Lately I’ve been worrying about my future, just as any teenager would at this point in his or her life.
I’ve made plans only to crumble them up and toss them into the monotonous pile of what would have been: a pile which lies in the shadowed, humid corner of my mind; a pile which grows rooted in fear, unease, and expectancy.
I only love to walk when I don’t have a destination. Otherwise we don’t realize the simplicities which surround us. Otherwise destination is our dictator: he controls each turn we take and the pace at which we walk. Otherwise, we’re not free.
I was on a train saying this is where I’m going, this is what I’ll do.
But he said to me, “If you don’t like to walk with a destination, you won’t like to live with one either.”
That pile now burns in sunshine of a vast, wild meadow of my mind.
thank you.
les vacances de carnaval.
From the 5th to the 11th of March, I knew nothing but hours passed on trains and my camera’s game of focus.
Aachen, Germany: le 5 mars.
we pass a crippled train: his thoughts,
in blue jeans and a black baseball cap,
are searching these barren tracks,
in vain.
an Unwinding grey morning
of whites and weak colors watch
his absent gaze
as we dive into the sky,
we rise over an empty horizon
to only hide behind it again
and we Never,
stop to help.
Chateau de la Hulpe, Le lac de Genval: le 6 mars
I lived in a memory
les tomates et basilic
of a misplaced picnic table in Turtle Creek
red plaid gardens watered in night,
wild in raspberries
and chocolate’s zucchini
round stolen colors roll in my palm
yellow-ish orange, orange-ish red
(those colors fallen leaves only imitate
in envy of my tastebuds)
the taste of tomato caprese.
Liège: le 7 mars
train toilets have become my throne
indefinite
as we move and stop
only words in a stutter
of what should be done
or is it obligation?
how to dry your hands
and wash them: sanitation for its sake
security, fear
for longer years only moving and stopping
my words
our words in a
in a stutter
11h41: 2 hours and 13 minutes
Pittsburgh and back
Carnaval à Binche: le 8 mars
Oranges of gold
Gold oranges
Litter the street
And fill their bag
Teeth smile and sputter saliva of youth
And its civilization,
«Madame, Madame : Gardez le sac. »
« Votre montre, s’il vous plait.»
Coca cans kicked in cobblestone streets-
This is where we sleep.
And where we feast upon our
Oranges of gold,
Gold oranges
Lost: le 9 mars
Lille, France : le 10 mars
c'est la vie.
 |
| I haven't forgotten what I love and have left behind, |
 |
| though it's hard to feel deeply nostalgic when I wake up to the laughter of sparrows and starlings |
 |
| and then soon venture outside to fetch eggs for breakfast from the chicken coop in the backyard |
 |
| accompanied by my best friend Bounty, |
 |
| and, as I walk back in the house, hear the song I'm whistling repeated in a chipper tone, |
 |
| and it's especially difficult to feel nostalgic when I know that no matter what I can always buy a waffle from the hippy van down the street. |
je suis minuit.
The half-way point.
It's a time during which an exchange student can't help but to think:
to think about what they've done and what they've yet to do; what they've learned and what they've yet to learn.
To think about how they've changed in personality and opinion, and how their home has changed in meaning and comfort.
Have I changed?
Should I hear it in my laugh
or in the way I say my name? Although it is true that I now prefer the French JorDANN more than a simple "Jordin".
And that's a change.
En fait, I have a hard time remembering who I was before I came to Belgium, or rather, who I was before I began my life as an exchange student. When I think of how to label myself, the only thing that comes to mind is exchange student or something in its effect.
How can I know if I've changed if I don't know who the person was that changed?
My year of 2010 was entirely consumed by what I would become. I worked, thought, wondered, worried, and worked some more. By the end of August, I could finally say "I am" rather than "I'm going to be."
Looking back on it, it's as if the majority of 2010 didn't exist: I'd gone all-in with the present for a chance of a better future.
Slowly pushing a messy, colorful pile of seconds, minutes, and hours towards the center of the table, I'd bet it all for what I'd hoped to win. All the while, I had never felt so weak, so vulnerable.
