See you next semester?

Nasrallah and I had our final breakfast together at Union Grounds a few days ago. Our breakfasts had become a tradition for us and I always looked forward to them. I didn’t look forward to them when I first woke up at seven for breakfast but I soon came to realize that starting my day with some good conversation (and a belly full of coffee) helped me wake up. I also found out that Nasrallah had to wake up even early to walk to campus from his off-campus apartment so that shut up my complaining too.

During our last breakfast, we talked about what we usually do. Classes, our families, and our future plans. I told Nasrallah about my plans to spend next spring semester abroad at University of Cape Town.

“I’ll basically be you next year,” I joked.

“Yeah man, now you’ll be the foreigner,” he replied.

I won’t be in an intensive international program at University of Cape Town and my classes will be in English, but I will be a lone person, probably the only TCU student, miles away from home. Without even realizing it, Nasrallah has been preparing me for my next adventure. He has taught me how to get the most out of travel, how to split time between school and taking in a new culture, and how to live deliberately/carpe diem/just do it. This is why it’s important to interact with and learn from people who are in different situations from yours because you never know when you might be in that situation one day.

The conversation then turned to Nasrallah. He doesn’t know what he’s going to be doing next semester. He basically has a job waiting for him at home but wants to continue his education at either TCU or Alabama. He also really wants to get married soon, which may sound shocking to an American but it isn’t really when you consider how many people are going for that ring by spring. Pursuing an education even when you have a guaranteed job at home is one of the most respectable decisions I can think of. I told him to keep me posted on what unfolds and we both parted ways for class.

Since then, I’ve run into him twice on campus, which has never happened before. Both times were awesome coincidences. People talk a lot about the TCU bubble, but I think the TCU student bubble is a more accurate concept. Each student, myself included, gets so entrenched in his or her paths, major, minor, extracurriculars, srat, frat, and friend group. It’s often hard to remember that nine thousand other lives are happening around you and each one of those lives has different problems, different types of homework, different rules, and maybe a different first language. Both times running into Nasrallah on campus popped my TCU student bubble that consists of SAC, thousands upon thousands of literature papers, and creative writing portfolios. We stopped and talked for just a few minutes but both helped me see out of my situation and it was healthy for me to realize that I wasn’t the only one who had inordinate amounts of work to do before finals started.

Last night, Nasrallah texted me to say that he’d had a great time hanging with me this semester and that he was at the airport and headed home to Saudi Arabia. I was stoked for him because I know how much he loves Saudi Arabia, especially the dates, and how much he misses his family, but as the conversation went on, I asked what he would be doing next semester. He told me he wasn’t sure but that he would keep me posted. He also asked for my Skype address.

When I first found out we had conversation partners for class, I thought it would be another bullet point to add to my checklist. My time with Nasrallah has proven to be much more than that, but something to look forward to that gives me perspective even during my most stressful weeks. Best of all, the conversation partner “assignment” is one that I plan to continue long after the semester ends.

Water As An Attraction

The first place I saw in Fort Worth was the Water Gardens. My sister’s friend picked my mom and me up from DFW at night. I was in town to go on a tour of TCU and wanted to see around the city so, as one naturally does at 8 pm, we went to the Water Gardens.

Every summer since I can remember, my entire family goes to stay at my uncle’s house on Arnica Bay on the Alabama Gulf Coast. We fish, go shrimping, and spend lots of time napping in the hammocks suspended above the shore where the brackish water laps.

This past summer, I went on a Summer Program with TCU Study Abroad to New Zealand and Australia. While we were in New Zealand, we drove two hours from our home base of Auckland to stay in Rotorua, a quaint town that sits on the country’s second-largest lake with thousands of geothermal fissures that eke plumes of steam heavenward.

