In honor of Obama’s speech, MLK Jr day, an approaching Black History Month, and the color brown, I would like to tell a story. It is the story of a town, the confused town in which I was raised. You may have read here before about how some people in my hometown were a tad close-minded, but back in the nineties interracial dating was an event. I dated Rodney B. in seventh grade, and people still bring it up when I go home.

“Remember when you had Jungle Fever?” they ask seventeen years later. It usually comes after “Hey, remember when you were on that show Dog Eat Dog?” which was over 10 years ago. People in my town might be racists, but they sure have amazing memories.

What saved me from falling down the racist hole were my open-minded parents. They’d seen the world and met people outside of our tiny suburb, so they were able to teach me that all kinds of people are exciting. I also think I was black in a previous life because once when I was 8 my dad told me I could have any hat I wanted in the hat store, and I chose the Malcolm X hat. Maybe I liked it because it was purple, but I probably am Malcolm X reincarnated. I’d like to note that I’ve never been in a hat store since.

It was junior year, and I was pretty excited about going to the big homecoming dance. I was pretty excited about going to any high school dance because I saw them as status symbols. In four years, I went to 5 proms and 6 homecomings. So, that means I had a lot of statuses. It also means I desperately wanted everyone to think I was cool and that my mom had money to buy me new dresses (she didn’t, but she bought them anyway).

I must also admit that junior year was a time of rebellion. We would get drunk in parking lots and go dancing at Zero Gravity, an 18-and-up dance club that served pizza while guys who didn’t yet know how to use their penises would grind them on girls from behind. And we let them because we didn’t yet know how to use boundaries. It was a wondrous atmosphere.

I had a supercrush on Rob, the bouncer. He had carmel-colored skin with hazel eyes and a smooth shaved head. This was Michael Jordan’s heyday, and Rob was a shorter version (He probably had smaller feet too and wasn’t as good at basketball.). Best of all, he lived in an apartment all by himself because he was super old, like 19. Knowing Rob was such a status symbol because that meant my friends and I could walk up to the front door of Zero Gravity in our slut costumes and get right in. Yes, you guys. I had a hook-up at the underage dance club that served pizza in the suburban Chicagoland area. You had no idea how cool I really was.

One night, my friends and I went back to Rob’s apartment (which was complete with those psychedelic posters that make you see stuff if you stare at them long enough) and, with a vodka-induced bravado, I asked Rob to homecoming. He said YES! I immediately imagined our fun night of dancing, the limo ride to a swanky-for-teenagers dinner, our subsequent marriage, and beautiful caramel-colored babies (even in high school, my mind went straight to babies. Stilllll going there.).

As I bragged about Rob’s cool posters at school that week, Travis Z, a mega popular football player (yes, I really thought like that in 1997) said that he’d wanted to go to homecoming with me. Ugh, I was torn. The whole week he begged me to change my plans, laying on his popular guy charm and using the argument that I wouldn’t have to babysit him like I would Rob. Even though Travis called me a ‘cunt’ in fifth grade, I decided to go with him to the big Homecoming gala.

Homecoming came. Travis didn’t want to dance. He seemed to hate everything about an event that I thought was as essential as air. He maybe said three words. He came over to my house after the dance and threw up all over my room, leaving a stain that we finally just got rid of last year. I yelled at him through pukey sobs, and he screamed:

I didn’t really want to go to the dance with you. I just didn’t want you to go with a black guy.

Yeah. He said that. He planned that. He got dressed up in a suit, bought a ticket, reserved a limo, and endured weeks of me talking about our plans and my dress only so a black guy wouldn’t come into our school. He ruined my night because he didn’t want a black guy in our school. He spent an entire night with me (you’ll never guess it, but I was probably not the funnest in 1997) JUST because he didn’t want me to bring a person of color into our school. I’m feeling sick just writing this out.

That is some serious hatred right there. Disgusting. Racist. Hatred.

