't exist.  Some people gave me those facetious smiles.  Some people would straight up make rude comments about wanting to be left alone as I approached them.  Being overlooked hurt, yet I am privileged.  I am white, I am visibly middle-class, I was visibly employed, I speak Standard English (be it with an accent).  I felt entitled to the attention of the people I approached, not consciously, but because I've always felt entitled to attention before.  What about people who don't have my privileges?  What about poor people of color on the streets? How about homeless people asking for some money just to buy lunch?  What about the folk selling things like Street Sense in DC or Voice in Denver?  I've never experienced such rejection before, but there are people who experience it every day, people who live in rejection, who are perpetually overlooked by passerby's and politicians.  Like Andrea Gibson said in the poem For Eli: "One third of the homeless men in this country are veterans, and we have the nerve to support our troops with pretty yellow ribbons, while giving nothing but dirty looks to their outstretched hands".

3. Environmentalism for the elites.  I was canvassing for an organization that partnered with sustainable businesses in the area, creating a network of local, eco-friendly business.  I collected e-mail addresses for people to receive discounts similar to Groupons in their inbox.  Everyone working for this business was so passionate about what the were doing.  They wanted to truly make change happen, they wanted to expand nationwide, they wanted to do something great.  They were truly great people with great intentions.  The "rap" I would say when I came up to people started out with "we want to make green living affordable for everyone".  Every time I said it, I felt like a liar and a traitor.  Here I am, walking the parks, intentionally avoiding people I knew don't have e-mail: the poor, the homeless.  Yet here I am, saying we want to make green living affordable for everyone.  Who is everyone?  Why does everyone never include poor folk?  Environmental issues disproportionately impact poor people of color, such as communities in developing countries threatened by climate change and pollution or residents of neighborhoods like East St. Louis that are built in the gutters of industrial waste.  Poor folk of color cannot access green food, much less any healthy, affordable food due to the lack of supermarkets in their neighborhoods and the lack of public transportation to access supermarkets elsewhere.  We never hear about those people when we discuss the environment.  Mainstream environmentalist movements ignore and erase the lives of poor folk of color.  So these young, passionate, optimistic, well-meaning entrepreneurs like the people I worked for simply don't know about these issues.  These things don't ever cross their mind, so no one ever bothers to help the people that truly need help.  Environmentalism is environmentalism for the elites.

4. What now? I fell in love with the streets during those weeks working as a canvasser.  I grew close to the sidewalks I walked and the parks I frequented.  I became attached to the faces I saw and the people I passed by.  But my heart grew weary and weak.  What does it mean to think these thoughts? What does it mean to write them down? Here I am, flaunting my command of "big" words, sharing my knowledge of academic studies on marginalized and oppressed folk, listing all these -isms I've never experienced, yet I'm not doing anything to help anyone.  Sure, I do trans advocacy on campus, but what does that really mean?  I'm not saying I shouldn't be helping the trans folk on campus, but what bout poor trans women of color, who are most likely to be attacked and murdered?  What does it mean to read about their murders but to do nothing?  What does it really mean to care? What does it mean to ask these questions?  I want to do something, but I really don't know where to start.  I think I'm going to start reading about and learning about direct action again.  I was really inspired by the Food not Bombs people that I saw at Dupont every Sunday serving food to anyone who wanted it, and I know that's a prime example of an anarchist direct action organization.  But reading won't do much, either.  Direct Action is about acting, not reading, and, well, I don't know where to begin.  But maybe I did begin.  Maybe step one is learning, and maybe this is a process I'm working towards.

Update

I barely posted at all this summer, and I haven't posted anything since moving to DC and starting school at a new institution, so it's time for an update.

I always struggle in a new place. Within a day of moving here, I felt like I was always alone, while others were already spending time with friends, going out, and having fun.  It was the same feeling I had a year ago when starting CU: I spent at least two months crying almost daily and resisting a depressive relapse.  It was the same feeling I had four years ago, my sophomore year of highschool, when I moved to Colorado and struggled with the most severe and longest-lasting episode of adjustment depression of my life. It was the same feeling of loneliness, helplessness, incompetence.  I began to wonder how many times I'd have to feel this way, whether there would ever come a day when I'd be comfortable talking to someone I don't yet know. I began to wonder: "why me?"; what can I do differently, and why does it never work?; no matter how much I try, I'm still alone, and other are not.  I began to get jealous. I felt bitter towards everyone around me. I began to hate humanity, and I began to hate God.

Then, slowly, things began to clear up. I still feel like I don't have quite as many acquaintances as others, I still have nothing to do on weekend nights, and I still eat most of my meals alone, but things are better. My floor is amazing, and I've begun hanging out with the people on my floor. I've met people at the dining hall and in my classes. I've even spent time with people I met on the internet. I initiated conversations with people I don't know and approached people I've already met. I still have a long way to go, I have a long way to go even to catch up to where 90% of people around me are, but I've made a much better start than I did last year, and I feel much better.