Water is an attraction, a destination that has been Disneyfied, crowded with condos, and pumped from distant rivers just so it can slide down concrete steps into a bubbling pit. Real estate on most bodies of water, whether it’s Lake Worth or the Mediterranean, is more expensive than land-locked properties. We don’t flock to any other substance like we do to water because water is endlessly fun. Water is necessary for: water balloons, chicken fights, shrimping, fishing, intertubing, dolphin cruises, and countless other shenanigans. Diving into water, whether it be a YMCA pool or the Mediterranean, is an other-worldly experience of weightlessness and blindness that should be terrifying, but something in most people’s nature keeps them jumping into the stuff. This otherworldliness is the reason water is so enticing, not the chicken fights, which is the reason I think the Water Gardens are so popular.

DFW is the largest US metroplex with no navigable link to the sea, making the Water Gardens an urban oasis. The multiples water fixtures within the park are a welcome break from the coughing engines and humming generators that surround the space. Unlike the cars that follow the downtown grid system to make their way to the Water Gardens, the water in the fountains moves freely and disorderly as it cascades down into the main fountain. The water in the aerated fountain moves in contrast to the impressive, waterfall-like main fountain. The aerated water jumps up and moves out like a kid hopping from tile to tile to avoid floor-lava. The third pool is interesting because of its lack of movement. Here, the water is still except for the occasional push from the wind. The effect is overwhelmingly peaceful.

While I was at the Water Garden with our class, I took slow motion videos of the water because I did the same thing while we were in New Zealand with water that also moved in interesting ways. Why I took slo-mo videos? No clue. Was I feeling artsy? Maybe. Rotorua’s geothermal pools bubble and stew angrily, unlike the rapids or calming stillness of the Water Gardens’ fountains. However, there is something distinctly aquatic about the disparate genres of dance each of the waters perform. Water moves effortlessly and constantly. Even when it hits a dam or sits in a stagnant pool, water ripples and finds a way to work around its barriers.

Whether it’s defying gravity or bubbling up from the earth’s stomach, water moves bewitchingly, offering a respite from our urban and suburban lives where movement is calculated and rarely defies physics. And while I don’t suggest going to the Water Gardens at 8 pm, I can understand why someone would make the place a tourist’s first pit stop in the Fort. Water as an attraction is both familiar but always new, always changing, and captivating.

So many ice cream socials, so little time

A few Fridays ago, my day was an episode straight from a Disney Channel show. I was invited to the IEP ice cream social at the Rec, which started at one, but, hold on, the plot thickens, I’d also been invited to the English major ice cream social at the same time. Which one does he go to? Well read and see what hijinks ensues with this scheduling debacle.

The obvious choice was the IEP ice cream social because it’s where Nasrallah was going to be and I love spending time with him but our schedules are hard to coordinate when we will meet. But, the English major ice cream social had free books AND Cody Westphal on guitar was going to be the live entertainment. I wound up deciding to split my time between both ice cream socials and yes, I realize how ridiculous it to be invited to two different ice cream socials (which I didn’t even know were a thing before I was invited to two in one day). Also, I promise to stop using the term ice cream social.

I went to the Rec feeling like a seasoned attendant of poolside parties at the Rec thanks to my adventures with Nasrallah. I found Nasrallah and we caught up and I talked to his friends in the program that I’d met before. One of my favorite parts about going to IEP events is feeling like each time I go I get to know the students better. Over the semester, I’ve gotten to know not only one awesome Saudi but four. It’s the posse I hang out with at IEP events and they’re all as cool and nice as Nasrallah.

Another awesome part of the IEP event was seeing other classmates with their conversation partners. Until going to the event, I thought that Nasrallah and I were special because we hit it off from the start, but as I looked around the patio, I realized that all of my classmates were engrossed in conversation with their partners. I was so happy to see that the experience had worked out well for me but for all of my classmates who were there. I also got to introduce Nasrallah to my friends in my class like he has done for me.

I got so caught up in talking to classmates and their partners that I completely forgot about the English major shindig. I was having such a good time with Nasrallah that I decided to stay longer than I had expected. Nasrallah brought dates to the party, which is an inside joke between us. Whenever we go to breakfast together at Union Grounds, he, without fail, brings up dates and how good they are. The guy is obsessed with them, so he was thrilled when I tried his dates and gave them my stamp of approval. While I did like them, I’m nowhere near as date-obsessed as Nasrallah. After some quality time with my Saudi friends, I decided to check out what was going on at the English major get-together outside of Sandler.

