I Got Accepted by the Peace Corps and I Changed My Mind

Wow, much has happened since my last blog entry. After the beginning of May, finals week came and passed, I graduated, I returned to France, and when I came back to America, I got right to work at my new big girl job. So sorry for the long absence! I am back behind my keyboard today, though, and that is what is important. This blog may not be a long one, but it's something I want to write in order to feel better after it's out of my head and off of my chest. So, without further ado, let's get to it.

A good place to start is with all that hullabaloo I mentioned taking place in the month of May and during the first part of June. If I ever thought my life was busy during college, I had no idea what was waiting for me in the first few weeks following college. Not that I should complain too much, since it was an entirely voluntary and independently organized trip that I'd planned for myself, anyway. But that didn't mean it wasn't hectic flying halfway around the world a few days after graduating.

The point is, so much happened in my life during the period of time from the beginning of May to the beginning of June, and I was actually growing quite a bit during that month, even though the thought actually just fully occurred to me now.

At the beginning of May, with graduation on the 14th, I had no jobs lined up post-college. Not one. And not for lack of trying, mind you. I had applied to numerous positions, and scoured the internet for what I thought would be a good start to "the rest of my life," but I'd done a lot of it in vain. I was making broad strokes and casting a wide net, all of those picturesque metaphors which ultimately meant I was applying to anything I thought I was qualified for and wouldn't hate doing -- the two bare minimum requirements for many people during a job search when you need to pay the bills, unfortunately. So, I decided I was going to go something I'd been thinking about for a while -- I was going to apply for the Peace Corps.

What an excellent opportunity! It would teach me so much, my French would expand, I would go days without internet, I'd touch the lives of many, it'd look great on my resume when I came back to the States...There were so many reasons to try. I just had to give it a shot. Do my best -- that's what my mom always told me. So I applied. I got references to vouch for me and I answered their questions and I pressed submit, crossed my fingers, and hoped for the best. I submitted my application sometime in late April, and shortly thereafter, I received the most exciting email I think I've ever received, saying I was chosen for an interview via Skype and I needed to choose a time frame to complete it. Holy crap.

I chose a date -- May 11, because I already had another interview scheduled for that day, an in-person one for a job at a law office in Wichita. I figured if I did them both on the same day, that as nerve-wracking as it'd be, I'd only have to dress nicely once and I could take off only one day of work to accomplish it. After choosing a date, I began the long wait for the day to arrive.

When the day came, I was in an excellent mood and I really felt like I could take on the world. I had just finished my last day of college the day before, I would be graduating in three more days, and three days following that, I was going to be hopping on a plane and returning to the country I love. I was beyond ecstatic -- my skin was practically buzzing with a mixture of excitement and exhaustion that whole week.

I went to my in-person interview in the morning, and I walked out of there feeling alright about it, like I probably got the job, but I wasn't really sure. (Oh, I should also mention at this point that I did have one other job in my back pocket if I wanted it -- although it would pay me exactly half of what this law office job would.) So I knew I had a few options open to me at this point, three days before graduation.

But after I finished my hour-long Skype interview later that day, I knew I'd nailed it. I knew I had this one in the bag, I just felt it. I had gone to Subway to grab some lunch, gone home and eaten it, put sticky notes outside all my doors saying to please be quiet and not knock for the next hour, fixed my hair, and sat down in front of my webcam. Let's do this.

The guy who interviewed me was beyond nice, and he was a returning Senegal volunteer as well. He was calling from DC at the Peace Corps Headquarters and he was stationed in a small cubicle with a Peace Corps backdrop behind him. As I spoke my answers slowly to him, he typed on his computer to take notes. I felt I was well-prepared for whatever they asked me, because I had read through not only all of the information the Peace Corps had sent me, but I'd Google researched a lot of things, too. There was not a question he asked me that I didn't have a good answer for. I was acing this interview, and I knew it. After an hour of Q&A and luckily no unanticipated technical difficulties, it was over. I informed him I'd be out of the country for a couple weeks soon and that if he wished to contact me, the best way to do so would be by email. I thanked him once again and that was that. I'd done the best I could, and now I would wait.

But between May 11 and July 5, a lot of stuff happened.

For instance, on May 13, the day before graduation, I was offered -- and I accepted -- the position at the law office. Therefore, I respectfully declined the position at the other job that would pay me half. Then I got on a plane and traveled 34 hours to the other side of the world. Then I spent two of the best weeks of my life in France and sobbed when I had to leave. Then I came home and had to move all of my belongings the next day. Then I had to find an apartment to move into one month later. Then I had to find new belongings to furnish this apartment with. Then I started my new job and had to go to work and focus on nothing else for eight hours per day. Et cetera, et cetera, et cetera... And if you don't think all of these things happening within the first month after graduating from college were enough to make my heart, mind, body, and soul stretch and grow and change and morph into newer, better, stronger versions of themselves... Then you have clearly never experienced something quite like my ungraceful stumble toward responsibility.