For strength's reputation, I bluffed. Though I had to force a smile rather than try to prevent one. How is it that no one ever called it?
But I never folded my hand,
and here I am: sitting on my bed in Belgium with my laptop cradled between my knees, content to have made the bet.
"and here I am."
What is "I"? A single letter so powerful and uncertain.
You may read this and think you know "I": the way "I" speaks or the way "I" wanders.
But "I" isn't who "I" was, it's rather who je suis.
and its captivation,
of humbled innocence.
bientôt.
Everyone had told me, “You’re going to Belgium? I hope you like the rain.”
I would defy them all with a smile and a witty reply,
“Of course I do. All the better to dance in.”
Now for nearly six months, I haven't seen the sun.
I've sang
"Rain, rain, go away. Please come back another day"
and I've shouted
"Olly Olly Oxen Free!"
but never a reply.
My dance always stops at the sound of "hypothermie!" and loud shivers as my bones shake.
I'd never realized before that smiles can only be seen in sunshine. Something like Luminol and a blacklight.
But today it was Spring in Belgium: sunshine, 45 degrees, and the birds' constant laughter as they mocked the naked trees. As school had finished in the afternoon, I rested at the campus to witness the smile of my friend Catherine as she drove off on her new Vespa scooter, and then my friend Charlie and I began our Tuesday walk together, me toward the nearest bus stop and him on his way home.
I was liberated of my wool scarf, knitted gloves, and heavy winter jacket. The air smelled so crisp, fresh, new.. Am I in Belgium?
The sunshine highlighted the simplistic beauty of every smile and the skip in every step, and all I could do was laugh. Charlie couldn’t help but question my amusement. As we walked, he continued to glance over, an all-too-familiar look on his face which always says, “crazy American girl.” My only reply was, “soleil” as I tossed my hands into the air and smiled at the sky, spinning once to feel the dance of my dress lead by the step of the wind.
I've known 170 days in Belgium,
and I've yet to meet 142 more.
Did I ever tell you that, with the time change, 5 months is 5 weeks here? I’m sure you’ll hear about it soon, because soon is the only way things know to be.
For example, soon I’ll finish writing, and soon I’ll go to sleep. Soon I’ll wake up, and soon I’ll go to school. Soon is Friday and even sooner is Monday. Soon is March, April, and May. Soon I’ll say “Happy Birthday” to my best friend in the US over Skype, and soon I’ll post “Tu me manques..” on Charlie's Facebook wall.
All too soon is “au revoir”
in all its irony
followed by an unaccepted
hello.
who's jordann funk?
FOR: FUNK/JORDANN LEA
ROTARY BELGIUM-RETURN FOR JORDANN FUNK
13 JUL 11 - WEDNESDAY
AIR UNITED AIRLINES
LV BRUSSELS 1200N
08HR 18MIN
AR WASHINGTON DULLES 218P NON-STOP
SEAT-38J
AIR UNITED AIRLINES
OPERATED BY /UNITED EXPRESS/SHUTTLE AMERICA
LV WASHINGTON DULLES 500P
01HR 06MIN
AR PITTSBURGH 606P NON-STOP
SEAT-7A
monotony of change.
It's the end of January.
I returned from Italy on the morning of the 8th, and the following day's afternoon I moved to my second host family.
Normally, I'd write and write about the changes in my life, but change has become so normal that when something new happens, I don't feel its excitement and the need to express it.
It also doesn't help that my other hobbies have over-ruled writing.
For example, I now have a guitar that I can keep until the end of the year; I borrowed it off a neighbor of my first host family. However, at my first house I couldn't really play much because my host sisters really enjoyed their silence. That meant I could only play in about 15 minute intervals and never after 9pm. Seeing it that 15 minutes is a minute in regards to playing guitar and at home I usually play before I go to sleep,
Another hobby that's taken away from my writing is reading, and unfortunately, it's not reading in French. Currently my English class is reading East of Eden by John Steinback, but the abridged version of course. Though my teacher wanted me to actually participate in the class, especially since "John Steinback is an American writer of German decent, just like you Miss Funk," so he bought me the original version. I'd also mentioned I wanted to read 1984 by George Orwell, so he bought me that as well. As he handed me the two books on our last day of school before vacation with a smiling "Merry Christmas", I couldn't help but to return an even brighter "Pennsylvanian smile" (as he always refers to it). They were by far my favorite Christmas presents.
