FOHEC vs the World part 1.5

On warm summer nights in the Vine Neighborhood of Kalamazoo, Michigan, it is not unusual to hear the sounds of a saxophone rolling down the hill from Western Michigan University’s long-abandoned East Campus. What was once a corner of campus with buildings that housed subjects ranging from Industrial Arts to Women’s Physical Education, and which currently houses the University’s archives, the beautiful hilltop nestled between Oakland Drive and Davis Street has become a haven for students and Vine Neighborhood residents alike, wishing to escape the hustle of their daily routines.

            However, the calm respite afforded by East Campus may soon exist only in the history books of the Kalamazoo area. Three of the four buildings on the scenic Prospect Hill are slated to be razed by the present WMU administration, which released this decision in December 2012. The only building that will be left standing, according to the present plans, is East Hall, which served as the State Normal School, one of the original buildings on WMU’s campus. The other buildings—the North and West Halls, and the Speech and Hearing Center, along with the north and south annexes of East Hall—will all be destroyed. What is left of East Hall will become an alumni center, and the rest of Prospect Hill, which once was rumored to serve only as parking for the University’s football stadium, will become a “grassy area.”

            The Kalamazoo community is not taking this news sitting down, though. The Friends of Historic East Campus, or FOHEC, a group founded in 1999 when original plans to demolish the buildings were drafted by WMU, has been waging a fierce campaign to raise awareness of the situation of one of Kalamazoo’s most historic areas. “I see it as a form of environmental awareness,” says FOHEC employee Sessie Burns. “The buildings have stood for over 100 years at this point.”

The group, which was once an organization affiliated with WMU, has since broken off from the University. Ever since, the group has been in constant, strern, contact with the University. On January 14 2013, the group sent a letter to the WMU Board of Trustees, which highlighted their concerns over the plans for East Campus. “We commend the [WMU] President Dunn and the Board of Trustees for approving the renovation and reuse of the East Hall core, but we remain unconvinced of the need or benefit for rapidly turning most of the unique, historic East Campus into a parking lot.”

Later in the letter, the group outlined a number of “Questions to be Answered by Western Michigan University,” among them the cost of maintenance of the building, the cost of demolition, and the indirect costs of demolition and redevelopment (debt incurred during the process, for example).

            Five weeks later, the Vice President for Business and Finance, Jan Van Der Kley, sent the group a response on behalf of the Board of Trustees. Thanking FOHEC for their support over the years, along with the $63,000 the group has “contributed over the years… to help pay for the development and implementation of plays, surveys, and prospectus costs,” Van Der Kley that only “the preservation of East Hall is the best alternative when considering the financial realities and many needs of the University.” The proposed demolition would cost around $2.2 million, while the University is paying around $275,000 a year in labor, material, and utility expenses. He also stated that renovations of historic structures also cost two to three times that of traditional, ground up construction.

            For the folks at FOHEC, this answer did not suffice, even though WMU is currently around $302 million in debt. Burns is quick to point out, just as the FOHEC website does, that WMU’s own structural engineer as deemed the buildings structurally sound. “The preexisting investment that Western has put into those buildings is immense,” says Burns, “and it’s not something that they can do again.”

However, the University listed “East Campus Buildings Renovations” as a #11 on their 2012 “Building Project Priority List,” estimating a cost of $96 million, a fee that the state would not pay, leaving the school to search for private funds to complete the project. However, as the members of FOHEC could attest, raising that kind of money is impossible.

            Confronted with this roadblock, FOHEC has started a grassroots campaign that has spread across the city of Kalamazoo, from the Vine neighborhood to the West and North sides of the city. Yard signs that implore passers-by to STOP THE DEMOLITION OF HISTORIC EAST CAMPUS, along with bumper stickers bearing the same message, have appeared all over the city. Burns once even received a phone call from a woman complaining that someone put one on her front door.

            The FOHEC website has called for signatures on a petition to stop the demolition as a last ditch effort. Most of Burns’ time is spent trying to get signatures and get the word out about the demolition, which Burns says the University is pushing through with a campaign rife with misinformation. The petition has 2,285 online signatures, and “close to 1,500” hard signatures.