So. This was adulthood. I was beginning to settle in nicely to the idea, although the idea of "settling" into anything somewhat gives me hives (but that's another blog entirely). I had begun thinking of the future a bit, and what I wanted to do with myself in the time that would soon follow the present moment. I didn't feel like I had a much clearer idea of what I wanted that moment to look like, than when I had still been a student a month and a half ago. Walking across that stage hadn't suddenly imparted as much wisdom into me as I had hoped it would.

I had a few ideas though, of where I wanted to go and what I wanted to do. Nothing too concrete, because as I said earlier, settling scares the living daylights out of me, and I don't want to get ahead of myself here. At the time, I had considered applying for the TAPIF to teach English in France for seven months. That seems like an absolute no-brainer to me. I also seriously contemplated applying with INTERPOL and working in their Headquarters in Lyon. Again, a serious no-brainer for the International Business graduate and Francophile. And everyday, I still very much feel compelled to get on a plane to Boston and never come back. All of these right brain ideas were out there swirling around in my head, and yet, in reality, my left brain knew I had to keep my butt right here in Wichita and earn a living first, if I ever wanted to have a chance to make any of those dreams a reality. Meanwhile, I was still waiting to hear back from the Peace Corps, which still had until September 1st (Hogwarts Express day) to tell me a definitive answer about my fate.

And then the day came. And past. And I had no idea because the email went into my stupid junk folder.

Last Tuesday, on the day after the Fourth of July, I was lying in my bed right before I fell asleep around ten o'clock, and for whatever reason, the mood struck me that I should check my junk folder. Don't ask me why. I opened it and I was thumbing through it, when I saw the name of my interviewer towards the top. He had sent me an email that very day! My heart started racing. I mentally prepared myself. And I opened it.

But it didn't make any sense. He was talking about traveling and how he wondered if  I was still abroad, and he said he was prepared to extend my response time if necessary. What? I was confused. So I went back to my junk folder and that's when it all made sense. He had sent me an official invitation to Senegal one week earlier. And the rule with the Peace Corps, as he had told me in my interview, was that I had three days to respond. Crap. Crap. Crap!!!

I reread his second email. Now it made sense. But I had to respond to him ASAP because I didn't want to keep him waiting. In order to respond, I first had to figure out what I was going to say, and then how I was going to say it. I pressed reply, and I took my time.






The truth is, I already knew long before this moment that I wasn't going to go to Senegal. If I'm really being honest with myself, I knew my heart had fallen out of love with the idea while I was in France. I can't really explain why, much beyond the fact that I simply remembered exactly how much I loved France while I was there. I think, looking back, I may have just wanted to go. Anywhere. I've always felt compelled to go elsewhere and help people. In fact, those were my two main motivations and objectives in my job search to begin with. If I can speak French while doing these two things that my heart so wants to do, then I will enjoy the journey all that much more.

So, I can see why joining the Peace Corps and helping female entrepreneurs in Senegal was so appealing to me. On paper, it makes perfect sense. But when real life happens between the moment when my interest is piqued and when the plane leaves the tarmac, there is more than enough room for a change of heart to occur. Especially when you've got such a fickle heart as mine, which so easily falls in and out of love.

In my response, I told my interviewer that I simply did not feel like this was the right thing for me to do anymore. I explained how things had changed since May, and I told him I felt that it would be extremely unfair to myself, the Peace Corps, and the people of Senegal whose lives I would touch, if I followed through with a twenty-seven month commitment to a cause which I now only felt lukewarm about at best. I would not have been able to sleep at night knowing there might well have been other volunteer candidates whose hearts would've been much more invested in their work than mine.

I'm not gonna lie, it was heartbreaking to write that response. I laid in my bed, in the dark, and typed it out on my phone, and cried because I felt bad. But then I took a deep breath and I pressed send. I just couldn't imagine myself getting on a plane out of Wichita to Senegal this February. Two months ago, that seemed like the right thing to do. I had fewer people and less meaningful things to leave behind. But we don't get to control the path life jerks us down sometimes, and in moments like these, I think it's nice to believe we do have somewhat of a choice. Sure, I didn't choose my heart remembering all of the things it treasures about France when I went back. To be honest, I didn't really plan a lot of things that happened during that trip, but I'm glad they did. I didn't plan to have so few career aspects after graduation either, but here I am, still in Wichita, and at least I'm well-paid. So feeling like I got to decide of my own free will that I would not be going to Senegal alone for more than two years -- while that seemed perfect for the headstrong, independent, strong-willed Alyssa two months ago -- really mattered to me now, and moreover, choosing not to go just felt right.

Every decision we make has its reasons, and a lot of the time, we have very personal justifications for our actions. Nobody owes an explanation to anyone else in this world, but I do think it is very important that we can at least look in the mirror and honestly answer to the one person who matters most in our lives: ourselves. If I had accepted the Peace Corps invitation, I'd be headed for great things. But I'd feel like I made the wrong choice. And that matters much more, because it's not something I'm willing to live with.

What Are You Going To Do After Graduation?

This is the question I have been asked countless times over the course of the last year of my life, but particularly this semester, and particularly more frequently as the days have passed.