I love this school. I couldn't have possibly made a better decision in transferring. There is much more of a sense of community. Half my floor, for example, are people who lived on this floor last year! Everyone on my floor is so nice, and we spend a lot of time together. We have meals together, we study together, we have floor-soccer and other floor events, and not only do people actually come, but almost everyone comes!  The school is smaller, so the sense of community goes beyond just the floor. At lunch today, I ran into someone on the way to the dining hall, I ran into two kids from my floor and two people from my philosophy class while getting food, I ran into three people I know on the way out of the dining room.

The people here are really, really cool.  Everyone has awesome dreams and goals, and it's really inspirational to live in an environment with such amazing people.  Everyone here cares about the world and what's going on.  The lobby has free newspapers which run out because so many people read them.  In the floor lobby, our TV is usually turned to CNN.  We discuss politics, passionately, arguing into the middle of the night.  For fun, we go out to "the mall" and see the monuments.

The classes are much smaller and the professors are very accessible. I'm also thinking of changing my major. Although I love philosophy, without the linguistics minor, it doesn't quiet mean as much to me.  I am going to try to get an interdisciplinary studies major, in which I write my own curriculum. I want to major in oppression, combining women's studies, sociology, international relations, and government.  This will give me an amazing opportunity to learn about everything I care about. By expanding outside women's studies, I will be able to learn about oppression other than sexism(s), and I will be able to take many classes with some of AUs best departments!

Washington DC is so cool. It's such a fun, progressive city. I've found some really cool bookstores and coffee shops, and I've yet to go out clubbing, but when I do, I know it will be great.

Although I know this is perfect, I miss CU.  I miss Gather, I miss QI, I miss my friends, I miss discussing kink in RL, I miss Alex writing sweet things on my whiteboard, I miss the flatirons, I miss the good weather and lack of mosquitoes, I miss Tracks, I miss the parties, I miss so much.

<3

Precious, and why it struck me as incredibly racist and classist.

Last night, with high expectations, I finally watched Precious; and, oh, was I disappointed. In fact, the film struck me as extremely racist and classist, and it made me very, very angry.

Spoilers follow, though I wouldn't be afraid. You pretty much know what to expect before getting into the film, one of those tales of a difficult life but the possibility of happiness and success.

Precious lives in Harlem with her single mother (played by Mo'Nique, who is such a good actress, that she almost made the movie worth watching). Stereotypes about poor people of color and people on welfare prevail through the entire film. Precious' mother is a monster: all day, she sits in front of her TV, watching game shows, while her daughter cooks her meals. She lives entirely on welfare, lies to the welfare officers, tells her daughter not to bother get an education, because it will never help her along the way. I have no doubt that people like that exist, that families like that are real, and they are awful, but I've heard this story plenty of times. It's the story we hear when we petition for less welfare and create programs like New York's WEP. Where's the story of my mother, who is only a successful doctor today, saving the lives of others, because the help of Washington state's generous welfare program? The story that could help other poor, single, working mothers along the way? Nope, we never hear that story. The only stories we hear are stereotypes.

Racist stereotypes are everywhere, too. Not just the obvious stuff (Precious steals an entire bucked of fried chicken), which actually might be somewhat realistic, but all of Precious' problems are blamed on the black family in which she lives. Her mother throws around insults, calling every white woman a "white bitch". On the internet, I've read several complaints by people insulted by the constant repetition of "white bitch". Not once does the film show that, perhaps, a poor black family is justified in being angry at white people in a white supremacist culture. Instead, the white people (and fair-skinned) middle-class people, in true Freedom Writers fashion, are the heroes, rescuing her from her terrifying family situation. Please, can you tell me a story I haven't heard before?

Worse even than the racist and classist stereotypes is that the movie pretends that the structure allows for success.  Precious goes to an alternative school where a loving teacher who's there because she "loves to teach" leads a class of maybe six kids in a beautiful classroom in a hotel, and gives Precious the one-on-one attention she needs to learn how to read, to dream of a brighter future. How does she get into this program? Through the help of her white principal. Clearly, children with such family circumstances as Precious require better schools than children with better family environments, but they seldom have the opportunity to receive such help. Instead, the environment of public schools in poor communities of color is significantly worse than that of middle-class suburban schools. Only the first five-or-so minutes of the movie take place in a Harlem public school, and, although somewhat rowdy and crowded, it's presented at overall normal. The building looks intact, the teacher tries to teach, it's the kids who just sit around, make noise, and don't do their homework. Those of you reading my blog recently know that I'm absolutely obsessed with Savage Inequalities by Jonathan Kozol. Published in 1991, Kozol goes to New York City public schools during the very time that the film takes place, and gives tear-jerking descriptions of the circumstances in these schools. Precious simply didn't do the truth justice.

I'm still very frustrated. I simply don't know why it's ok for us to hear the same stories over and over again, while ignoring the real problems that are the reason why these stories even happen. Movies like this continue to discourage political and social change that might actually help poor people of color. The typical structure is entirely ignored, while the focus is on special circumstances and individual success stories. I am furious.