But I don’t hate him back. We learned about projections in psychology school, and I love seeking them out in myself. The gist is that we are unable to judge people or feel a certain way about a person unless we recognize those same feelings within ourselves. It works positively and negatively. For example, I admire Oprah because she’s ambitious, creative, and is fascinated by people. If I take a look at myself, I will find that I’m ambitious, creative, and fascinated by people. And it works negatively. Whatever Travis hated about a different race, he surely hated about himself. So, I am guessing his life and the life of any racist or bigot is probably pretty horrible, filled with self-judgment and unworthiness and lots of lots of hatred from the inside. So, today I’d like to ask to send compassion to that hater and all the haters the world over. Let’s add them to our carts that are already filled with the celebratory toasts of mixed-race presidents, Civil Rights leaders, married gay people, and everyone else who deserves a hug and a shout and a ‘FUCK YEA!’ because we have come a long, long way from when MLK Jr took the stage and even from when I had Jungle Fever for the very first time. And the second few times. And even just from four years ago when our country elected a president because of who he was and not because he fit a mold. Our congress doesn’t get along and there are crazies shooting kids and climate change is ruining our crops, but we DO have a lot to be proud of. I really think there are less Travises today. Maybe not in congress, but definitely in the world.

And if that doesn’t make you feel better, find solace in the fact that Travis Z. is currently serving three years in federal prison for extortion!

I haven’t written a word lately.
I’ve been trying this new thing. It’s called privacy. Pretty amazing.
My whole life has been on this blog for the past three years, and whenever I go on a date, undoubtedly the date knows way more about me than he ever should.

Me: So, do you have any brothers or sisters (why is that even a common question?)?

Guy: I know you don’t. Ok, I Googled you. (blushing) I also know you are from Chicago, you don’t like it when people sit on your bed in street clothes, you recently went to Europe with your mom, and you have a white patch of pubic hair.

Privacy!

The thing is, I don’t even have a white patch of pubic hair anymore. That’s what I’ve spent the last two years in psychology school learning: We are not our stories. I am not what you read here. I am who I am in one moment, and that moment is but a flash of time in my life. I am no longer sad about my mom selling my childhood home. I am no longer going through an existential crisis. I am no longer really into Renaissance fairs (okay, never was). I’m just whatever I am rightnow and that is already gone. To quote Mitch Hedberg: We’re younger in every picture. (his response when people say ‘This is a picture of me when I was younger.’)

My psychology program ended in August, and I’m still feeling the echo from its core. Nobody really tells you what you’re getting into when you start any type of psychological study. You think you’re going to learn how to help other people or figure out how to manipulate family members. But once you realize how the human brain works, you become aware of all the lies you’ve ever told yourself: I’m not good enough to ask for more money. I have to be prettier in order to have a boyfriend. People who invite me to events on Facebook don’t really mean to invite me.

Stupid shit that makes you feel like a stupid shit.

This is a huge awareness. You have to re-evaluate every thought you’ve ever had. You have to start everything over. You have to look at every single relationship/challenge/tragedy/goal in your life and ask if it’s really for-real-real. Was that really a big deal or did I make it out to be one in my head? Was that a real relationship or was I just feeling unworthy of a partner so I got married and played along? Is the relationship with my parents really that bad or am I holding them to unreasonable standards? Am I really insulted by someone’s political views, or is my ego just telling me I am? I MEAN EVERYTHING. Every. Damn. Thing. Becomes. A. Question.

I even took a step back from writing and asked myself if I’m writing this blog because I want to or because it was the easiest way to make me feel like a ‘real’ writer? Or is it because here I can say weird things about myself, meet others who relate, and then not feel so weird? Or, is it just for the validation I get when people say I’m funny, (quick! I need a joke right here SO PEOPLE WILL SAY I’M FUNNY!!)?

Do you know how torturous this questioning can be? It is blood curdling hard. Tears on the living room floor and while driving and while showering hard. It requires some super ‘roided out raging strength to sit down and be honest when there are millions of other things to do with your day. “No, I would not like to go to that movie with you. I think I’m just going to stay home and ponder my childhood instead.”

If I were to talk to my 2010 self, she would tell me that 2012 looks pretty pathetic. She would say that I don’t yet own a home or have a relationship or kids. She would say that I’m a failure (Uff, and the 1993 self would be devastated to know I don’t have six kids by now—- all with names that begin with N). But when I sat down on New Year’s Eve to make a list of everything I did in 2012, I filled up twelve whole sheets of paper (big ones). This year taught me that my biggest life accomplishments are invisible. And they all happened this year (So take that, 2010 Laurenne. And stop dating that DJ.).

I hardly made any money this year. I didn’t publish the book I wrote. I spent hours screaming in my car. But I let go of so much fear. I completely abolished so many misunderstandings I had about myself and the world. When school was all over, I sat down to tell myself the good things about me, and that conversation lasted an hour. Two years ago, it would have been less than a minute. I’m no longer hard on myself. I’m no longer trying to prove my self-worth to my parents, the world, or God. I felt every single emotion that exists at some point this year, and they all led to now. Now I’m feeling calm. Now I am truly just here. No story. Just here. And I’m cool with that. I have no idea where to go from here. I have no idea what I want. Yet, I’m still calmer and more optimistic than I’ve ever been.