It's April now. I graduate next month. And I have no plans as of yet for the future. It's a daunting fact and a realization that carries power with it to haunt me for days. I don't have a job lined up -- least of the beginning of a career and I don't have the first idea where I am going to live. It's terrifying.

And yet, I have remained pretty calm throughout all of it. At the beginning of this year, my goal was to find a job by second semester. At the beginning of second semester, my goal was to find a job by spring break. After spring break, my goal was simply to find a job. And it hasn't been for lack of trying. But I just don't seem to be having any luck.

I've applied lots of places. Locally, and in Boston. All last week and the week before, I have sat in class, multi-tasking as I attempt to feign interest in whatever the teacher has been talking about, while simultaneously sifting through internship opportunities and online application portals. I have revised my cover letter so many times, I think I could recite the introduction paragraph by heart. I have pleaded in desperation to companies to please hire me, veiled thinly with phrases like "I await your response" and "let me know if you have any questions". And all to no avail.

I just spent some time surfing through Boston's Housing Wanted link on Craigslist where I ultimately posted an ad asking for a room to stay in during the summer, even though I have no job lined up and no money for a down payment. What can it hurt?

I so don't have my shit together. I don't have a place to live -- here or there -- and I don't know where I'm going to work after May 14th. Sure, I've booked myself a roundtrip ticket to France for a two-week post-graduation vacation in the country I love, but upon my return, I will be landing not only in Wichita, but in reality. A reality which is likely to see me unemployed and homeless.

Over the last several months, my friends have been discussing apartments in Wichita and things like rent and roommates. They've started new jobs at big companies and things are looking great for them and their continued lives in the Midwest metropolis which is Wichita. But not for me. I want something more.

Of course I do. I always do. And isn't that exactly what always gets me in trouble? I demand euphoria, excitement, drama, perfection. I need things to be big and bold and absolutely not boring. I have to go and do things on my own and far away from everyone else. I can never simply be satisfied to stay where I am, and live my life among those who seemingly do not long for faraway places in the same way I do. No, I have to make things difficult on myself.

I know that, but I also know that making things difficult is just another way of saying that I am making things worthwhile. All the struggles and moments of sheer fear when I have no earthly idea of what is coming next, that's going to be the stuff that makes it meaningful later on, right? Right?

Nobody has the answer for me. Least of all, myself. Nobody has any idea what is going to happen to Alyssa in the future, or even right now, for that matter. And that thought alone is enough to make me want to enroll in more classes until I die.

After graduation -- out there, in the real world -- that is the place where scary things happen. The unknown lurks around every corner and there are bills to be paid and responsibilities to be had. It's the total opposite of the warm security blanket of college education which has coddled me for the past eight semesters. It's a harsh wake-up call from an angry mother with a shrill voice the morning after a night out with friends, as she rips the covers off of your face and turns your hungover, disoriented world upside down. It's sudden, it's scary, and it's very, very real.

And yet, I find it most comforting to recognize the fact that there are others who are in the very same boat as me. Even though I haven't had enough time to catch my breath in two weeks, even though I have an exam tomorrow which I should be studying for now, and even though I won't see the end of my to-do list until a few days before graduation finally arrives... I think it is somehow calming to accept the fact that I am not in this alone.

Sure, I may be freaking out about my future. But everyone does, at some point. And yeah, hindsight is always 20/20. But foresight? You're going into that blind. There's no way to tell the future. There's no way to know if the next best decision of your life lies just around the corner. There's no way to know. Until you get there. You just have to go.

You just have to have faith in yourself and your life and know that whatever happens, will do so for a reason and it will all inevitably lead you down the right path at the right time and you will arrive exactly where you are meant to be, to stumble upon the opportunities which are meant for you. And that's horrifying. But what other choice do you really have?

So no, I don't know what I'm going to do after graduation. I don't know where I'm going to live, either. Maybe Wichita. Maybe Boston. Maybe France. Maybe somewhere else entirely. I may work two jobs earning minimum wage as a barista and a waitress, putting in 50 hours a week. I may land my dream job tomorrow when one of the internships in Boston finally replies. I just don't know.

I haven't the foggiest. Because, for the first time in my life, the protective, familiar structure of academia has not dictated what I am supposed to do or where I am supposed to go. I am free to choose what I want to do, where I want to go, and who I want to be. I am vulnerable and, finally, I get to make all my own decisions. That's terrifying, and I haven't really figured it all out yet. And that's okay. I'm twenty-two and new at this. I don't have to have everything figured out. Thanks for asking.

The Pleasure and Pain of Travel: Always Holding On, Always Letting Go

I know I am young - a few weeks shy of twenty-two - and I have not experienced nearly enough of the world. I've only ever been to three countries and I haven't even graduated college yet. But I still have my fair share of valuable experiences to offer me guidance and to help me continue to grow.

Something I have learned during my short time on this planet is that life is a balance of holding on and letting go. This lesson became especially close to my heart after I experienced a little bit of traveling and learned what the world looked like from the other side. Of course I had experienced the joy of cherishing a moment before, as well as the anguish of letting go. But it really wasn't until I took myself so far away from my comfort zone, acclimated myself and got comfortable, then had to leave again, that I had a deeper grasp on understanding how these feelings work - or how natural and common they actually are in so many parts of life.