Life Takes Decisions

My mother teases me for not making up my mind.  She tells me how she graduated highschool at 16, and went on straight to med school. She tells me how, by the time she was my age, she was already deciding on her speciality as a doctor.  I can't even imagine that.  At sixteen, I literally had no limitations on my interests. Physics or literature? Performance music or primary education? It all seemed like a viable option.  Upon entering college, I'd realized that my interests focus in the humanities, and began zooming in. Even now - nineteen years old, second semester in college, and a sophomore if you take a look at my credits - I can't even decide what to major in, I can't even decide if I even like this university.

But life, it takes decisions, and it's time I start making decisions, too. Last Thursday, I declared a Linguistics minor. The day after tomorrow, I'm declaring a Philosophy major, and then going on to find out about the Cognitive Science certificate program.  I'd considered a philosophy major since before I started college, I knew I'd do it as either a major or a minor, but deciding on a major seemed impossible: so many credits in one discipline! So many credits not in a variety of other disciplines! So much I would have to sacrifice for a philosophy major. I had to be sure, and it's the Cogntivie Science certificate program - restricted to Philosophy majors, among others - that served as my final push: Philosophy major it is; it's worth it.  I love this feeling - I am on track, I know what I am doing.  It feels so right, it feels great to make decisions pertaining to my life.

I'm on a roll with making decisions now, and I suddenly found myself rolling into new territory. I'm filling out transfer applications.  I am considering leaving CU. Maybe it's the recent rainy weather, or the fact that, due to my birth control, I've been bleeding heavily for more than a week straight, but I've been feeling depressed, lonely, and out of place. I really don't like CU or Boulder. I need to get out of here.

I settled for CU when I was selecting colleges. It's not like I didn't try. I'd been looking since tenth grade, but I didn't know what to look for. I didn't know what I'd major in, I didn't know whether I wanted in or out of state, I didn't know whether I wanted a city or a town. I knew I wanted a place that's bigger than my highschool of 4000, which did cut many colleges out of the picture, but not enough. I toured universities around Colorado and the Bay Area - a place that's very special to me, very close to my heart - but none of them seemed just quiet right. My counselor wasn't much help, either. His only suggestion was the University of Oregon. I am well acquainted with and absolutely adore Oregon and the Pacific North West, but I'm so glad I didn't go there. Even Boulder, just twenty minutes away from Denver, is too small for my taste, and, in a little rainy town in Oregon, I would have gone insane. In the end, I applied to three public Colorado Universities: CU Denver, CSU, and CU Boulder.  Boulder was my top choice, lying near the upper bounds of a "good match".  I got into all three. Even before I started college, I already began thinking about where I want to transfer.

I can't do this small town thing. I find myself dreaming of cities, of highrises and lights, of strange blocks and public buses.  Every time I go down to Denver, my heart starts to beat a little faster. I crave a city life, I'm begging to get to know it's every street, it's every turn. I crave to live, to really live, and I feel like I can't live here in Boulder.

I don't like CU. I hate how there is no diversity. I hate how everyone is white, and either from Colorado, California, Chicago, or New York.  I hate how everyone is rich and spoiled. I hate how no one cares, how they all think they are these cool hippies just because they smoke weed and wear overpriced "bohemian" clothes. I've found myself saying the same things I used to say when I was in highschool.  My sister told me I need to branch out more (of course, by that she means I need fewer queer friends, but that's beside the point), and I told her that I have no where to branch out, that I don't like the vast majority of people at CU, that I don't get along with most of the people here, and thus I have much fewer options. I've been saying that people don't care, and that they're too alike. In fact, this is just like Creek. I see Creek kids everywhere. I can't seem to get away from them. I don't know what to do. I feel trapped. A few weeks ago, I went to march for higher education down in Denver. It took off from Auraria campus - CU Denver, Metro State, and Community College of Denver. Midday on Wednesday, I looked around the campus, and I though, I love it here. I want to be here, the people here look real. Sure, they're still all white, but at least they resemble actual individuals, not like those in Boulder.  When I was waiting for acceptance letters, I was secretly hoping CU would reject me. Then, I would go to CU Denver, and I liked it there more.

I am currently applying to New York University, Washington University in St. Louis, and Denver University. The first two will be really hard to get into, and, if I do get in, I'll have to find some time to visit them before making a decision. I am fairly certain I'll get into DU, but I'm not sure if I'll accept of I do. I doubt my problems with CU will be successfully remedied in DU, except, perhaps, the part where I really want to live in a city. If I don't succeed this semester, I've got a few schools in mind that I'll apply to next year. University of Washington (ok, I know that, here I am, whining about the rain, and then considering life in Seattle, but I really love Washington state, it's one of those places I can already call home), Tufts, and Stanford (now I'm just getting ridiculous; however, I never took a risk when I first applied for colleges, and I want to take one now, I want rejection letters, please).

It's a bit very scary, but I know this is right. If I'm having these thoughts after one year, I'll never make it through my entirely undergraduate career alive. Most of all, if I go any of these places, I'll miss Colorado - the mountains, the skies, the whether, the cities and towns, the culture and people. But I'm a nomad at heart. I've lived four years in a row in Colorado now - longer than anywhere else since I was seven. I need to move on in this world.