         Along with signatures, the FOHEC board recently nominated East Campus to be placed on a list of America’s “11 Most Endangered Historic Places” much to the disdain of the WMU Board.

         It seems like all who are asked are quick to side with the underdog FOHEC. Those who do not live in the shadow of East Hall are offended by WMU’s refusal to be straightforward about their plans, even if the University says that it is working with the group.           

Furthermore, support is immense among almost all of the inhabitants of the Vine Neighborhood. In fact, one of the two places people can pick up FOHEC yard signs is at the Vine Neighborhood Association. 

A lack of money, FOHEC seems to believe, does not mean a lack of motivation to seek other uses for the buildings, and they firmly believe that all they need is wholehearted support from the community, and so far it seems like that is enough to keep the buildings around.

Friends of East Campus versus the World, pt. 1 (without meaningful interviews)

Dear all, I'm trying to organize an interview with Sharon Carlson, the former head of archives in East Hall and the last woman to teach in the building, to fill out this story. All of the numbers are all well and good, but without a meaningful voice of someone who worked there, the story is boring. I have a number that was updated in mid-2012, but tracking her down is tricky because I'm not sure if she's still with the University. In 2009, though, she did an interview and walk-through of East Hall with the WMU newspaper, so I'm hoping, if she's still at WMU, she'll be able to give me a tour.

As a backup, I'm arranging interviews with some of the members of FOHEC, and I'll be talking to kids that have the signs up in their yards.

Here's what I have so far, I'm sorry if it seems I haven't been putting enough work in...! I'll try to update and rewrite before class Wednesday.

On warm summer nights in the Vine Neighborhood of Kalamazoo, Michigan, it is not unusual to hear the sounds of a saxophone rolling like thunder down the hill from Western Michigan University’s long-abandoned East Campus. What was once a corner of campus with buildings that housed subjects ranging from Industrial Arts to Women’s Physical Education, the beautiful hilltop nestled between Oakland Drive and Davis Street has become a haven for students and Vine Neighborhood residents alike, wishing to escape the hustle of their daily routines.

            However, the calm respite afforded by East Campus may soon exist only in the history books of the Kalamazoo area. Three of the four buildings on the scenic Prospect Hill are slated to be razed by the present WMU administration, which released this decision in December 2012. The only building that will be left standing, according to the present plans, is East Hall, which served as the State Normal School, one of the original buildings on WMU’s campus. The other buildings—the North and West Halls, and the Speech and Hearing Center, along with the north and south annexes of East Hall—will all be destroyed. What is left of East Hall will become an alumni center, and the rest of Prospect Hill will serve as parking for the nearby WMU football stadium.

            The Kalamazoo community is not taking this news sitting down, though. The Friends of Historic East Campus, or FOHEC, a group founded in 1999 when original plans to demolish the buildings were drafted by WMU, has been waging a fierce campaign to raise awareness of the situation of one of Kalamazoo’s most historic areas. The banner of the 1000 member group’s website, www.fohec.org, immediately addresses the visitor of their primary concern: “WMU’s plans make our Bronco hang his head in shame!”

            However radical the FOHEC website, communications between the group and WMU have been stern but constructive. On January 14 2013, the group sent a letter to the WMU Board of Trustees, which highlighted their concerns over the plans for East Campus. “We commend the [WMU] President Dunn and the Board of Trustees for approving the renovation and reuse of the East Hall core, but we remain unconvinced of the need or benefit for rapidly turning most of the unique, historic East Campus into a parking lot.” Later in the letter, the group outlined a number of “Questions to be Answered by Western Michigan University,” among them the cost of maintenance of the building, the cost of demolition, and the indirect costs of demolition and redevelopment (debt incurred during the process, for example).

            Five weeks later, the Vice President for Business and Finance, Jan Van Der Kley, sent the group a response on behalf of the Board of Trustees. Thanking FOHEC for their support over the years, along with the $63,000 the group has “contributed over the years… to help pay for the development and implementation of plays, surveys, and prospectus costs,” Van Der Kley that only “the preservation of East Hall is the best alternative when considering the financial realities and many needs of the University.” The proposed demolition would cost around $2.2 million, while the University is paying around $275,000 a year in labor, material, and utility expenses. He also stated that renovations of historic structures also cost two to three times that of traditional, ground up contstruction.

