Story Time

The following is an entry I wrote for my required pre-work for Teach For America. We were asked to write a "Story of Self" which highlights some of who we are, what we care about, and what motivates us. I believe we are sharing them in orientation groups if I'm not mistaken. This is what I came up with. I've written about these topics before, so sorry if it is redundant and you already know this about me. Either way, I've decided I want to hear a Story of Self from every person I meet. How cool would that be? 

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Hmm. When asked to write a Story of Self (after considering plagiarizing Wordsworth’s “Song of Myself” as a cop out) I have conflicting feelings. First, I feel insignificant. What experiences, struggles, or joys of mine could possibly be worth writing as a story? I’m not important enough for that. And then, I feel overwhelmed. How can I put in a short little segment the wholeness and complexity of who I am? My self? I have a sudden anxiety that I will not communicate effectively; I have a panic that I’ll botch it big time. Alas, such is the annoying, overwrought, angsty. melodramatic burden of every English major like myself. At this point I say: “Anna, get over it. You are worthwhile, you know it, and everyone can learn something from everyone.” Everybody has a story worth sharing.

So I think we’ll start in Spain. I always start in Spain for this stuff. I lived in Sevilla for four months of 2011. I went completely alone, with zero Spanish-speaking ability.  I lived with a (wonderful) woman of zero English-speaking ability. The first two weeks in my city were terrible. I was used to having it all together. I was used to being popular. I was used to having fun. I was used to being and feeling smart. Well, here I was with no friends, no way to communicate, and the constant sense that I was incompetent. To give you an idea of my slow progress, in the first month I told my Señora three times that I was pregnant. (That was not true, just a vocab mishap. Although I did gain weight while abroad. But that will have to be in another Story of Self for another day.) While my faith is usually strong and sustains me through stuff like this (later I saw how it did too in this situation), I just felt completely alone. I thought, what am I doing here? Why did I come here? Nobody likes me. I can’t learn Spanish. I can’t make friends. I can’t learn this culture.

And then the third Wednesday of the semester happened. I actually made plans to meet up with two friends during siesta and chit chat over churros. My crazy blonde acquaintance named Ashley became my crazy blonde friend named Ashley. The quiet chick from Montana that I sat next to in the Madrid airport became my friend Nicole. The long list of my Spain friends was started. That night, we got tapas with a group of ten others. I loved the food. I loved the people. Wait, is this the culture that I said I couldn’t learn to live within? Oops. I was wrong.

I was so wrong.

Maybe that’s where my Story of Self should take off. While I tend toward hopeless optimism, I usually give myself a much tougher critical eye. I can remember those times when I thought: I can’t do this. I’m inadequate. Every time I say something defeatist like that, my Story of Self has proven to me that I am so wrong. I can do it. I am able. I am smart. I do have value to offer to this world.

Those four months were some of the best of my life. I made a whole unruly hoard of friends. Sleep took a backseat as I went dancing, ate out, actually spoke Spanish, grew in my confidence, broadened my horizons, strengthened my faith and spiritual walk, and saw the world with new eyes.

Fast-forward. Here I am, back in the Midwest. The sangria isn’t quite as magical and I don’t walk home on cobblestone streets anymore. My senior year of college was spent back in English classes, delving into linguistics and literature. I read more Elizabeth Barrett Browning in the first semester back than should be allowed. While I loved my time in Spain, I missed those English classes for that semester. Why? Because I love a good story. English majors, in my opinion, get the best deal in college. We get to engage in what makes human beings what and who they are. We get to read, think, and talk about worldviews that shape human history. The main thing we get to do is to learn to love people and to love their stories. How is that even fair? How do I even get a degree for something as fun as that? (Maybe I should shut up on this point; my degree is still coming in the mail from Trinity.)

So this Story of Self is not really a story, but more like a snapshot I suppose. But my story is still being written. I want it to be full of pages when I find people who are saying and believing: “I can’t do it, “ and “I’m stupid,” and “I’m not important.” And I want this Story of Self to be full of pages when I run up to those people and say: “You are so wrong! You are smart. And you definitely are important." 

Because everybody has a story worth sharing.