This year was something that goes up and down (something less cliche than a roller coaster or tidal wave. I’M SO LAZY AND IM OKAY WITH THAT). I was selfless and really fucking selfish too. I was encouraging one minute and then missing the next. I was the most scared I’ve ever been and the bravest. I cried harder than when I was born, and I laughed more from my gut. I was the ugliest and the most beautiful. I felt confused one day and enlightened the other. I made horrible jokes. I asked impossible questions. I probably insulted you.

It was hard to be my friend during these past two years. And probably harder to be my family. So, I really and truly deeply thank you for being there. For talking with me. For pondering. For calling. For making me laugh. For taking me in. For making me get dressed and go out. For listening. For seeing me. For just showing up to life the way you do.

Thank you to everyone for existing and being part of my 2012 and my life. Here’s to doing crazy shit in 2013 and analyzing it later.

I love you.

My friend and I ordered dessert the other night. We were celebrating. The waiter placed 6 full-size doughnuts on the table surrounded by sauces and fruits. We are two people. SIX DOUGHNUTS. That’s when I knew: I am back in the United States.

I’m back.

I have spent the last three months in Europe enjoying every moment, drinking every wine, walking every winding street, talking to every stranger.
I learned a lot. I danced a lot. I ate a lot. I said ‘yes’ a lot. I got lost a lot. I smoked a lot. I smiled a lot. I tanned a lot. I thought a lot. I didn’t think a lot. I wrote a lot.

I wrote about my feelings. And my experiences. And the people I met. And I didn’t share those writings with anyone! I decided those writings are for me. They’re not doughnuts! They’re just for me.

I will share what I learned:

I learned that things change.

(My dad lived here in the sixties)

I learned that traveling is always good for a makeover.

(before)

(after)

That cousins are the siblings I never had.

That moms will take risks if you start selling them on the idea days before.

That it’s actually fun to do stuff tourists do.

(like this)

(or this)

That I’m in love with Madrid.

That I’m scared of Spanish butchers.

(Seriously. That chick is scary.)

That there are probably millions of ‘Robertos’ in Spain and Italy alone.

That gazpacho is a treat we should savor more often.

That trying things is really imperative to knowing whether or not you like them.

That free will does exist once you stop caring what other people think.

That everyone should go visit Auschwitz and eat more candy (at the same time or not).

That there’s no better feeling than knowing you’re doing whatever the fuck you want.

That there’s no such thing as ‘tired’ if you’re having fun.

That shoes explode after three months in the heat of a car.

That I will travel alone once a year until I die.

That I have no idea what I want to be when I grow up and I don’t care.

That my new mantra is ‘Fuck it.’

That there’s no place like home:

(Venice Beach, Labor Day 2012, where we found a stuffed tiger and a boombox that played 90s music)

Fuck it.

After two weeks with my mom and two weeks with my cousins, my luggage wheels were traversing the Spanish cobblestones alone.

Traveling alone is the best and the worst. It’s the hardest and easiest. When you’re alone, there’s no need to tell a companion that you have to walk in to this store really quickly to grab some laxatives (an example). No need to feel pressured to go see the Pharmacy Museum in Krakov because your friend wants to go (Ok, I wanted to go. Hint: You can skip the Pharmacy Museum in Krakov.) When you’re alone, there’s no need to apologize to anyone when the dinner you made turns into midnight cheese sandwiches (Seriously, how did that broccoli end up tasting like bad breath?)

Plus, there are spiritual benefits to traveling alone, as it opens up a whole new world of awareness. With no phone or Facebook in a foreign land, dinners, lunches, breakfasts, and pretty much everything in between is spent listening to thoughts and getting to know what goes on inside your head. By now, I REALLY know what goes on inside my head. (It’s insanity in there.)

That new awareness leads to good, but it’s also the hard part. There are phases to this hard part. The first is fear. Maybe not for everyone, but I am prone to outbursts of that worthless emotion (Don’t try to say that there’s some good in fear because whatever.) I fear getting lost. I fear asking for directions. I fear being seen as a tourist (which is what I am, so this one makes no sense– my brain wants me to be cooler than a tourist.). Since I am alone, I am completely aware of it, which is even more frustrating. –What if I say something wrong and he can tell my Spanish isn’t as good as his? –Your Spanish isn’t supposed to be as good as is, as he is FROM SPAIN. –You’re right, but still I’m scaaaaaaaared. –You’re being really scared of some stupid shit right now. —Waa.