By the time I got to the English extravaganza, they were out of Sweet Sammie’s, Cody was packing up his guitar and the books were picked over, the few left strewn across a card table. I wasn’t too upset though. A sunny afternoon with new friends is better than ice cream or even free books or even Cody on guitar.

Eid All About It

I’ve become a frequent guest at the Rickel, the neglected academic wing to the side of the Rec where the IEP holds their classes. At one of our breakfasts at Union Grounds, Nasrallah invited me to come to a presentation about Eid al-Adha. Once again, I was so impressed by my conversation partner’s leadership and English skills.

Like the Saudi Day presentation, Nasrallah was in charge of the Eid presentation and taught everyone about Eid. Eid is a Muslim holiday that celebrates Allah’s mercy that he shows when he provides a ram for Abraham to sacrifice instead of his son Ishmael. Sound familiar? If you grew up going to Sunday School, you should recognize the story from Genesis 22 in which Abraham is tested when God asks him to sacrifice his son Isaac.

Eid not only commemorates Allah’s mercy; it’s also a day of feasting and celebrating. Nasrallah explained that another Eid tradition is for grandparents to give their grandchildren money. He then showed us this commercial, which everyone laughed at:

As an American Christian, I am so tired of “Put the Christ back in Christmas” campaigns and people complaining about the commercialization of Christmas. Corporations using holidays as a marketing ploy is not a distinctly American tactic. Gulf Bank uses Eid as a way to promote itself much like the kids in the commercial are using their granddaddy as a piggy bank. Making any holiday, whether it’s religious or not, about money is obviously wrong, but as long as families are gathering and sharing a meal I’m pretty sure Allah or God or Yahweh or whatever you want to call Him or Her shows up.

After the presentation, we had a Mediterranean feast waiting for us out by the pool. I once again congratulated Nasrallah on giving another insightful and eloquent presentation. He received the compliment humbly and thanked me for coming. Two girls were lying out by the pool. We interrupted their tanning session when someone dragged out an old sound system and started blasting Middle Eastern music. The girls had to have been super confused; I would’ve been too, but then again, who goes tanning at the Rec pool on a Tuesday, or any day really?

From our conversations, I know that Nasrallah is sometimes as confused by TCU as those sunbathers must have been. Nasrallah is incredibly smart, an English major respects anyone studying chemical engineering, but sometimes he just doesn’t get TCU culture. In all honesty, I don’t always get it either. However, in this situation, Nasrallah and the IEP students were in the majority as they filled their plates with delicious looking food that probably reminded them of home and the white girls were vastly outnumbered.

I went through the food line and got hummus, kafta, and root beer. The food was incredible and I went up for seconds and thirds. Going to an IEP event for a second time was awesome because I got to see Nasrallah’s friends that I got to meet at Saudi Day. I’m not only getting to know Nasrallah better, but am getting a whole host of Saudi friends. Although many nations are represented in the IEP, most of Nasrallah’s friends are Saudi Arabian. Not many of them knew each other in Saudi Arabia before they got to TCU, but the Saudis seem to gravitate to each other. I think having someone who understands where you come from is nice when you’re transitioning to a new place. They know what shows you watched when you were a kid, what sports you grew up playing, and what holidays you celebrate.

Nasrallah and I grew up thousands of miles apart, but it has been fun learning about each other’s cultures, eating each other’s food, and learning about how we celebrate. SPOILER ALERT: people all over the world like to eat with people they like.

Perogies are the New Dates

Shelly and I went to the food truck park on the Trinity on an unseasonably hot day. That being said, I’m not sure if unseasonable is in Texas’s vocabulary when you have the joy of experiencing the extremes of each season in a span of 24 hours. But above all, it was hot, really hot, and neither of us were dressed for it.