            For the folks at FOHEC, this answer did not suffice, even though WMU is currently around $302 million in debt. The University listed “East Campus Buildings Renovations” as a #11 on their 2012 “Building Project Priority List,” estimating a cost of $96 million, a fee that the state would not pay, leaving the school to search for private funds to complete the project. However, as the members of FOHEC could attest, raising that kind of money is impossible.

            Confronted with this roadblock, FOHEC has started a grassroots campaign that has spread across the city of Kalamazoo, from the Vine neighborhood to the West and North sides of the city. Yard signs that implore passers-by to STOP THE DEMOLITION OF HISTORIC EAST CAMPUS, along with bumper stickers bearing the same message, have appeared all over the city.

            The FOHEC website has also created a Facebook page, which so far has over 370 “likes,” and is almost continuously updated with inspirational messages, “Ok, people! It's time to kick this into HIGH gear!! We need high-profile officials and celebrity's to like our Facebook page and be a part of this movement,” and photographs of the buildings along with graphs that point out the seeming hypocrisy of the WMU administration during their campaign.

            Although FOHEC seems to be fighting a losing battle, their desire to save East Campus, which was recently nominated as one of “America’s 11 Most Endangered Historic Places,” is shared among almost all of the inhabitants of the Vine Neighborhood. In fact, one of the two places people can pick up FOHEC yard signs is at the Vine Neighborhood Association.  A lack of money, FOHEC seems to believe, does not mean a lack of motivation to seek other uses for the buildings, and they firmly believe that all they need is wholehearted support from the community.

razistan.org

Razistan.org, which was created via a kickstarter campaign, was founded by Luke Mogelson, who frequently contributes to the New York Times. I found this site through one of his articles, an awesome examination of an Afghan battalion demolishing outposts and clearing IEDs in the middle of nowhere. The article entitled "Which Way Did the Taliban Go?", along with the photo essay "Another Hard Day of Trying to Stay Alive" by one of the Razistan journalists, Joel van Houdt, totally blew my mind. This is the kind of journalism I want to do in the future, so I spent hours reading all of Mogelson's Times articles and looking through all of the Razistan journalists' stories. Some of my favorites are "Surviving the Wreckage" by Majid Saeedi, "A Village" by Lorenzo Tugnoli, and "Emergency" by Pieter ten Hoopen (especially this image, and this one; be warned, there's some blood).

This kind of journalism, especially done thoughtfully and respectfully in Afghanistan, is crucial to our understanding of the brutal and violent situation American forces have created in their country. Razistan, in my opinion, serves to combat the lack of coverage given to the area by most of the American media outlets.

For this reason, "Emergency" is probably my favorite story on Razistan. Even though most of the images depict sad, hopeless scenes, like the "Gurneys" and "Men killed in the Ashura bombing and brought to Emergency dead on arrival" linked above, those who once supported American actions should fully acknowledge the aftermath of the conflict, or at least appreciate the people cleaning up after us.

Not all of it is sad, though. A number of the stories are just plain fascinating. Check it out!

A Different Kind of Mujahid

Ahmed heard of the eminent U.S.-led invasion of Iraq shortly before it occurred on March 19^th, 2003. Not soon thereafter, he was sitting in his room studying when an American helicopter bombed a nearby apartment. The force from the explosion, he said, threw him across the room. He would later learn that that explosion killed one of his neighbors, a mother of a mujahid, while she was on the rooftop of her house reciting the Qur’an.

Ahmed a thin, well-dressed man, smiles as he tells me war stories from his village in Anbar Province. Just like his hair, seemingly to short to part, but which always remains neatly pulled neatly across his head, it seems impossible that the emotion he showed most was humor. Saddam was a terrorist, he noted with a chuckle, it was good that he was gone.

