Life as a Freshman vs. Life as a (Super) Senior

Freshman: "I am SO SORRY I was late for the FIRST day of class! Really, I couldn't find the right building..."
Senior: "Yea, I totally was late to my last first class - I couldn't find my pants."

Freshman: "I'm never going to skip class, ever!"
Senior: "Oh, I had a class today? Ooops..."

Freshman: "I wonder if I'll make any friends in my classes!"
Senior: "Oh great, all the same people I had in my classes last year! None of whom I like. I need to graduate."

Freshman: "I hope I find some friends..."
Senior: "Go away, I do not want to be friends. I already know half the people on campus and can't get anywhere without ignoring people or being late."

Freshman: "The cafeteria food is really bad. I wish I could make my own food."
Senior: "I wish I still had someone to make my food for me."

Freshman: "I have so many electives! I could take one of everything! ... or maybe become an expert in my field!"
Senior: "Well let's see, I took Korean, and some more Korean. And German - no that wasn't mandatory, I just took it, for two years. And some Latin. And karate - that's good, right? It shows I am both focused and versatile, right?"

Freshman: "I have to walk quickly to all my classes and make sure not to eat the free ice cream in the caf - no freshman 15 for me!"
Senior: "Well I have to walk to school cause I'm broke, but I'll eat ice cream to make myself feel better about it."

Freshman: "Everyone is my age, and everyone is as confused as me, it's a whole new world."
Senior: "I am the only person above 20 in the room. I need to graduate."

Freshman: "I'm going to graduate in four years at most - I am hard-working and organized."
Senior: "I should have graduated in four years - so I could still tell myself I was organized..."

Freshman: "Or I could take five years and take advantage of all the opportunities I'll have in college!"
Senior: "I should have graduated in four years - when I still thought college was full of opportunities."

Freshman: "WHAT?! We have a quiz tomorrow??!?!? I forgot about it! Now I only have 3 hours to study for it!"
Senior: "Oh we have a quiz in class today? Good thing I was only a few minutes late."

Freshman: "I finally met a guy! Wow, first college potential boy-friend!"
Senior: "Good grief, he's still here?! What a loser. I need to graduate."

Freshman: "Maybe some day that cute guy will notice me..."
Senior: "Oh my god, cute boy - what are you, 18? Oh, 20? Yeah - I could basically be your mom."

Freshman: "There are so many people on this campus. But somehow they are all different. Diversity is so neat!"
Senior: "Everyone looks exactly the same."

Freshman: "Oh, phew! I made an A!"
Senior: "I made another A. The only one in the class? Yea. Well. I need to graduate."

Freshman: "I should try out some different academic and extra curricular clubs."
Senior: "I should sit on my couch and NOT do anything related to college."

Freshman: "I wonder if I'll be able to maintain a 3.50 GPA."
Senior: "I wonder how badly I'd have to do this year to not have a 3.50 cumulative GPA...?"

Freshman: "Will my professors ever recognize me or will I always be one of the crowd?"
Senior: "Why do my professors always ask ME the hard questions?"

The artist

Growing up I was always "the artist."

At least, that's how my Dad liked to introduce me.

To this day I am grateful for the approval and satisfaction with which he said it. Somewhere inside of those words I found a sort of identity. Not only was a I THE artist out of his 10 children, he was proud to describe me as such!

But I wonder if he ever knew what else was going on behind those happy, but moody and petulant, eyes.

Yes, I love drawing and painting. I always have. I've also always loved photography. Singing. Cooking. And writing.

But we had no fancy cameras. Joanna was "the musician." Food was a necessity, not an outlet for creativity. And until recently, I didn't even know I had anything about which I could write. So I was the artist. I drew, I colored, I painted, and I drew some more.

Only I had a secret.

All of my life - at least as far back as I can remember - I've longed to dance. Dancing, dancers, dance music, dance shoes, dance floors - it was like a forbidden world. A world which I knew I would never enter.

Why?