Falling in love is so easy. I can fall in love with anything, really. People, places, food, television shows, boy bands, clothes, foreign languages... There is a doe-eyed, hopeless romantic hidden away deep inside of my heart, and she loves to love. Over time, as is the case with many people, the romantic inside of me has learned some tough lessons from her own experiences with pain. But despite being immersed in agony at times, she remains eager to explore the world and all it has to offer, greeting everyone and everything she encounters with an open mind, an open heart, and a ravenous curiosity.

A few years ago, I fell in love with traveling. I had no idea what I was in for, but I know now that when it comes to not being heartbroken, I never stood a chance. I went to France for a summer to study abroad as a sophomore in college, and my life - and my heart - was changed forever. I fell in love with the abstract idea of traveling itself, as well as the country of France, the culture, the architecture, the food, and most importantly, the people. I had no idea how difficult it would be to let all of these things go when I had to come back home.

Last year, I went to Boston for half a week by myself. Nearly everyone I talked to thought it was such a terrifying idea, a single woman flying across the country alone. But I had to go. I had to know what it was like in the city where I'd never been before, but that was calling me steadily towards it. I needed to experience it for myself. My heart needed to feel what it was like. Four days came and went, and before I knew it, I was on a plane heading out of Logan Airport, just like that. Once again, I felt that familiar twinge of sorrow as I watched the tops of tall Bostonian buildings fade from view as we rose higher into the clouds.

All of these experiences and memories - all of the things I think of fondly when they cross my mind - make me so happy because I hold onto them; I do not let them go. I keep these wonderful tidbits of my life safely tucked away in my heart, filed between other sweet memories like childhood birthday parties and perfect first kisses.

I remember how it felt when that plane landed in Paris at 9:30 in the morning local time after almost 24 hours of traveling. I remember the warmth I felt when I hugged my two adorable and ornery little host sisters for the first time. I remember the fun I had together with an American friend as we drank and flirted with French boys on a Saturday night.

I remember boarding my connecting flight in Atlanta and hearing Boston accents in the rows near me, as we prepared to head northeast. I remember slurping oysters and drinking beer in the oldest restaurant in America after a morning of solo kayaking on the Charles River. I remember the blisters on my feet after a long day wandering around the big city in a sundress and taking photos of skyscrapers.

I would never willingly let any of those memories go. I cherish them. They're beautiful pieces of my life and together they help add up to me, so I clutch them tightly, very near my heart. But I have learned, after some time, that there are things in all of this mess of life that I do have to learn to let go.

Each semester, there is inevitably a new crop of international students who arrive on campus and who create unforgettable ripple effects in my life, if only for a moment. Each semester, after finals are over and celebrations have begun, the time comes when I have to say farewell to a friend I've known for four months. After seeing this person on a daily basis for so long, I have to accept that we will only be communicating over Facebook for the foreseeable future. I have to hug them and tell them to have a safe flight and try not to be sad about someone else leaving. And each semester, it never gets any easier.

These feelings wash over me when my new friends leave for other continents, mainly because of the fun we've experienced and the relationships we've shared across international borders, language barriers, and cultures. But I think these moments remind me of something else, on a deeper level; something that shaped me during such a pivotal moment in my development as a traveler: the morning I had to leave my host family in France.

It was early enough that the sun hadn't yet risen, and in France during summer, it seems rare that the sun is ever down for long. This was such a gloomy morning in comparison to the sun I had known for four weeks. I put my last few belongings away and zipped up my suitcase, carried it down the stairs, and prepared to tell two precious pieces of my heart good-bye. I remember trying in vain not to cry, and hugging my host mother tightly like the American women we are. I remember a sleepy seven-year-old, in the backseat of the car as her family prepared to leave for vacation, wagging her finger at me and very seriously telling me to "continue à apprendre le français" because my French sucked. I remember closing the door, and walking away toward the tram stop, rolling my suitcase behind me, and bawling like a baby.

I remember feeling as if some kind of monster had reached down through my throat and ripped my heart from my chest. My heart, which had just previously been smothered with love, compassion, curiosity, and wanderlust. My heart, which I thought I was keeping safely inside my rib cage, but which had somehow found its way out onto my sleeve. I had built such strong, beautiful, meaningful bonds with so many people in such a short amount of time, and now I was being forced to tell them all good-bye. It didn't seem fair. To subject a human being with such a vast emotional capacity as myself - who feels things before she thinks things - to such an emotional roller coaster ride, is simply cruel. Unless... These feelings exist for a reason, and they are there to teach me something about myself.

Historically, I've never been particularly good at letting go of things once I have become emotionally attached to them. And why would I be? I don't think it's something which is necessarily natural-feeling or innate to human beings. Moreover, it was certainly not something I was explicitly taught to do growing up in Western culture. So I knew how to hold on, how to fall in love with something or someone. But I had no idea how to get over it and let it go once this wonderful thing was gone. I didn't know how to handle the time after it was over, or what the grieving and recovery process should look like.