It has been over ten years since the country I call home invaded the country he calls his. He was fourteen when American and Coalition forces began their mission to topple Saddam Hussein’s regime during George W. Bush’s “War on Terror.” I was a mere twelve at the time, thousands of miles away. But I, too, watched as Tomahawk missiles slammed into Baghdad, a foreshadowing of the oncoming violence.

We first met through a mutual friend after Friday prayers at our local mosque sometime in January or February of 2013. He had just arrived in the United States, and I had just converted to Islam. For the next couple weeks, we would sit together after prayers to catch up on each other’s lives. Every now and then he would excuse himself to get up and make his rounds, shaking hands and exchanging salaams with friends or kneeling down for a short period to check in with his companions.

It seems fit that we are friends. I am one of only a handful of first generation Muslims to worship at our mosque, and he is one of only a handful Iraqis to successfully navigate the visa process. About forty other Iraqis are currently studying in the state of Michigan. He refuses to have his photograph taken or his real name printed out of fear that he will be kicked out of his exchange program, and when asked why he told me of his friend who was sent home after telling a fellow Iraqi student that her skirt was too short. They even tell us not to pray in mosques, he says.

Ahmed is used to living with restrictions, though. After the invasion, Coalition soldiers surrounded a government building near his house. They set up checkpoints that he would have to cross to get to school, and he is quick to note that soldiers would shoot at anyone who crossed the streets between his house and his school. Three of his teachers were killed by American soldiers. His neighbor, a metalworker, would clear the dead bodies from the streets.

The violence, although crippling, did not bring life to a complete halt. Ahmed remembers the soccer games he played at night in his neighborhood, undeterred by drunk soldiers shooting their weapons indiscriminately from their checkpoints surrounding the nearby government office.  If a bomb were to go off right here, he said, pointing to a grassy patch near the cafeteria in which we were eating, I wouldn’t be scared. But, he added, whenever I see an American army uniform. He trailed off, shaking his head. That is something he still fears.

American soldiers are terrorists. He has a right to say so. They are responsible for the deaths of 40-50 of his friends, neighbors, and family members. When I asked about the mujahideen, he was quick to make a distinction between our word and theirs. Just like the term jihad, there exist two meanings for mujahideen, the first and correct usage signifies those who fought the American invasion out of a need to defend their country from foreign armies. The other, more American usage of the term, signifies those who both Americans and Iraqis consider terrorists. They are the ones who, in the absence of law and order, strapped bombs to their chests and walked into crowded markets.

Ahmed’s family did not protest or fight the American invasion. Still, their house was subject to frequent armed searches. Soldiers would appear looking for weapons, taking anyone who had one into custody. They would give the Sunnis to the Shia government, who would kill them with drills. Those who were lucky to escape this fate ended up incarcerated, some for years, in one of three American prisons, Buca in the south, Susa in the north, and the most well known, Abu Ghraib, in Baghdad.

The soldiers felt comfortable when someone spoke to them in English, he says, noting that his father is a professor of Arabic at a local university. From him Ahmed learned the value of an education, and instead of taking up arms to resist the invader, he turned to his books, even if it meant endangering himself daily. In fact, three times he had to change schools due to the violence and destruction that plagued his town for years.

That same motivation brought him to the United States, where he is studying Electrical Engineering. He lives with two other Iraqis, a Sunni from Fallujah and a Shia from Baghdad. All three study at the same university. Ahmed notes that it is funny that they live together, since so much of the violence that has occurred since the invasion was due to sectarian conflict between the two biggest sects in Islam. Even here, he is quick to note the role the American forces played in the violence, telling me that the army paid Sunnis to attack Shias, and Shias to attack Sunnis. Not all of them are bad, he said, adding we hate the army so, so, so, so much because they hurt us.

Although the situation at home is still dangerous, Ahmed plans to return to his former life as soon as he finishes his studies here. To an American it may seem strange that he is so adamant about returning to a war zone, but it is hard to blame him. He lived in one for years, witness to constant bombardments and searches, crackling gunfire in the night, and the incessant sound of helicopters in the air. That is what his home has become, that is what my government has done to his country, but Ahmed does not resent me for it, nor does he resent my fellow countrymen.