The Trinity Food Truck Park is one of my favorite places in Fort Worth because it reminds me of home. In high school, my friends and I would spend hours of summer afternoons at a taco truck in a Texaco parking lot because the tacos were tasty and cheap. The food trucks here offer a much nicer view, the Trinity, than the taco truck does. The taco truck overlooks an abandoned nightclub called Ibiza. The Trinity Park also has a variety of food options. As we made the loop, lingering in front of particularly delicious-smelling trucks, we settled on what we would get for lunch. Shelly opted for Tex-Mex and I got some Russian food, perogies and a cabbage salad.

Why did I order Russian? I’d just watched an episode of Orange is the New Black where Red talks about how great perogies are so that probably had something to do with it, but I was also tapping into the roots of my family tree.

Meeting with Nasrallah has been a great part of this semester and one of my favorite things about him is that he has such a strong cultural identity. He talks about camel races and dates, always dates. He is absolutely obsessed with dates and eats them as much as I eat Chick-Fil-A chicken nuggets. I sometimes feel inadequate when talking with a guy whose sense of place is so embedded in his identity. Like most Americans, I feel like my cultural identity is washed down and when people ask me “what I am” after they spout off their Dutch-Anglo-Scots-Irish lineage, I usually just say, “Florida trailer trash,” which isn’t entirely untrue.

However, I do know my great grandfather came over from Ukraine and that’s about as “ethnic” as I can get. I know a Ukrainian folk song about a horse and eat holuptzi when my grandma would makes it on special occasions, and that’s the extent of my Ukrainianess. I ordered Russian food because I thought maybe I’d like the perogies as much as Nasrallah likes dates. I was wrong, but you live and you learn not to always trust Red.

Although they weren’t my favorite, I scarfed down the perogies in about 2.5 seconds because I was hungry and will eat just about anything. I also wound up eating most of Shelly’s taco salad too. After finishing a meal and a half, we got ice cream from a stand near the river. We then walked closer to the Trinity and ate our ice cream while watching the river.

I don’t think the Trinity is beautiful. It’s tea-colored, narrow, and sometimes I can’t even tell if it’s moving; it’s like my Nana’s decrepit Yorkie. When I drive to campus at the beginning of each school year, I cross the Mississippi. The Mississippi is wide and forested and it buzzes with boat traffic. The Mississippi is beautiful in ways that the Trinity can’t be, but it’s unfair to compare the two. However, the Trinity is still a better view while eating food made in a truck than a Texaco parking lot is.

Shelly and I turned back to the parking lot when the last of our ice cream had been either eaten or melted by the sun. We stalked dogs on leashes until we were close enough to ask their owners if we could pet them. While perogies might not remind me of where I come from, a dog’s stupid waggy tail always will.

All roads lead to Detroit

Driving home to Birmingham usually takes around ten hours. However, a fan of speed (and detester of Highway Patrol) I always try to beat my personal record of nine and a half hours. But for this Fall Break, it took me thirteen and a half hours to get home… and I was flying… and not very happy… and there wasn’t enough Biscoff in the world to make me a happy traveler.

I left campus at 5:00 am Friday morning in hopes of making a 7:30 am flight to Atlanta that had a quick connection to Birmingham. I would be home by 11:30 am, which gave me more than enough time to make the three-hour drive to Sewanee, TN to spend the night with my best friends from high school. But God and the air traffic controllers had different plans for me.

I was flying home because my family friend who works for Delta had offered me one of her Buddy Passes, which makes travel affordable but also gives Delta the right to screw you over. I watched the list of Standby Passengers who had been cleared with the same intensity with which I watch The Walking Dead. I got bumped from that flight, and the next, and the next, a process that took six hours. Ifinally found myself in the food court of DFW eating a pretzel and binge-watching The Office, completely resigned to my eternal exile in America’s second-largest airport until my Delta friend finally called me with a new plan: I would fly to Detroit and make a quick connection home.