Boyfriends, sure. I'd loved them and lost them, and strangely enough, gone on to be better than fine without them. Best friends, yeah. I'd lost them too, and I knew I would be just as well without them. Family members and pets, I'd lost before, and I knew how to grieve then. But this was different. This was more than a person or an animal leaving me.

The notion of traveling as an abstract idea is fascinating to me, because it is so malleable and able to be customized to fit any individual's experience. No two people travel the same way, either literally through the rugged countryside or metaphorically throughout life. It is deeply personal and the traveler oftentimes learns more about themselves during their journey, than they originally set out to do. So how can something so beautiful that offers such wonderful experiences, also be the cause of such heartbreak and pain when it's over? Well, that's true with anything we love, isn't it?

Life is a balance of holding on and letting go, but you've got to not only know how to do both, but you've also got to learn when to do both. Perhaps most importantly, you've got to learn that both are equal and necessary counterparts to life and have faith in yourself that things will work out as they are meant to be. You've got to learn that letting go of the experiences and people you love is a part of life, and although it causes you pain, that is only because it first brought you so much pleasure.

The catch about being so alive and feeling so much pleasure, is that the parts of your brain and heart which feel that pleasure, can feel exactly that same amount of pain. All that your nerve receptors do is receive the message you send to them, and transmit it back with the same intensity, regardless of what the feeling is. And if so much love and euphoria can send your heart flying into the sky, that means that anything which hurts it can just as easily bring it crashing back down to the ground. It can be scary. The fact that something like intersecting lives and connecting souls around the world can affect you in such a way, and that it can influence and shape who you are as a person, means that we are vulnerable to being molded and changed at any time. But isn't that beautiful?

The first reaction to pain by many people, is to run from it. To ignore it and avoid it. To try to tough it out in hopes that it will go away. But that approach seldom works for the person experiencing it, and that's how problems go unresolved for quite some time. What if instead of running away from our pain, we ran towards it instead? What if we reach out and touch it, embrace it, hold it close and let it crack apart all the beautiful pieces of our heart and then use the fragmented voids to fill it up with a new kind of love? Get downright vulnerable with our pain. Let it wash over us and consume us, because if we do, it will heal us.

At first pain demands that we feel it - and we do. Then it sucks for a while. But eventually, if we run toward it rather than away from it, we will run so far into it that we meet ourselves. And when we come out from the other side of whatever this painful experience is, we will have changed. We will have been transformed into a different version of ourselves, and there will be no going back to the people we were before. Feeling so deeply can seem like a curse sometimes. But at other times, it provides you with a euphoria so much higher than everybody else. And that makes it all worth the pain.

I've grown so much and learned a lot about holding on and letting go during the last few years of my life. I have fallen in love with people and places and then a short time later, had to leave, every bit as in love as when I arrived. I've driven friends to the airport and hugged them good-bye, and told myself I'll see them again someday. My life has been touched by so many people, places, and experiences, and there's no doubt it is all the richer for it. But that's exactly why it's so hard to let go.

As a traveler, nobody prepared me for the moment when I'd have to say good-bye and return home. As a person, nobody prepared me for how to handle loving so many people in so many places at once. I don't have a solution as to how to let go, because I'm honestly just not very good at it yet. But I know life requires balance, so that must mean that I have to let go in the same capacity and intensity with which I try to hold on.

The people I love will still be there the next time plane tickets go on sale. The places I long to explore are not going anywhere, either. Maybe in the future, I can go visit my international classmates on their soil, rather than waiting for them to return to America. There are so many options for letting go.

Once your heart has made a connection to traveling, once you understand how liberating and beautiful it is, then you begin to understand why it's necessary to let go. By its very nature, traveling is a transient act. You move. You go. You leave. And while that certainly means something incredible is waiting to be seen ahead, it also means you're leaving something else behind. The beauty is found in the act of leaving, of letting go and letting be.

Travelers who master this art have simply opened their hearts so wide, that it has shattered time and again from the pain of leaving love behind. But they understand that anything which is beautiful is also oftentimes shrouded in pain. They open their hearts to feel all of the wonderful things about exploring new lands and new people. But in so doing, they make themselves vulnerable to feeling all the torture and anguish that comes with it, too. And in turn, that shapes and molds the person they are, just as any experience with love does. That's how we know we're alive. One of the most beautiful things about the human experience is that we can feel a full range of emotions from touching the lives of others, and having them touch ours; whether that happens when we are holding on, or when we have to let go.

Hitler, Voldemort, Fear, Love, and Terrorism

You know what I think? I think terrorists like it when countries are so occupied with fighting against themselves that they can’t work together to present a unified front for combating terrorism. I believe that they count on all of us, as individual citizens, feeling isolated, terrified, and angry. Their success depends on our failure to act cohesively against them. How do you take out one of the most powerful threats to your cause? You break them down into their individual, weakest links, and dissolve their hopeful morale so much until the unified hatred you can offer them is the best option for solace they have – from the very fear which you manufactured and instilled in them in the first place. United we stand, divided we fall.