I assume it is the religion that we share in common that encourages him to forgive such grave offences. He remembers them all, but yet he studies with some of the same men that once roamed the streets of his province, body armor and guns in hand, fighting a War on Terror, and at the same time fueling another.

There is hope still, though. Ahmed uses his experiences to fuel his academic career. He holds no grudges because he is not in this country because of the actions of a government that was elected to represent us. He is here because he wants to succeed, he wants to learn and he wants to thrive.

process, part two

I don't know how to write about things that matter to me. I put too much time into thinking about how I want my story to read instead of spending time writing and rewriting it. I feel a close connection with the boys I wrote about because not only are they friendly, but we've shared meals and we've prayed together (well, not with Hasim) and we've spent hours together. I don't worry about offending them at all, I just worry about doing their story justice, and I feel like that hinders my writing ability. I feel a need to tell their whole story, everything that they told me. The cruelty of the American army, their seeming support for the legitimate but short lived resistance to occupation, and their disavowal of the terrorists that presently strike fear into the hearts of all Iraqis. There's so much to write, but I just can't figure out how.

I did most of my interviews second or third week, so maybe I've thought about this too much. I want to be able to thread two narratives together, the first being the lives of the men I met, and the second being a general history of the war in Iraq, which is almost ancient history to most Americans. Over 112,000 civilians have been killed since the invasion, and now these three are living in the United States, going to school here, taking part in our community, that is fascinating, and I think my need to tell the story actually keeps me from writing it. I'll try to continue updating my rough draft before Wednesday morning. I don't care if that's cheating. It has to be done.

to be completed, some title about iraqis

The American-led invasion of Iraq, which began March 19, 2003, has had innumerable consequences for both Americans and Iraqis over the last ten years. The conflict that caused between 112,295-122,852 civilian deaths has largely been forgotten in the United States.

Tangible repercussions, besides the ongoing threat of terrorism reported almost daily by major media outlets, seem to exist only in Iraq, where the once “poor but simple” lifestyle has been violently transformed into one of fear and constant conflict.

Acknowledgement of the horrors of the nearly decade-long Iraq War ended once the last American troops were pulled out in mid-December 2011. Even before their departure a power vacuum was created, and as a cause brutal and rampant sectarian violence has crippled the Iraqi way of life.

But what about those who lived through the conflict?

Ahmed, Hasim, and Amr live together in a small three-bedroom apartment. The three of them are part of the 40 Iraqi students studying in Michigan this year. They share a small living room and a smaller kitchen in which they cook almost all of their meals together. They often sit on their floor, feet folded, and joke as they listen to music or play with their cell phones, sometimes snapping pictures of each other or their guests. Their modest home is warm and simple, just like traditional Arab hospitality would dictate. Their television, which is almost never turned on, also sits on the floor, largely ignored by those who visit.

Their house, like their country once was, is unique in its makeup. Ahmed and Amr, who are both from Anbar province, are Sunni Muslims, while Hasim, from Baghdad, is a Shia. For the last ten years, they have watched their country be ripped apart at the seams, first by Coalition forces, and later by a bloody civil war between the two largest sects in Islam. Here, however, things are peaceful, things exist as they once did, during a long-forgotten time in a place far from their present home.

Ahmed and Amr keep a strict adherence to the prayer schedule taped to their wall. Whenever they are home they pray together, and the two men always attend jummah prayers at their local mosque. They sit and nod as the imam delivers his khutbah in English

After prayers, Ahmed, the troublemaker in the apartment, can be seen in constant motion, shaking hands and exchanging salaams with his friends, kneeling down for a short period to check in with his companions, then, like a game of musical chairs, he takes off and joins another group. Amr on the other hand is almost always silent, speaking only when he is sure of what he has to say. His shyness serves as a polar opposite of Ahmed’s friendliness and his joking attitude.

Hasim is always absent when the others pray. Shias are not allowed to pray in congregation, so when Amr and Ahmed wash and get their prayer rug ready, he disappears to his room to quietly wait for them to finish. When they are done he will return, and the men will continue joking. Almost no attention is given to the differences in how they practice their religion.