When I’d woken up at 4:00 am, I hadn’t planned on winding up in Detroit, but I would’ve hopped on a flight to anywhere at this point just to get home. My Buddy Pass finally cleared for the Detroit flight and I high-fived everyone in line because spending seven hours in a DFW terminal changes you. After landing in Detroit, I sprinted through the airport to make my thirty-minute connection. As I ran (relative term for me) past travelers and boarding gates I spied a familiar sight. I realized I was in Terminal B and that the giant black rock squirting out water was the Terminal B fountain that Charles Fishman describes in The Big Thirst. I was legitimately excited. I felt like I’d spotted a celebrity. I took an out-of-breath video for y’all’s enjoyment and hopped on my flight home.

By the time my sister picked me up from Birmingham-Shuttlesworth, I had been travelling for thirteen hours and was too pooped to make the drive up to Sewanee to hang with my friends so we opted for a sibling Project Runway marathon. Because I stayed at home instead, my plans changed and I got to head out to the river the next day with my friend Kinsey.

Kinsey’s river house sits on a pristine section of the Coosa River, forty-five minutes outside of downtown Birmingham. My church’s youth group had been staying there all weekend for a retreat so I got to see even more friends. After some front-porch-sitting and sweet-tea-drinking, Kinsey and I set out on kayaks to explore the Coosa and I was reminded of our class trip to the Trinity, yet the Coosa and Trinity have their share of differences.

The Coosa is deep, wide, sky-blue, and surrounded by pines. Overall, it just feels healthier than the Trinity. Unlike our class trip, Kinsey and I had no agenda, so instead of sticking with one direction, we took advantage of the slow current and floated aimlessly about the river, telling stories and planning our futures then laughing at how clueless we are when it comes to the future.

When our skin started to turn pink, we paddled back to the dock and got ready to head home. In the laundry room, I passed a chalkboard painted wall where our friends have started a tradition of leaving messages every time we leave the river house. I found the Simba and smushed handprint (inspired by Rafiki) that I had left at the end of the summer and an esoteric message from our friend Bethanne: “Rivers and Roads.”

A song by The Head and the Heart, “Rivers and Roads” started out as an inside joke among my friends when we were high school seniors. The lead singer dramatically croons, “A year from now we’ll all be gone, all our friends have moved away,” to set a weepy tone for the nostalgic song. My friends and I used to make fun of the sappy hipster anthem, but the more we listened to it, the song began us because, although obtuse and overdone, the song beautifully portrays the theme of coming home and staying in touch, two actions that I didn’t realize were so important until I left for college. The rivers and roads are a means by which the singer can get home or to the people/person he loves.

I’d wandered thousands of miles down rivers and roads to get home for Fall Break. As I went, it didn’t always seem worth it, but it was in the end; worth the conversations Kinsey and I had out in the kayak, worth the kisses I got from my beagle, and worth the Project Runway marathon. Rivers come with hairpin turns and rapids that rush you past fountains you’ve read about, away from certain friends, and towards others. My river is unchartable, sometimes running through the Detroit Airport, sometimes polluted by impatience, but my river will always lead home.

[I seem to keep ending these things with a song, so here you go. #grabyourtissues #thoseharmoniesaretasty]

When literature changes its meaning, or: How angsty music from your teenage years can stay with you for a while

October is a magical thirty-one days that begins with cobalt skies and football games then ends with bonfires and candy corn. Flanneled and coffeed, I spend more time outside during this month than I do during the oppressively humid summer. Air is more breathable, the sun shines clearer, and all things are more pumpkin-spiced.

I have held a tradition for the past five Octobers. I listen to Bon Iver’s album “For Emma, Forever Ago” whenever I am in my car or studying. My constant autumnal companion, the forty-minute album was written in solitude by a man during a month-long stint in a Wisconsin cabin and is about breaking up with the titular Emma. Acoustic-driven and hauntingly sparse, “For Emma, Forever Ago” mirrors October’s air of change, a shift from summer dalliances to winter isolation and that gloriously blue moment between the two. At this point, I have the album memorized, but it is still a ubiquitous feature to all of my Octobers.