This lasts for a few days.

And then come the couples. Suddenly, you look around and realize that everyone on vacation is here with their extremely significant other. Your pupils become sniper eyes as you notice every little held hand, every fucking beach kiss, every cute eye exchange when the baby needs a new diaper. You see it all. And to top it off, waiters just can’t get over that you’re a girl on vacation all by herself. Every time you sit down to dinner, they’ll say, “JUST YOU?” and feign some crazy shock. A few nights ago by the Madrid airport, my waiter said that my boyfriend must have been killed in an airplane. I looked him in the eyes very seriously and said, ‘Yes. Yes, he was.’ And then I looked away. Not really, but I should have because WHY CANT A GIRL JUST TRAVEL ALONE? SO WHAT IF HER OVARIES ARE AGING AND SHE DOESN’T HAVE ANYONE TO TRAVEL WITH?

That’s the self-pity phase. It lasts for a few days.

And then there’s an outpouring of love for family and friends. Well, if Rahul were here, he’d love this place. And if Andrea were here, she’d be making fun of that guy’s Speedo right now. And, boy, my mom would want one of those mumus over there. Man, my friends and family are pretty sweet. WHY AM I SPENDING THE ENTIRE SUMMER WITHOUT THEM? I’M SO DUMBBBBBBB. I miss everyooooooone. Waaaaaaaa. Even my landlord. And my mail woman. What is she up to right nowwwwww?

That’s the regret/longing phase. It lasts two days tops.

Then comes the I-don’t-give-a-fuck phase. This phase is freedom. It’s still introspective, but whenever fear comes up or self pity walks in, you can stop them at the gate and say, ‘YOU ARE IN SPAIN RIGHT NOW. LOOK THE FUCK AROUND AS THE SEA IS RIGHT BY YOUR FEET AND YOU’RE NOT WORKING AND WINE IS $3 FOR A GOOD BOTTLE AND THIS IS EXACTLY WHAT YOU WANTED TO DO WITH YOUR LIFE.’ AND LOOK HOW MUCH YOU REALLY LOVE CAPITALS!!!!

I’d been hoping with fingers double-crossed for this phase to hurry up and come. Please come, freedom to speak and be and frolic and talk to everyone and dance with old people and eat foods that are weird and sticky!

I realized it had finally arrived as I sat in the jump seat of a huge tourist bus, the very last passenger on board. My bag stumbled around on the floor as we zipped around a rotunda more than once. The driver was simply driving, not ready to arrive at my stop. He was telling me all about his wife’s suicide. She was too tall to hang herself from any beam, so she held onto her ankles until she died. She could have simply stepped to the floor, but she didn’t. She held on. AND THIS MADE ME SO HAPPY! Not because I’m a morbid human being with a suicide obsession (although also a possibility). It made me happy because this is exactly what would be happening in my own country. I wasn’t feeling alone. I wasn’t scared of saying something wrong in Spanish. I wasn’t missing anyone. I was myself. And I had found someone who wanted to talk to me about his life, which is exactly what happens in the States. People with stories always find me. Or maybe I find them. Especially “suicide survivors.” We always seem to find each other and share stories like old ‘Nam buddies. I was myself, and he was himself. And there we were, listening to each other and driving around Spain! If we were in the US, you bet that guy would be appearing in the next Taboo Tales.

Feeling free, I danced that night until six in the morning with the Salsa champion of Italy! And after that I went to the biggest water park in Spain and GOT A FAST PASS! Then I had dinner with a piano teacher named Rosa. After that, I debated prostitution laws with a hot cop (it’s totally legal and only 20 bucks for the WHOLE SHEBANG!). Now, I am in Madrid writing this from the center of a square surrounded by Germans and luggage shops and jars of sangria and umbrellas and cigarettes and walking dogs and frozen yogurt shops and old women peering from balconies. And I feel calm and not scared and not alone. AND I NEVER WANT TO LEAVE. AND I STILL LOVE CAPITALS.

Do birds ever die in magicians’ sleeves?

Are people from Tobago called Tobogans? 

If so, do they get discounts on sleds?