Well, at least my favorite tangible Christmas presents. Italy was unforgettable, so unforgettable that I have yet to really write about it because I feel my photos (slideshow above) and memory will suffice. I was welcomed in Rome on the night of the 29th by one of those wonderful airport hugs and a family dinner full of smiles and misunderstandings. My friend Sabina is an only child whose mother can speak English but not her father. Therefore, at dinner we'd talk in English but then feel guilty for leaving Sabina's dad out of the conversation, so we'd translate everything back to him. For once, I wasn't the one in need of the translation, but sooner than later, that need was constant as the next day Sabina and I jumped in a car with her friends and headed off to Tuscany. For four days, we, 15 Italian teenagers and 1 American teenager, stayed in a house in the countryside of Tuscany to celebrate New Year's Eve. We played cards and foozball alot, and I realized how far a person can communicate with simply body language.
I also realized how lucky I am to have chosen Belgium for my exchange. I'd always thought that the open-minds of Belgians regarding foreigners and the English language were simply the same as other Europeans. Though, my stay in Italy made me realize that Italians in general are nearly the opposite. The typical "Italian" stands firmly by the idea that the Italian language is all they'll ever need; they may realize the importance of English and other languages but don't bother to learn them. However, for parents who decide they want their child to learn English, the price is quite expensive. My friend's mother, who is more or less revered since she knows English, teaches the language in one-on-one sessions for fifty euro an hour, all without having a degree. As Sabina's family understands the growing importance of English, they had decided to send Sabina on an exchange to the US so she could learn the language. Nonetheless, none of Sabina's friends could understand why she was doing the exchange; they didn't see the point in it. On the contrary, in Belgium, more or less every student does some sort of exchange to learn English; it's just an average part of education. Therefore, after adapting to the Belgian mindset, I had been more than surprised by that of the Italians.
Also, Sabina's family had told me about the exchange student from Canada they had hosted while Sabina was in America. Her name was Marjorie: she was short, blonde, and blue-eyed like me. In other words, she was the typical "dream girl" of Italian boys since in Italy, everyone has dark hair and dark eyes, and it's always human nature to prefer what is different. (During my stay in Italy, I almost felt watched as I'd be the only person on the metro or on the bus with blonde hair, or at least natural blonde hair. I've never gotten so much attention from guys in my life.) Therefore, all of Marjorie's classmates had thought she was pretty and gave her attention the first few days, but then before long, they more or less rejected her since she didn't speak their language. They didn't even try to communicate with her; they simply gave up. This really just amazed me because my classmates in Belgium were the opposite: my first day of school they accepted me, and they tried their hardest to communicate with me. They never gave up.
All of this just made me realize that I've really made the right choice by spending my year in Belgium. It may not be significantly different from the US, but it's better than being different in a negative manner such as in Marjorie's case. Though sometimes I do wish that I had chosen a Latin American country where I could lounge on the beach all day and actually see sunshine; but I really don't think I would have succeeded with Spanish since I can't roll my R's
Sunshine would be really great though. People aren't kidding when they say it only rains in Belgium.
Rain, rain, go away. Please come back another day.Another day when Jordann has left your country.
Which reminds me: I have to choose a return date soon. I've never felt like more of a walking contradiction. I want to stay; I want to go. I have to choose a date to love and to hate. Who wants to be the lucky winner? I think it'll be a date I'll always remember.
Like my birthday, the day after tomorrow. The day after tomorrow it's January 25th. Didn't January just start?
I need to stop wasting time talking about the speed of time
and I need to stop rambling.
I'm rambling.
Goodbye.