Despite my five-year relationship with “For Emma,” it sounds different to me with each listen. It literally sounds different because the blank CD Walt burned for me in ninth grade now skips and flits from bridge to chorus and back. However, the album also has a different feel. This year, it has sounded less melancholic to me and I’ve interpreted its stripped back production as a means of honest story-telling as opposed to a plea for pity from the spurned lover who wrote the album. Whether or not this means I’m happier than I was last year, I’m not sure, but I think it sounds different because we coerce literature into meeting us where we want it to meet us. We learned at the beginning of the semester that anything you can read is literature, so I’d consider “For Emma “ to be literature because its lyrics are just that, lyrical poetry that’s spiced up with an acoustic guitar and some simple chords. My listening of “For Emma” this year is different than last year’s because I want to hear an honest story, not some over-emotionalized break-up song.

I felt similarly when we read Huck Finn in class. I’d read the book in sophomore English and loved it, but I had different feelings about it when I reread it for Lit and Civ. I originally admired the novel for its readability and its groundbreaking treatment of race. I didn’t have as great of an experience reading the novel this time, and I think it has to do with this October’s reading of “For Emma.” I was on board, pun intended, with Huck Finn up until the last one-third of it when Tom Freaking Sawyer had to show up and soliloquize for forty pages about prison escapes and witches and snakes. Huck is one of American literature’s greatest narrators because he doesn’t know how to be anything but honest. In contrast, Tom has a knack for deception and panache. “Tom’s” section of the novel undermines the other two-third’s earnestness by subjecting Jim to humiliating designs that only benefit Tom. The ending bothered me this semester while I had read it as a comedic break from the rest of the novel during my first reading.

My readings of both pieces are different because I’m making literature speak to my current situation, which is not the same as it was last year or when I was a high school sophomore. Maybe I crave an honest story because I am tired of lies. Maybe I’m tired of symbolism and motifs. Or maybe I’m just happy it’s October and won’t let even the mopiest of indie albums get me down.

[Boost your hipster cred and listen to the whole album on repeat with this link. Well maybe not on repeat because that would probably get old. But, hey, we’re all getting older so listen to it. #mustache #pumpkinspice #basic #flannel #boots #bonfires #toocoolforyou #justkidding #yourecooltoo]

Coffee at Union Grounds cuz we’re so srat

I have had an incredible experience meeting with my new friend Nasrallah these past few weeks, however, I was not so thrilled when he asked if we could meet at Union Grounds at 8 am. Being half koala (other half Siberian tiger), I value sleep above most things, yet I conceded because I know how busy Nasrallah is throughout the week being a boss at engineering while mastering a second language and such.

I rolled out of bed looking pretty #flawless and trekked across the Commons which was uncharacteristically quiet, as if the place itself were still asleep. I’m pretty sure Nasrallah got there before me, but memories are pretty hazy pre-mocha. After injecting myself with Starbucks caffeine, we sat down in an empty Union Grounds and sipped our over-priced drinks.

“Next week is a Muslim holiday and I’m giving a presentation on it if you want to come,” Nasrallah started.

“Is it Eid?” I answered like a pro.

“Yeah. How do you know what Eid is?” Nasrallah said, surprised that I knew about this holiday that is obscure to most Westerners.

I explained that I knew about it from my old roommate Zaid who is a Pakistani Muslim. Last year, Zaid invited me, along with some other guys, to celebrate Eid al-Adha with his family in Arlington. As soon as Zaid had explained Eid as “Muslim Thanksgiving,” I was on-board, and his description did not disappoint. At his home, we had eaten a feast of samosas, veggies, and, the star of the dinner, goat. We also observed the traditional Middle Eastern custom of eating with our hands; a practice I propone because I like to eat fast and utensils just get in the way.

After recounting this to Nasrallah, he understood why a white preacher’s kid from Alabama knew what Eid was all about. It’s all about food and there’s a little bit of religion in there, which is something my Baptist self can relate with. Nasrallah assured me that there would be plenty of food following his presentation, so I agreed to come. Wanting to impress him even more, I compliment-asked (that thing people do when they ask a question they know the answer to) about the meaning behind Eid:

“Isn’t Eid celebrating the time Abraham took his son out into the desert to sacrifice and God provided the ram?”