It is clear from the way that the three men interact that Ahmed is the youngest. Now 24, he was a mere 14 when Coalition forces invaded his country. With a smile, one that says tenderness in any language, he recounted the his first memory of the war. “They [the Americans] bombed an apartment building with helicopters,” he said. The force threw him across the room.

From that day on, going to school was a risky endeavor. His school was a mere four blocks from his house, but due to the proximity to a government office, every street he crossed was guarded by a group of American soldiers. Ahmed reports that the soldiers would shoot indiscriminately at those who would pass, killing students and teachers alike. He said that during the worst years of the occupation, three of his teachers were killed by American soldiers and he had to change schools three times. His neighbor, a metalworker, would often pick up dead bodies from the streets, risking his life to provide a proper burial for the fallen.

At night, he says, the soldiers guarding the government offices would get drunk and fire their weapons down the streets. Ahmed laughed as he told me about the soccer matches he would play in the relative safety of his neighborhood as the crackling gunfire would tear through the calm of night.

Amr has similar stories, although he frequently chooses to nod along to Ahmed’s instead of telling his own. The 30 year-old Fallujah native is most comfortable sharing his experiences in his native Arabic, which are met with nods of approval from his counterparts and, for the most part, are not translated.

Fallujah saw some of the worst fighting of the war. In 2004, the US attempted to capture the city after a series of brutal murders of both Blackwater contractors and US Marines. On April 1 of that year, the deputy director of US military operations in Iraq claimed that the Marines “will pacify that city,” and three days later 2000 troops encircled Fallujah. Late that night the attack began, but it took only two days for American military command to announce that Marines would not try to capture the city center. At one point Marines played AC/DC and Metallica over loudspeakers to try to anger insurgents enough to bring them out into the open for snipers. Those snipers averaged 31 kills each during the battles of overtake Fallujah.

Amr smiles less than Hasim and Ahmed. He is cautious with his words and unlike the others he listens more than he speaks. He was 20 and studying in a local university when Americans invaded. For three months classes were cancelled, then finally he was able to return to school. Iraqis believe that education is of primary importance, and just like Hasim he risked his life to continue his studies.

Hasim seems to have lost faith in his religion after witnessing the pervasive violence that the civil war created. Ahmed once noted that Sunnis arrested by the Americans would be given to the Shia government, where they would be tortured with drills.

Horror stories eventually make way for hope, though. All three of the men plan on returning to Iraq as soon as they receive their degrees from Western Michigan University. Although Ahmed lost between 40 and 50 family members, neighbors and friends to the violence that ravaged his country, he says he could never leave Iraq. Hasim, who is at moderate risk as a Shia in Baghdad feels the same way.

I don't want to do it but here it is so grumble grumble.

Like almost everyone else, the section on outlines (Chapter VI) is pretty fascinating. I feel like the author is kind of pulling a Bob Knight (reference) on us, but at this level of writing (and really, after dropping 160k on a college education) it makes so sense not to outline a paper. He makes a good point though, the ETR is probably the main reason that I left that b.s. in high school.

Writing a story without an outline is like making a sandwich without the bread. It's missing something. My SIP is due this Friday and having looked through the edits my adviser compiled, I was embarrassed about how six months of thinking translated into words on a page. I wrote without an outline, and even though I knew what I wanted to convey to people and even though I wrote everything in small sections, running through it is like watching two groups of people laying a train track from opposite directions and ending up fifty feet to the right or left of the other group. I know about Fanon, I (think I) know about the political situation in Egypt, and I know what I think should be done to fix it. Almost 30 pages of zig zagging railways later, none of that was evident, and my Transcontinental Railroad looked like a poorly built roller coaster in some 13 year-old's Roller Coaster Tycoon game.

But, as our hero Jon Franklin states, "writing also involves the processing and integration of large masses of individually trivial bits of data. If you begin your story without knowing precisely where you're going [see here and and here] any mistakes you make at first, any small omissions, take on added significance as you proceed. As length grows linearly, complexity expands exponentially" (113). I wish I would have read this before writing my SIP.