That’s what Hitler did. He showed the German populace that the Nazi regime was a valiant cause to protect German nationalism and the best interests of the people. He told the citizens of a fearful, war-torn country that he would help pull them out of the wreckage left behind from World War I. He gave the hopeless, vulnerable people something they could believe in. Then he twisted their well-meaning faith into brainwashing and persuaded many to support a message which was contrary to his original rhetoric.

He conveniently provided the German people with a scapegoat for their woes; an entire group of people where they could place the blame. He focused his arguments around how these people were different from the Germans – they were “others,” they were inferior, and they were most certainly worthy of hatred. Hitler stripped the Jewish people of their humanity, and he made doing so seem so trendy, that an entire country jumped on the bandwagon. And in case they weren’t so easily convinced, he had a militant regime of weapons-yielding marionettes ready to help enforce his hatred.

Hitler preyed on the Germans’ fear; he hooked them with illusions of a better life, showed them the actions they could take to make it a reality, and then he manipulated masses of people into fighting his cause for him – his cause, of violence and bigotry, convincing the German population to turn against themselves and fight their own brothers and sisters, resulting in the most death the world has ever seen from a single war – a war which dragged nearly every country in the world into violent death and despair. A war, started out of manufactured fear, and after which, FDR eloquently pointed out, "The only thing we've got to fear is fear itself."

Hitler was a real bad guy. He actually existed, he lived and breathed, and walked among places we can still visit today. But since Hitler’s time, fictitious bad guys have been based off of some of his qualities – his authoritative leadership, his implicit coercion and explicit threats, his dependence on fear and isolation among the masses. Take for instance, Voldemort.

Voldemort did much the same thing as Hitler, though Voldemort is a fictional character in Harry Potter. The reason why so many fans love Harry Potter and its characters is because it is so relatable – Voldemort is to the wizarding world what Hitler is to ours.

There is a scene, in Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix, toward the end of the movie, where the always-wise and unconventional Luna Lovegood tells Harry, “If I were You-Know-Who, I'd want you to feel cut off from everyone else. Because if it's just you alone, you're not as much of a threat.” And that’s exactly it. People like Voldemort (referred to as “You-Know-Who because people feared him that much) and Hitler understand this fact better than anyone else, because it worked for them. If a dictator – a terrorist – can successfully isolate the people whom they wish to target, then it is suddenly much easier to manipulate them. How does a terrorist successfully isolate people whom they wish to target, you ask? Well, historically speaking, it seems fear tactics are a pretty good place to start.

Voldemort murdered hundreds of thousands of people needlessly; he enslaved others to do his bidding for him; he held others hostage and tortured them for information. He was a pretty bad guy, in general. But how did he get to such a position of power? Fear.

He spouted rhetoric to the Pureblood witches and wizards of the world that they were superior creatures. He provided this fictional Aryan Race with a scapegoat of their own – the Muggles, and well, anyone with a blood status less than Pureblood. He focused on how people were different, strategically ignoring (and actually not even knowing) the humanity common to all. Voldemort told the masses that these people were “others,” they were inferior, and they were most certainly worthy of hatred. Sound familiar? He also had his very own legion of loyal, militant puppets with weapons (okay, wands) ready to enforce his hatred.

Voldemort showed the Pureblood witches and wizards of the world how Half-Bloods, Muggleborns, Muggles, house elves, centaurs, and pretty much every other living creature on the planet contributed to the bane of their existence. He promised the Purebloods their lives would be better if only they could wipe out these inferior creatures – do his bidding for him – and those most loyal to him (who committed the most war crimes) felt the safest from his own dangerous power. In hurting others, they felt they were protecting themselves from becoming targets. In fact, he invoked so much fear, that people were actually afraid of even saying Voldemort's name. However, as our beloved Hermione Granger points out, "Fear of a name only increases fear of the thing itself."

Voldemort reduced the wizarding world to fighting against itself. He distracted great, intelligent witches and wizards from fighting the true evil – hatred, fear, and bigotry – by emphasizing differences among themselves and telling one group they were better than the rest. He robbed his scapegoats of their humanity, just as Hitler did with the Jews, and he taught the aggressors that they would finally have the power and respect they deserved, if only they could eradicate the world of its scourge of Muggles.

He did all of this by preying on the fear of Purebloods. He was able to convince one half of the population to murder the other by simply playing into the things that scared them most – losing their lives, their loved ones, their power, their reputation. Whatever the individual feared, Voldemort worked on a personal level to threaten, in order to rise to power. He did so by strategically disintegrating any remaining sense of community among witches and wizards. He made sure everyone felt alone and vulnerable, untrusting of those around them, and concerned only with protecting their own self interests. By fostering a toxic environment rife with uncertainty, fear, and hatred, Voldemort was able to manipulate full-grown adults into waging a war against themselves, against humanity.

Why is any of this relevant? Why am I sitting at my keyboard, passionately typing away in a blaze of fury about Hitler and Voldemort, drawing comparisons between the two and their fear tactics? I’ll tell you: Hitler and Voldemort were dictators, yes. They were also terrorists. They struck fear and hatred into the hearts and minds of millions. They both began wars with their respective worlds, born out of their own prejudices and bigotry. They manufactured fear in large groups of people, fear that did not exist before, and then they conveniently provided a solution to the problem they just created.