“Yes. God told him to sacrifice Ishmael, but he didn’t have to because God provided the sacrifice,” Nasrallah added to my compliment-question.

Zaid and I had had this conversation last year, when I corrected him, asininely, saying, “I’m pretty sure he was sacrificing Isaac…” I wasn’t pretty sure. I knew I was right. Ten years of Vacation Bible School had taught me so.

“Well we believe that Abraham took his other son Ishmael out into the desert,” Zaid replied.

Rather than God saving the doted-upon, long-awaited for Isaac, Eid celebrates God saving Ishmael, Abraham’s bastard, conceived by a slave-girl. Isaac compared to Ishmael is basically Lady Sibyl v. Lady Edith to put it in Downton Abbey terms. For me, the Islamic interpretation of this story has a much more emotional impact on me as an imperfect human and, while I am not a Muslim, I understand why people would want to celebrate a God who sacrifices himself for the unloved, not only the beloved. The differences between the two Abraham accounts are minute but not insignificant, much like the differences between Christianity and Islam as a whole.

Although we grew up hearing tweaked versions of the same story, Nasrallah and I could both agree that: it was too early, caffeine’s inventor deserves a Nobel Prize, and goat flank is best served as a finger food.

[If you want to read about how the West African Ebola outbreak affected Eid celebrations this year, I’ve attached a BBC article that is short and informative. God save the Queen y’all.]

Ebola outbreak: Eid celebrations subdued in West Africa

Merrily, merrily, merrily, merrily life is but a… PADDLE FASTER, SHELLY

In sixth grade, I went on a 21-mile weekend canoe trip with the Boy Scouts of America. Bad experience or worst experience of my life? I’m not sure, but I will say, I did quit Boy Scouts a month later. I love nature. Hiking, kayaking, and hammocking are some of my favorite activities, however, structure and schedules are some of my least favorite things. Middle school extracurricular history aside, I had mixed feelings about our class canoe trip. I was stoked to be connecting with Mama Earth but my back starts to tense up every time I hear the word canoe. However, as Shelly and I, in our matching tie-dye, paddled down the Trinity, I was generally happy, in need of Advil, but generally happy.

Shelly and I were solidly in last place, which was fine because we just gossiped about everyone else on the trip (just kidding guys… mostly). We did take the lead for a fleeting moment of victory, putting all our energy into one grueling effort where we passed Gunnar and Dr. Williams, but that was short-lived and taking the lead had kind of exhausted us half a mile into the trek so we settled for last. We did find a blue shell at one point but decided not to use it because the blue shell is pretty cheap.

Away from the group, we slipped into the rhythm of the river and felt a mix of aloneness and companionship that Huck and Jim must’ve felt. We did improv scenes as Huck and Jim. I tried out some stand-up material on Shelly. We talked about life-stuff, future-stuff, and friend-stuff. Being isolated but moving let us be free from campus, judgment, and technology.

We also sang. A lot. So be thankful we were a full mile behind the next closest group. There was a lot of Disney, the most apt selection being “Just Around the Riverbend” from Pocahontas. The opening lines and overall theme are important lessons for me right now. When in doubt, look to Disney. It makes soul-searching easier and more musical.

The song opens, “What I love most about rivers is you can’t step in the same river twice.” Just like us, nature is in constant motion. The Trinity won’t be the same the next time I visit it. Shelly won’t be the same the next time we talk and neither will I because we also redirect our energies and currents. We cannot live as ponds, we will always be adrift, and if you’re lucky you get to share your canoe with people who care about you, and will wear tie-dye with you, and will belt Disney songs with you. And also hopefully someone who can paddle faster than Shelly.