And now, finally, I will try to write my next paper with an outline, one that is like those frozen drink mix cans that you buy in the grocery [you should really get this one but here it is anyways]. A little work goes a long way. I mean you can make like a gallon of juice out of that little can! I can write 30 pages from an equally impressively short and sweet outline. I think.

In Conclusion

This was the first time I have ever tried to write about Adela. I hate, and fear, sentimental writing, so I feel I had to tiptoe around, then surrender to, writing about her in the way I felt about her. Looking back on the two plus years we kept in contact, and very common contact, I realize what an unhealthy and silly relationship this was, but it is hard to describe how I was able to force that out of my mind for so long.

It was nice to write about her. Every now and then she'll drift back into my life or my thoughts, and I'm never mad about it, but writing about the two years she consumed my entire life is a confusing and tumultuous experience. For fucks sake, I could be married right now.

I realize that I should, and might have to, organize this essay in a me/her kind of way; one section could be about me and my life (why I hated school, all that (which, if you were in creative nonfiction, you know all about)) and then one about her's (her awful family, her success in school, the strains put upon her that almost lead to her downfall), but it's going to take a lot more time and effort to think about this objectively.

Also, it started out funny, and ended up being sad, and I think the parts that are more self-deprecating and dry humor-ish are far better. I plan on cutting most of the Ivrea part, which I thought was necessary, but in hindsight it doesn't fit the rest of the essay, which is much more important.

I think of more excuses for workshop. I'm just glad that I had a chance to write about Adelina mia one time before I graduated, four years after I almost married her. (ha?).

"Adela", or "How I Almost Became a Househusband"

            By my sophomore year of high school, I had already come to hate my small school and the stifling environment I was living in. I figured, like any middle-class kid with supportive parents would, why not study abroad? So, in January 2008, I found myself on a plane to Italy to spend six months living with a family an hour outside of Torino.

            Towards the end of my stay there, after almost getting kicked out of my Italian high school and having the honor of being both Liceo Classico G.F. Porporato’s first and last exchange student, the organization that arranged my stay planned a getaway for all of the exchange students in the country. This three or four day trip took place in a town called Ivrea, which is old as sin and every year holds a celebration called the Carnevale di Ivrea, or more fittingly, the Carnevale di Arancia. The whole point of this carnival is to dress up in funny (medieval) costumes to throw oranges (arancia) at each other.

            I don’t remember what I thought when I first found out that there was going to be a weekend getaway for all of us students. I faintly remember being really excited (I’m sure I have the Facebook messages to prove it), but my memory is clouded by alcohol, hormones, little sleep, too much free time, and a girl named Adela.

xxx

            Saturday night, I assume it was, was the last night we were all crammed into our massive, salmon colored, nun-run ‘hostel.' In fitting 16 or 17 year-old fashion, we were allowed to go out on the town (an unsurprisingly sleepy place) to explore. Almost all of us went straight to the bars or bottle shops (there is no drinking age in Italy (wine, culture)) to get slammed. Oddly enough, the only free drink I have ever received was given to me by a (female) bartender that night. To this day I hold to it that, like everything that stemmed from that night, it was a simple misunderstanding.

            After we all marched back to the hostel, we decided not to go to bed, and instead to keep drinking. One thing led to another, and then led me to a small room with a handful of other k ids and a bottle of Sambuca. In that same room was Adela, a beautiful Slovakian I had met on the train a couple of days before. She was smarter than I was, she spoke better Italian than I did, and she both intimidated and amazed me. We ended up making out in a hallway for the rest of the night.

            We left the next day, and although I don’t remember the train ride back to Torino, I do vividly remember Adela weeping in the train station as we were all saying goodbye to each other. Along with being smarter than I was, she was also much more emotional.

            We traded Skype names, I think, and spoke and texted every now and then for a short time. Somewhere shortly thereafter we happened to fall in love, or as I see it now, develop a crippling and devastating need for each other. I had plans to see her in Alessandria, but she got sick, she had plans to come up, but something else happened. We didn’t see each other again before we left to go home, her to Popudinske y Mocidlany, Slovakia, and me to Gainesville, Florida.