They told their audiences: “Look at how miserable you are! Aren’t you miserable? I know why. You are miserable because of this other group of people. They are different from you, and you are better than them. Your life is worth more than theirs. In fact, your life would be better if theirs ceased to exist. They are the cause of all of your problems. Hate them. Kill them. Follow me. I will help you in this cause, and together we will be happier without them.” They preyed on the fear of their audiences and brainwashed them into fighting an imaginary war which had real consequences.

This is what terrorists do. They terrorize. They create fear in others that never would have grown organically. They plant the seed of doubt in the minds of so many; and they water it occasionally, fertilizing it with hatred, bigotry, xenophobia, and transferring blame and responsibility to someone else. They tend to this garden regularly, and eventually, fear has grown to its full size. Then they harvest this fear they’ve created and nurtured from conception, and just like a vegetable, they use it to nourish themselves, to further their cause. Fear provides nutrients to terrorists. It is what they depend on to survive.

If you fear another group of people, who don’t look like you, speak like you, dress like you, or come from the same place as you, then you will likely turn to what is more familiar and comfortable to you. And what is easier and more comfortable for us than blaming someone else, who we already fear, for the problems we think we have?

Don’t let the terrorists win. They’ve already won too many battles before. Don’t let them create a feeling of fear inside of you that doesn’t need to exist. The best way to do this is by reaching out, facing that supposed fear. If you would only take a moment to recognize the humanity which resides in all of us, you would realize that people who are different from us are nothing to be feared. If you do not allow the terrorists to cultivate a shadow of doubt within you, then you will understand that we are all one common, human race; and that in hating our sisters and brothers, we are, in fact, hating ourselves.

The terrorists have planted the seed. They are encouraging it to grow. They’re counting on it for their harvest in order to survive. We can choose to believe their fear tactics and water the seed, or we can remain resilient in our faith in humanity, and resolve to be as hard to crack as the Kansas earth in the planting season.

There’s another scene in Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix which comes to mind. Upon realizing the seriousness of the impending war, Harry remarks, “Even though we've got a fight ahead of us, we've got one thing that Voldemort doesn't have… Something worth fighting for.” Harry knows that unity among all is the answer, and he knows that Voldemort literally cannot feel love. That is why he strives so hard to achieve power through hatred and evil. But Harry understands that the solution for winning a war against terrorists like Voldemort is not fighting against a cause or a group of people. It's not fighting among ourselves which will win. The answer is fighting for all the things and people you love, with all of the differences between you which make up a united, differentiated front. Fear of others never had a chance to blossom inside of Harry, because he was too busy nurturing love for all.

Turning our backs on those who need help and lumping entire groups of people together as scapegoats is not only morally irresponsible, but it is playing directly into the hands of the terrorists. Fear in the hearts of the masses is the best tool they have for succeeding, and they know it. They're bloodthirsty for it. Holding love in our hearts, in place of fear, is our best weapon against them.

30 Day Writing Challenge: Day 24 (Something You Miss)

Day 24: Something you miss

I miss France. I miss France so terribly. I miss the loved ones I have there and the culture as a whole. I miss the language, the fashion, the food, the music, the art, and all of the beautiful people. I miss the country so rich in history that they have wines older than America. I miss walking through small cobblestone streets and hearing French small talk among the natives and smelling bread everywhere. I miss the weather which necessitates an umbrella on your person at all times, and the sun seeming to rise earlier and set later than it does in the Western Hemisphere. I miss volets and having open windows always, but especially when I sleep. I miss the picturesque beaches and ordering fruits de mer from a menu to eat some of the best food in my life. I miss ending words in -erie to simply mean a store specializing in whatever the prefix may be. I miss seeing boys with clearly European facial features and body hair with scarves and handbags, all over the place. I miss the tiny, almost unnoticeable, linguistic idiosyncrasies that you will only hear coming out of a French person, like a sigh with "alors" or the elongated "euh..." between catching their breath in a long-winded story. I miss the moment of proud epiphany when I understand a slang phrase like "Che pas" and how it translates to what I learned in a classroom years before as "Je ne sais pas". I miss not being carded for ordering a glass of wine with my dinner or a beer on a Friday night. I miss wearing dresses everywhere, all the time, and receiving less that one-tenth of the disgusting, leering looks from male passersby as in America. I miss ordering a meal, any meal, and it automatically arriving with a side dish of baguette. I miss chocolate everything. I miss all of the coffee. I miss fast public transportation and not driving a car for weeks.

I miss many things about France, but more than everything else, I miss my family there. I miss the little girls whose baby French voices I could hear floating up the stairs from breakfast as I woke up in the mornings. I miss learning playground songs and clapping games from two beautiful children with chocolate brown eyes, and experiencing their adorable French frustration when I still couldn't understand them after asking them to repeat themselves several times. I miss my international host parents who were experts in four cultures and five languages between the two of them. I miss grocery shopping in giant French hypermarches with them weekly and still being culture-shocked by something new every single time.