Do all of Sara Lee’s ex boyfriends cringe and say ‘I dont!’ when the jingle says, ‘Nobody doesn’t love Sara Lee?’

Why did Sara Lee ever even go for a double negative in a slogan?

Do conservatives eat eggs? 

Should I tell them they are abortions? 

I mean, they kind of are. Or maybe they’re just hen menstruation. Henstruation.

Pretty sure they’re abortions because once I found a dead fetus in an egg when I was making a cake with my friend Karina, which I’ve mentioned already here.

I never baked a cake again.

Why do hotels still give out shower caps? 

Who uses those shower caps?

Did any hotel owner ever think ‘maybe I should spend the money on wifi instead?’

Or pillow chocolates?

You don’t see enough pillow chocolates these days.

Do hummingbirds sleep? 

Why do we feel more free when we’re on vacation? 

Why can’t we get all crazy and careless and spontaneous and meet strangers when we’re in our homelands? 

Or is that just me? 

Will you guys make sure I get all crazy and careless and spontaneous and meet more strangers when I come back? 

Are all maps wrong, or am I just really bad at reading maps?

Pretty sure all maps are a little wrong.

Do famous people get together secretly and say, ‘Can you believe how famous we are?!’ and then jump up and down?

I would.

What is the deal with Duty Free shops?

Is it really worth carting around a huge bottle of scotch to save four dollars?

And why do they only sell perfume and liquor in those places?

I am really happy I don’t own a duty free shop.

I am really happy I don’t own a Hummer, a sexually transmitted disease, or a cockroach farm.

Although, I am warming up to cockroaches.

They are always there for you.

Why don’t you read more questions here or here.

Why don’t I go explore? I am here!

I’ve moved to Europe to become a bird lady. See ya never (not really. see ya in a month.) I’ve been gone a month already! I MISS YOU (yes, you).

I’m in Spain! I’m here to work on my Master’s thesis, which is about perfectionism, a disease I contracted long ago. If something I do isn’t done perfectly (speak Spanish), I get mad at myself. At least I used to. Now I’ve been working on it for two years, so I’m getting better. Look, I’ll even spell a word wierdly and leave it just like that.

Before Spain, the country of my dad’s family, my mom and I hit up Poland and Italy, the countries of her parents. It’s been an Adventure in Ancestry, a Raucus Ride into our Roots. We didn’t meet any actual ancestors though. I imagined fat Italian ladies pinching our cheeks and forcing five courses down our delicate American throats. Okay, that did happen, but they weren’t our relatives. Ancestry.com claims to be a gateway to long-lost family members, but it really just shows you records from before they had computers. While it is cool to see my grandpa’s signature on the Ellis Island register from 1937, those documents did not lead me to long lost cousins who would take me in, invite me to Ibiza, and leave me huge inheritances. I hate Ancestry.com.

Still, our trip did help us understand from where we come and why we are who we are. And after fifteen days with my mom, we were still alive. FIFTEEN days STRAIGHT after living apart for fourteen years. That’s a feat. We actually had a great time, and we learned a lot of deep things about each other like we both hate tomato seeds. She’s been back to the comfort of her own sofa and her non-spotty internet for over a week now (besides that whole storm/lack of electricity thing), which means I’ve been alone for over a week.

Being the detail-oriented perfectionist that I am, I had a list of things I was planning to get to the moment my mom swept herself back to the land of dollars. I always have a to-do list. There’s never not something to do, to write, to finish, to email, to edit, to study, to read. Since the last time I traveled in 2009, I’ve been glued to lists. And meetings. And traffic. And things and things to do.

When she left, I cried. Then I pulled out my list: Send postcards. Talk to strangers. Walk around the city. Write a book or two. Come up with a million-dollar business plan. Fall in love. Email all the people I’ve been wanting to email forever. The yoozch. The yush? The ush? The usz?

But something came up, and it’s something I’ve never done before. It’s something everyone has always told me to try, but I’ve never let myself try it for fear it would interfere with my perfectionism. It’s called: Nothing. I AM DOING NOTHING. Nothing. This is the first time I’ve written something in weeks. I haven’t peeped at an email. I’m only half writing this because I’m also watching the most fascinating Spanish game show (Joder! Tienen los mejores game shows aqui!). I’m waking up at 11am. ELEVEN! I’m taking baths for so long that my fingers actually have grown prunes on them. And when I get tired of the bath, I walk to the beach. And when I get sick of the beach, I sit at a restaurant and watch people make me food. I talk little. I wear the same thing every day. I sit silently. I didn’t even move when a huge cockroach flew through my window.