Well, first of all, when you have 9 siblings, it's unrealistic both financially and practically, to expect any kind of extra-curricular activity. And second, my parents disapproved of many traditional "dance costumes" along with the physical contact involved in many kinds of dancing.

So I was the artist.

Yes, I took some art lessons at one point in my life. My teacher liked me. I liked painting. I felt it was something I could excel in, and something I enjoyed. But when I would look at other so-called artists, I'd see them pouring their souls out through their paintbrushes. As I went through high school, I attempted a few times to do the same, but as my inability to express myself became more apparent to me, my frustration grew. Unfinished drawings and half-filled canvases only exacerbated the pain I felt as the bottled up emotions refused to flow through my arms and hands, pencils, paints, and brushes.

I started writing in college. It's only taken me a few years to realize that writing is good for my soul. In writing, not only can I express my emotions, but I I can express them in such a way that others - anyone - can understand. It's comforting. At the same time, it leaves me vulnerable. It's exciting. While being so mundane - everyone writes, every day. But for me, it's a way to begin filling in those blank canvases.

But sometimes the words run out.

Sometimes I don't want to feel that vulnerability.

Sometimes I want to do something just for me.

And that's when I dance.

In a way, I've always been a dancer. Though most of my life it was a worship from afar: the most meaningful scenes in my long-time favorite movie Fiddler on the Roof include dancing (think "To Life" and "Chavala"...); the first topic I ever researched included the lives, careers, and partners of famous ballerinas, muscle structure of dancers, and different types of dancing; the first person my younger self ever disliked was the one person I knew who took dance lessons;  I don't remember a day when I didn't cut some kind of caper, whether through the dark storage area on the way to my bedroom, across the kitchen from the stove to the fridge, or my last few steps from the light switch into bed.

I am not highly trained in any kind of dancing, though I've tried and "naturally excelled" in countless.

But dancing to me is where I find my soul. Dancing is how I fill up that canvas. Dancing is my word when the words run out. Dancing is how I cry when there are no tears. Dancing is how I smile when my heart is broken. Dancing is how I laugh when no one else will. Dancing is how I express everything and nothingness all at once. Dancing is where I stop thinking and just live. Dancing is what I do for myself. And it is where I am most myself.

So yes, I am an artist. I can sing, I am good at it, and I love it. I can make wonderful-tasting and looking food, I can take breathtaking photos with a low-grade camera, I can sketch astounding portraits and fill canvases with mystical or whimsical scenes.

But when I write is when I am creating a work for the world. I write to be heard, I write to be noticed, I write to reach out and connect with others. Writing is what I do as a tribute to the lives of the countless individuals who have gone through life without a voice. Writing is what I do as a tribute to every individual who is touched by my writing.

But dancing.

Dancing is me. Dancing is what I do to express my soul.

I'm not one to harbor regrets, nor one to live in a fantasy world. But I often wonder how my life would be different if I'd been given the chance to pursue this passion. This, however, always leads to another question: Is it too late?

To delete or not to delete?

I always go back and forth between embarrassment and pride when I read back over my old blog posts. More often than not I want to delete them. I look back at my past self, writing these sometimes amusing, sometimes perplexing entries and my present self thinks in all its superiority that I've come so far. I ask myself why I should leave those old posts up for the public to see when they very often reflect very little of who I am now.

But then I have to admit to myself that who I am now is because of who I was then. My blog isn't about who I am. It's about growth, a universal struggle. I'm not writing as someone who's arrived. I'm writing as someone who's getting there. Getting where? I'm not sure, but the whole point is to chronicle the journey.

So yes, very often when I read back just a few months into the past, I find that I've changed and grown. And very often I wish I could erase that old step. Only without that past step, I'd never be where I am now. And without the memory of that step, I'd never realize just how far I've come.

So just like those old pictures on Facebook...the ones with that old boyfriend, with those 15 extra pounds, with those old clothes I used to wear (talk about embarrassing!), or with those old friends I'd forgotten about. Those pictures, these blog posts, just like my past, will stay. A record of who I've been. A reminder of where I've walked. And very often, good for a rueful smile or two.