I miss the culture and I miss my family. But mostly, I guess I just miss feeling so much at home, so far away from where I was born.

30 Day Writing Challenge: Day 7 (What Tattoos You Have and If They Have Meaning)

Day 7: What tattoos you have and if they have meaning

I don't have any tattoos. Although there have been at least a few occasions in my life when I have considered getting one. Ultimately though, I have always decided against it for some reason or another.

First, about three years ago, I wanted to get the quote "no day but today" from RENT tattooed somewhere around my ankle. I thought it was a good reminder of the fragility of life and more poetic than #YOLO. Plus, I love RENT and I just really thought a nice cursive ink anklet would be a constant reminder to myself that tomorrow is never promised. I decided against it because I was 18 and very afraid of the pain. I remember my mother poking me in the ankle several times in a row with her fingernail to simulate a fraction of the pain, and I chickened out.

Then, when I was in France, during my last week there when the sad realization began to wash over me that I would soon be leaving, I decided on a whim that I should get myself some ink to commemorate the experience. I considered a few different options, and I consulted Pinterest appropriately. I decided I wanted to get "libérer" because it seemed fitting for everything about that time of my life. "Libérer" is French for "to free" or "to liberate". Again, I wanted a simple, cursive script. But this time, I was conflicted about where exactly on my body it should be located. My ankle or my thigh bone were the two top contenders. I remember discussing the impromptu decision with my host parents beforehand, and my host dad jokingly rolled his eyes and said to me, "What, you want a tattoo that says, 'I was in France'?" He was right. I felt compelled to get a tattoo while I was there, because I was there. Then I saw the busy boutiques de tatouage late one night while walking the streets, and I decided I was too scared. I let my monkey mind talk me out of it because 1) it was a bit of a rash decision and 2) I didn't know the regulations for tattoo parlors in France. Plus, what if they didn't understand me if I said stop? (Which was a dumb excuse, because I could've just as easily said arrêtes.) I left the country ink-free.

Then, just a few weeks ago, I briefly considered getting a tattoo on my shoulder blade of something my mother wrote to me in a note. I was reading said note, and at the end she signed it, "Follow your dreams Sweetpea. Love you muches, Mom". It was very late, I was very sleepy, and I thought, "it is very important for me to get this phrase in my mother's exact handwriting tattooed on my body." (One of my good friends has a tattoo of her mother's handwriting on her shoulder blade, so you see, I wasn't being very original here.) Then I flashed forward about 50 years and thought about my 70-year-old skin sagging and my mother being long gone, and me still having this whimsical little ink stain between my liver spots, as a tangible reminder of my mother's love. I thought, that's absurd. Harry Potter was alive because of his mother's love, just as I am. And he didn't have a tattoo.

So, I guess, my reasoning for not getting a tattoo has always been two-fold: first, I have a shamefully low pain threshold; and second, I can't think of anything so important and central to my life's story that I want to pay someone money to give me an open wound which will one day fade. Although, I'm not dismissing the notion entirely. If, someday, I can think of something so perfect that I want to keep it on my body as a physical reminder forever, then I feel totally free to make that decision. But until then, I think I'll just get my meaningful phrases framed and hang them up in my home.

I don't feel any regret about these experiences, though; and if anything, I think they have taught me more about myself and my relationship with commitment. I remember a family member once telling me, "if you're not 100%, don't do it." She was referring to shopping for clothes in Target, but I think the advice is just as applicable here.

And by the way, it doesn't escape my attention that it was words I wanted to get tattooed on my body each and every time; almost as if they're the only thing I view as meaningful enough to leave a physically lasting impression on me, in addition to everything else they already do.

30 Day Writing Challenge: Day 4 (10 Interesting Facts About Yourself)

Day 4: Ten interesting facts about yourself

I don't really know what is to be considered "interesting," as it is a relative term. But I'll do my best.

1. My birthday is on Valentine's Day. But barely. My mom pushed me out just in time at 11:38 PM.
2. I was the youngest child for 15 1/2 years. Then my bratty little brother came along. I love him now. I didn't so much at the time.
3. Je parle français. I took my first French class in seventh grade and studied abroad in France in 2014. I had never realistically considered studying abroad until about six months before it happened.
4. I love Harry Potter. To an obsessive degree. More than Snape loved Lily.
5. I won first place in the city spelling bee in eighth grade. My winning word was "mayonnaise". I got a blue ribbon and everything.
6. I'm a feminist. I've been aware of it since the day I bought Full Frontal Feminism at Barnes & Noble in 2012. But I was one without knowing it for much longer.
7. I don't want to have kids. Seriously. They're messy, expensive, and dependent. I have a little brother and three nephews. My mother and my older sister have done all the child-bearing and child-rearing for me. Now I just get to teach them cool stuff and buy them loud toys.
8. I won a scholarship to go to college my senior year of high school. I'm a first-generation college student (and soon-to-be graduate). I still would've gone, regardless. But the money has certainly helped.
9. My parents divorced when I was 11. That is a large part of the reason why I am very hesitant to get married.
10. I want to travel the world so badly. It's gonna happen some day sooner than I think.