            I dreamt of Adela, I thought of her endlessly, I wanted her more than anything. I would call her la mia principessa and she would call me il mio principe and we invented a future for ourselves that sprang up from nowhere faster than weeds in spring. We spoke everyday, for hours, and every now and then she would end up weeping because non possiamo starci insieme, ‘we can’t be together.’

xxx

            Anyone that has ever carried out a conversation in a second language knows that there is only so much that you can express; emotions are often truncated and generalized, desires become cliché and simplistic, and arguments become silly and repetitive. Maybe it was because we were too infatuated with one another, but it never dawned on me through the the never ending stream of ti amo’s and sei l’unica’s that we talked about almost nothing.

            Despite the uneven ground upon which we had built our castle together, our relationship continued to evolve and grow more serious. I spent entire class periods talking to her via instant messenger about her classes or her friends or her family. Her mother and father were unhappily married; when her mother found out that she was pregnant with Adela she was forced to marry Adela’s father, a grumpy and bone-crushingly silent man. This led them to force Adela to study and to achieve more than they had been able to. Even though we communicated in a foreign language, I could tell how much of a disastrous effect this had on her, but I couldn’t do anything because sei cosí lontano da me. She wouldn’t tell me until a year or two later, but she cracked under pressure and, had her father not come home from work early, she might have killed herself.

            Our desire to escape our homes fed the flames of whatever you would call our relationship. She received almost perfect grades, won a prize at the Model United Nations for the entire European Union, and got into the best university in Eastern Europe. I played Pokemon on my Gameboy in class, spent a record-breaking amount of time in detention, and got into a small liberal arts college far from home. We made plans to see each other the summer after I graduated; non vedo l’ora di rivederti, Adelina mia, I’d say over and over.

xxx

            Adela lived in a small farming village in rural Slovakia, near the border with the Czech Republic. Almost all of her extended family lived in this village, and I was welcomed with open arms by everyone but her parents. They were afraid that what had happened to them would happen to her, and because I don’t speak Slovakian, they put unreasonable amounts of pressure on her to get rid of me. Being an18 year-old, far from home, supposedly in love, this made us grow even closer. For three weeks I stayed with them, under the very close watch of her mother.

            I became close with her cousins and, although they spoke no English, they always invited us over and even threw a huge party for me. The cops ended up showing up at some point that night, and her older cousin, who went by Bucman, told the officer that he wanted to speak to his lawyer before he spoke to them. They made me feel more at home, siamo amici, I’d say, even though her mother mi odia.

            Eventually we went to Prague for a weekend, which allowed us to pretend that all had worked out well and we were actually the couple we thought we were. It was all a blur, at one point she ended up blacking out during a pub crawl and I had to carry her back to our hostel. That, I would say, was when we started to wear on each other.

            We said our goodbyes not long thereafter in Bratislava. She took me to the train station and watched me board my train for Vienna and cried the entire time. We talked of getting married because we didn’t know better, and parted ways.

xxx

            College changed everything for both of us. We still spoke frequently, but contact trailed off as we realized that the world was bigger than what we had previously imagined. She studied economics and got lost in her work and the newfound freedom she was granted living in Prague. I drifted through an aimless first year of college and met other women. We got mad at one another more and more often, and we stopped making plans for the future.

            At one point though, she told me that if I really wanted to be her principe, that if davvero mi vuoi sposare, I could come back next summer and we could be married. By this time, however, it had started to dawn on us that it wouldn’t work, that whatever we thought we had was an outlet for all of the frustration and boredom that we felt at home. She was freed from her parents, I was freed from my private high school in the South, and we had fallen in love with other, more accessible things.

             By now, I have almost forgotten her blue-gray eyes, her brown-blonde hair, the fragility of her voice, and that birthmark on her chest, right above her heart. We still speak every now and then, only now I’m no longer il mio principe, but instead ‘Mr. Smith,’ and we share less in common now than ever.

            In certain circles, Adela has simply become that girl I almost married that one time, which makes me sound much more interesting than I am, but undeniably she made me a better person. She made me care about school, she made me learn Italian fluently, she made me listen to others and talk about my feelings, even if it was in a second language.

Target publication: Who would ever want to publish this?