The song also poses the titular question, “What’s around the riverbend?” Pocahontas doesn’t know whether she should marry Kokoam (which will be my future son’s middle name) or stay single. For Pocahontas, a hunky blond Englishman lay just beyond the riverbend. While I wish I had Pocahontas’s luck, I have no clue what’s around my riverbend. But who does? That’d be boring. From what I’ve ascertained during my first three semesters in college I’d say that college is more about the river, not the bend. You keep on moving and living in the moment and maybe one day you’ll paddle by a hot Brit. Life isn’t a Disney movie, but I can dream.

Ain’t no party like a Saudi party, cuz a Saudi party is in the basement of the Rec

Having a connection with exchange students is crucial to getting an invite to the party of the year, and yes, I’m talking about the Saudi Day Celebration, or as I like to call it, the Middle East Mixer. Not your typical TCU party, the dress code for girls is a hijab and anything green for guys. Also, there’s no alcohol because Muslims generally don’t drink and because the Saudi Day Celebration is in the basement of the Rec. But in complete honesty, the Saudi Day Celebration was a great experience and I learned so much more about Nasrallah’s country.

Upon opening the classroom door where the party took place, I was shocked to see how packed it was and who those people were. Here was the diversity that Nasrallah and I had wished for at our first lunch together. Chinese, Ghanan, and even an American or two had also caught wind of the exclusive party and wound up in the Rec’s basement. I found Nasrallah and we talked for a while until he began his presentation on Saudi Arabia. I found a seat behind girls in hijabs who kept SnapChatting selfies.

Nasrallah started the presentation and explained that September 23 is Saudi Day, which is basically Saudi Fourth of July. Nasrallah did a great job explaining Saudi Arabia’s history, economy, and culture. The most interesting part of the presentation was about gender roles. Nasrallah explained that Saudi women are legally not allowed to drive. However, he went on to teach that Saudi Arabia has the largest all-women university in the world. The selfie-takers who sat in front of me would go back to a country where they could be educated but couldn’t drive themselves to a job interview. It is an irony I still don’t understand, but then again, try explaining sororities and fraternities to a Saudi. As a feminist, I obviously take issue with Saudi Arabia’s legal restrictions on women’s rights. In the US, people feel entitled to a driver’s license as soon as they are sixteen, regardless of gender let alone driving skill level. As sexist as our own country is, women throughout the world face discrimination on a level Americans, myself included, struggle to comprehend. I knew that the ban on women drivers existed from articles I’d read in the past, however, being in the same room as women affected by the legislation made the law realer.

However, the vast majority of Muslims are not women-hating jihadists. The Muslims I’ve met in my own life have been many things, but not these. My roommate last year was a Muslim who binge-watched “Breaking Bad” and loved napping, just like any college student. Nasrallah loves to travel and wants to work for an oil company when he grows up, goals that TCU business students can probably relate to. Muslims are students, Netflix-subscribers, men, women, cowboys, and selfie-takers. They also happen to be Muslim. Having friends of the Islamic faith makes watching something like Bill Maher’s Islamophobic rant nausea-inducing (I’ve attached a link. Watch it. Get angry. Or agree. Whatever floats your boat. It’ll be something to talk about in the comments).

Nasrallah lead the presentation and had made the Prezi the night before. I wanted to stand up and say, “Guys, that’s my friend and he just gave a flawless presentation in his second language,” but I decided it might be rude if I did. Afterwards, I told Nasrallah how great the presentation was and we got some Saudi food. I drank tea that tasted like food—like no joke that’s the only way I can explain it, it must be a Saudi thing—and ate lots of baklava. I got to meet Nasrallah’s Saudi Arabian friends who were equally as kind and welcoming as Nasrallah. We ate green cotton candy—a Saudi delicacy (jokes, green is Saudi Arabia’s national color)—and talked about stuff friends talk about.

Seeing a different side of TCU has been refreshing because it reminds you that TCU is more than your major classes, football, and almost getting hit on University. Nasrallah and his friends are just as much Horned Frogs as I am, we just celebrate different independence days.

http://www.theguardian.com/film/2014/oct/06/ben-affleck-bill-maher-sam-harris-islam-racist