From afar, one might think I’m depressed. I probably look like someone’s just died or like I’ve just escaped a violent relationship. But I’m simply in shock. I can’t believe how great it feels to do nothing. I don’t have a TV in my apartment in America because I feel like it interferes with my productivity. And now I’ve put everything off so I can stay in and watch a semi-less trashy Spanish version of Maury Provich. It’s so good (But I don’t understand why that one guy’s long lost sister didn’t come on the show! Doesn’t she want to know her biological family? I would definitely do the show if such a nice invitation in such a big envelope arrived for me– duh, hermana!).

I’m totally letting myself not DO, and it feels pretty fucking great. It also means I’m not perfectly finishing everything I’ve set out to do. But whatever. Maybe that means I’m finally cured and I can come home. I have a whole lot of American TV to catch up on.

::I hope everyone’s out doing something patriotic today on this very special day of Independence. I passed a Burger King today!::

I’m in Poland, land of pierogis, remnants of war, a plethora of Zs and Ls, and several skis. It happens to be the exciting time of soccer’s Euro Cup, or what Americans call the “what’s that?” It’s the most-watched sporting event not seen in America. Some games are held in Poland this year, so there are flags galore and fans aplenty. This reminds me of a time when I lived in Madrid back when I was twenty (just a few years ago.).

Real Madrid won the Champions League Final then, and the streets filled up with people. People climbing flagpoles. People squished like shipments of shirts. People screaming and drunk and happy and triumphant. This was also a time when I liked to mix Coke and wine, and that day I celebrated the victory by mixing a lot of Coke and a lot of wine and then throwing up in someone’s mouth.
Yep, I had a Spanish boyfriend, and I made out with him until I puked down his throat.

I hope Real Madrid really appreciates what I did for them that day.

This Futbol Cup is different. I’m with my mom, and we’re in bed at ten pm. And we went to Auschwitz today. I DID want to puke when I saw the 80,000 pairs of shoes collected from Jews in just one day, but it was a different kind of puke.

In studying this parallel of pukes, I can see how much I’ve changed since I was twenty or ten or ever. I’ve done a whole bunch of stupid shit that I wouldn’t do today; I guess that’s what they call life.

I let a girl in college call me Kim for four years. I NEVER corrected her. I “felt bad.” I didn’t want to make her feel wrong. WHAT? We’re not friends anymore.

Once I gave my mom the exact same birthday present two years in a row. THE EXACT same one. It was a homemade plate on which to place perfume bottles. I grabbed it off her dresser and re-wrapped it the next year. And then I was shocked when she said, “Oh, thanks. But didn’t you give this to me last year?” I guess I thought she was not that observant or just really dumb. Whoops.

Once on a date I blew my nose into a guy’s hands. I didn’t really like him, I guess. I had some very overactive sinuses then.

When I got my first credit card, I immediately booked a big vacation because I didn’t have to pay for it until later!

I’ve taken drugs from strangers.
I’ve hitchhiked.
I’ve lost all my money to gypsies playing that stupid game in the street with one pea under three potatoes.
I let a neighbor on meth cut my hair at 3am.
I let a boy bring me to an abandoned house in the middle of nowhere in Sicily where I couldn’t escape or even speak the language to call for help (I just kept talking until he was so annoyed that he took me home).
I sat on the roof of a car and let a boy speed until I fell off. That really impressed him.
I went alone to the most dangerous city in the world where the signs in the hotel read, “Tourists must NOT go outside.”
I’ve put myself down many times to make others feel better.
I rode my tricycle down the stairs when I was six because I saw it on TV and I thought everything on TV was real.
I just recently learned that Auschwitz is in Poland.

Now that I write these out, I see they don’t sound soooo bad. Each is only a learning experience and a way to realize how much I’ve grown. But I have no doubt that I will look back in ten more years and wonder what the hell I was thinking as I let out all my secrets for the world all ten of you to read. Or why I streaked through the leaning tower of Pisa (haven’t done that yet, but I’m on the way). Or why I spent all my savings to spend two months in Spain doing nothing (also on the way!). These are the best kinds of mistakes. Or maybe just learning experiences. Or maybe just living.

What are the stupidest learning experiences you’ve ever done?

