Remember when you asked if I wanted you to send me anything? Well, I’d really love some Vaseline Cocoa Butter lotion. People down here apparently don’t like to moisturize. And Quaker Instant Breakfast bars. I miss those.

Oh, and tampons. Lots and lots of tampons.

Love you,
~B

Me

Written almost a year ago on this very blog.  I wrote that post out of anxiety, frustration and even anger.  I was angry that I had spent so much of my time working, studying, trying to make myself into the most competitive writer/editor I could be.  And then as I was tossing my cap into the air to celebrate finally earning my degrees, the publishing world came tumbling down to lay at my feet.  

First I became numb.  I tossed out all of my old magazines, stuffed my massive collection of clips out of sight and decided that I would take a miserable office job.  Not because I wanted to, mind you, but because there was a chorus of family members—the very same ones who used to love bragging to their friends about straight A, magazine extraordinaire UGA-graduate—who were now telling me that I was irresponsible, lazy and selfish.  That ‘family’ was no longer proud of me, and they had no qualms about letting me know it.  They weren’t trying to motivate me; they were trying to break me.

Instead of yielding to their wishes to accept my life ‘as is,’ I made a plan.  I worked at a company that was disturbingly old-school in its approach to both business and the treatment of its employees.  I put in 12-hour days just because my boss(es) happened to dislike the fact that I was a young black women with more wits than them.  I sustained verbal abuse almost on a daily basis and jumped hurdle after hurdle that was set in front of me just because other people wanted to see me fall (and fail).  I saved as much of every paycheck as I possibly could.  I watched a lot of Anthony Bourdain and Andrew Zimmern.  And in January, after a survey of my finances and an even more thorough survey of ‘what happiness means to me,’ I quit.  

I say all of this in retrospect because I need to remind myself of how hard I worked to get here: writing this blog post from a tiny bunk bed in a colorful hostel on Calle La Sierra.  I’m in Chile—Santiago, to be exact.  I’ve visited vineyards, walked the streets of Providencia during sunset, met the most enchanting people while out on the town and survived the 6th worst earthquake to ever be recorded.  I’ve been here for a month, and I finally begin teaching tomorrow.  Five days later, I will move into a gorgeous apartment in Bellas Artes (literally, “Beautiful Arts”), one of the most beautiful, artistic and inspiring barrios of Santiago.  But before I embark on this marvelous journey, I wanted to give myself the proverbial “pinch.”  I wanted to remind myself that, yes, this really is my life.  

It reminds me of a poem by George Watsky in which he begs, “Don’t fall asleep yet!  Contrary to popular belief, that’s not where dreams get accomplished.”