One day we’re all going to be the same race. I can’t wait. I give it seven more generations. All of our skins will be caramel colored and our eyes brown. We’ll all have Christmas trees, menorahs, and burkas. We’ll all walk on the same side of the street. We’ll eat kimchi tacos and collared green pierogis. Half of comedians will be out of jobs. Kids will fail the high school slavery lessons because they just won’t grasp the idea. Mexican food will just be called food. Aliens will say, “Humans. You just can’t tell them apart.”

Until then, we’re in race limbo. Some of us are sixteen things. Some of us are half and half. Few of us have papers that would win dog shows. In the end, it doesn’t matter. We’re all living. We’re all here. Our ethnicity is rather unimportant within the grand span of the universe.

But for me it’s always been an issue. I’ve always wanted to be ‘something else.’ In high school, I hung out with the Greeks and named myself Laurenne Salapoulous. In college, I only dated black guys and signed up on BlackPlanet.com as BigBootyWhiteGirl (what? I do have a rather large booty for a white girl). I was searching for culture, and I didn’t know where to look. I wanted customs and tradition. I wanted to know special dances and recipes handed down from an ancient great grandmother. What I think I really wanted was a big family. My mom is the best. But a single mother and an only child can lead to some less-than-riveting Christmas dinners. You can play few card games with two people.

Since most people on my dad’s side were dead, I never felt like I could really embrace his cutlure. But if anyone had one, it was him. While my mom is third generation American, my dad was first. My dad’s baby books are all in Spanish. He was raised speaking Spanish with his very Spanish dad. He even went to high school in Madrid! Still, this half thing bothered me. I felt like a faker trying to know more about my very own Spanish culture without having an actual relative teach me. I sort of felt like my speaking Spanish was as phony as Madonna’s sudden British accent.

Of course, this was something I totally made up in my head. There is not a committee of Spanish people out there evaluating whether or not I learned how to make a typical Spanish tortilla from my grandmother or the internet. I guess everything anybody is self-conscious about is really NOT that important. When I finally analyzed it, it reminded me of junior high when I used to bring a curling iron to school because I thought I’d be judged if my bangs weren’t perched in a perfect wave above my head. You’ll never guess but nobody cared about my bangs as much as I did. Still, I was so super self-conscious and afraid to use the language I absolutely love.

In order to graduate from Psychology School (which is almost over!), we had to choose a thesis project that we’d take on for 9 months. The goal is to accomplish something that we’ve always been scared of doing. Something that comes from our heart. Something that we’ve always thought impossible. Some people climb Mt. Kilimanjaro. Some people learn how to ride horses or write a book or start a business. The idea is that we’ll each run across many instances of “I can’t.” We’ll hate life. We’ll have a hard time. We’ll make mistakes, choke, suffer (yes, I am paying money to suffer). And from all of that, we’ll learn how to overcome fears, how to believe in ourselves, and that we can accomplish something we never thought possible!

I chose to figure out my own culture and clear out all the weird issues I had with it, the goal being to feel comfortable speaking Spanish with anyone and to speak it so confidently that I could use it in my career somehow. I wanted to stop searching for things outside of me and finally just define myself by learning about myself (seems kind of obvious now). Well… IT WORKED! I learned a lot by analyzing myself over and over again. Those details I will spare you, but I have several 30-page reports that can lead you down the holes in my brain. Basically, I’ve spent the last two years studying myself, which is the most self-centered degree ever. And obviously fascinating. What I learned is that I am an American who really wants my father’s culture to live on because I’m the LAST SALA! And that’s okay. I’ve taken Flamenco classes for six months. I’ve been seeing a private tutor weekly, and my Spanish is off the chain (as they say). I feel comfortable hablando con todo el mundo.

I’m a mix of cultures. I’m my own culture which, is a selective blend of my mom’s Polish cookies, my dad’s Spanish brandy, and a few episodes of Jersey Shore that I purchased one day in a moment of weakness. Sorry. In the end I’m really American.

Part of my project required that I put my Spanish out there without worrying about people judging it. So, I wrote some Spanish poetry, which helped me to realize that I really like poetry! Who knew? This whole thing is blowing my mind. So, I put that bitch online, and I like it. It’s called Half & Mitad (mitad = half).

Here’s an excerpt:

The project culminates with a summer trip to Spain. You are allowed to create your own project, and I happened to write one that included a mandatory trip for the ENTIRE summer to immerse myself in the culture that runs through my bliggity blood. SO I AM LEAVING NEXT WEEK FOR SPAIN AND IM NEVER COMING BACK I WONT BE BACK UNTIL September! Yahooooooooooooooo (I think everyone would benefit from this school).

Thanks to everyone who has been learning lessons with me along the way during these past 2 years of self-analyzation. I can’t wait to get back to writing about vaginas!

When I went to Papua New Guinea in 2009, I met a villager who asked me the name of my homeland. I told her the USA and she asked, “The United States of Africa?” Then she smiled and tried to sell me the head of a pig. A dead pig. It was on a platter. We were surrounded by shoeless people and fresh-really-fresh vegetables. I think about her all the time. And I think about who I was when I met her: dirty, curious, spontaneous, fearless (Okay, not totally fearless– there were warring tribes and machetes everywhere and maybe I slept with my flashlight). I vowed to always be at least a part of that girl no matter what. I came home convinced I’d never wear makeup again. I wanted to forever be a traveling hippie.

And then I hired a lady to clean my apartment.
I was okay with it for a while because, as I learned after I posted about her a few weeks ago, I joined a very large club of dirty Angelenos. I learned the rule that everyone in LA has a house cleaner but nobody in LA admits to having a house cleaner. I got plenty of emails saying, “Thank you for saying something. I’ve been feeling so guilty about it.”

I felt like a maid pioneer, like I was maid to have a maid (sorry).

But then she broke my toothbrush holder.

It was a very special toothbrush holder that sticks to the wall so that it doesn’t take up counter space. I bought it at CB2. I swear this will be important information if I haven’t lost you yet. The house cleaner didn’t say anything about it. She simply moved my toothbrush to my shower and pretended like it didn’t happen. I mean, she broke my toothbrush holder.

But this really wasn’t something I could tell anyone. I wanted to complain about the injustice! I wanted to tell people how rude it is for a maid to break something and not even apologize. But who goes to work and says, “Oh my god, you guys, my maid like totally broke my toothbrush holder.” I thought about that girl staring into the eyes of that pig head in Papua New Guinea and complaining to that villager that maids really shouldn’t break ceramic toothbrush holders because there are very few convenient CB2 locations, and….

WHO HAVE I BECOME!?
HELP!? I am an adult. A member of society. A member with a maid and an iPhone. I don’t wear the same clothes every day anymore (mostly), and I have brushed my hair within the last 72 hours. WHaAAAAaoooaaaaaa?! I am the person I was running away from when I left to travel.

I need to head out with a backpack. I need to stop painting my nails. I need to dance to some drums and eat something that could possibly give me diarrhea. STAT.

Once I realized that I’m a maid hirer with a broken toothbrush holder, it opened my eyes to who else I am. Here are some expressions I have uttered just this week, expressions that do not pass the Papua New Guinean test, expressions that would make me hate myself if I weren’t going to psychology school to learn how to not hate myself:

-I can’t believe Starbucks is out of Spinach/Feta wraps again.
-I have to call you back. I can’t concentrate at the self check-out while I’m on the phone.
-I can’t believe my favorite pop-up restaurant is closing.
-I’ll take the juevos rancheros with tofu instead of eggs. And can you put the sauce on the side?
-I’m not eating carbs until summer is over.
-Should I get my teeth whitened?
-I really think my hair should frame my face a little more
-Let’s sign up for a 10k
-I have such a craving for an oaky wine.
-I just can’t keep up with all my texts and emails.
-Pardon me, do you have any Grey Poupon?

I just want to apologize to that New Guinean villager for not keeping the promise I made to her as I stared into her dead pig’s eyes. I mean, I didn’t make a literal promise to her, but if we had been in a class together and she had been able to write English, she would have definitely written in my yearbook, “Don’t Change.” But I did change. I’m on the other side. I will come back, my friend. And I will be wearing my Barack Obama T-shirt for 8 days in a row like I was then. And I will have dreads in my hair after not moving it for nine months. And I will not care about the Starbucks’ menu or a dumb toothbrush holder. But I might bring up teeth whitening just so we can have a funny conversation. And I might also try to describe pizza to you once again, as that one was memorable. And I will eat that magic sauce you offer me, even though I know it’s just soy sauce and not magic at all. Or maybe totally magic.

It will happen again, as I am still that wandering, wondering girl. I’m just in a phase of the First World for a bit. But not for long. Now that I’ve tasted two personalities, I can walk the scraggly line in between them and one day hone in on a balance. Until then, I will continue to enjoy those spinach/feta wraps from Starbucks. Surprisingly good. Yep, still hate myself for writing that. I should quit that psychology school.