This semester I decided to find myself an internship. The process was like the Odyssey, only with more paper work. As far as I know, Odysseus never had to write any cover letters. It was stressful, arduous, and time consuming but in the end I got an internship. Next semester I’ll be writing grants for the Gig Harbor History museum. It’s a fun environment with enthusiastic and dedicated people, which counts for a lot. I decided not to pursue an internship when an interviewer said to me “this job requires a thick skin which I don’t think you have.” That day I got to bike three miles there and back with a migraine to be insulted by a complete stranger. Fun. The internship process is full of little pitfalls like these which is why I’m going to share what I’ve learned. I sincerely hope it makes your life easier.

1. Start early. Remember how it took Odysseus twenty years to get home? Well finding a good internship took me five different applications. Don’t expect the first opportunity to you find to pan out.
2. Use resources like ASK Night and the Career Fair. I found my internship at the Career Fair. It was a great way to meet potential employers and see face to face who I was dealing with.
3. Leave yourself plenty of time to get to interviews. I borrowed my roommate’s car and couldn’t figure out how her ignition worked. Previously, I had only driven a Prius, where you push a button and away you go. I sat there for a half an hour sending panicked texts and having several mini heart attacks.
4. Be prepared for internship limbo. This is the period after you interview but you haven’t heard back yet. It’s a bit like Calypso’s Island without the sex. You sit there, not doing anything, and it drives you nuts.
5. An interview is a two way street. When you interview with an organization you are also interviewing them. Ask questions. If it’s going to make you miserable you want to find out before you decide to work there.
6. Celebrate. You worked hard. You deserve a treat, a little bit of your favorite something. Just don’t do the lotus eater thing.

If my advice doesn’t work out… find your own. Good luck with your search!

Because I came to University of Puget Sound.  Because I joined the sailing team, and because the Northwest college sailing conference scheduled its fall Eugene regatta for this weekend.  Because sometimes life works out this way, I was there, singing to my grandma with a small chorus of other family members.    I won’t question it too much; I guess you could say it was meant to be.

The rain was thrashing down and pooling on I-5 on our way down.  I was in a car with four people I’d scarcely exchanged words with, nodding off to the pounding of weather and windshield wipers and cars.  We got to the house we were staying at, the home of one of the U of O sailors, later than I thought we would and crashed with our ten other teammates in his living room, one person taking a sleeping pad to the kitchen once every nook and cranny of floor space was already full.

A few hours of fitful sleep later, we we were driving past the glassy water of the Fern Ridge Reservoir.  When the wind picked up later it would get a “churned mud” look about it, but with the morning pinks and blues reflecting off its perfectly calm surface, the reservoir was beautiful.

In Spanish we’ve been reading sonnets about the passage of time and the decline of beauty, in which roses are doomed to die by icy winds at the coming of winter.  These icy winds have been playing around campus lately, knocking branches off trees, sculpting icicles that hang off of Jones fountain.  The winds were knocking down branches in Eugene that day, freaking out my mom’s friend Cathy as she drove along a country highway to come pick me up.

The winds came to the reservoir, gusting, powerful but not icy, turning the glassy reservoir into a cauldron of waves lining up to crash against the dam at the far end.  Ellen, my fresh-into-college crew, stayed impressively calm as a gust took us far from the start line, and helped me tack over so we could make our way back on a reach.

There are winds that bear me up, and winds that knock me down, and that day the winds knocked our boat right over, a puff hitting us as we turned downwind.  I stood on the centerboard, pulling, trying to leverage my weight against the inevitable motion, but the boat kept flipping a full 180 degrees and I was forced to fall back in the water.  We righted the boat and climbed back in, but as I was contemplating whether to try and race, the other  boats headed for the dock; the wind was too dangerous to continue.

Cathy and my sisters were there when we got back to the dock, Ellen and I proud to have made it out alive, but ashamed of the mud stain left on the sail from its encounter with the bottom of the lake.

When I was in Chile, I learned about an old rural tradition (I don’t know if it’s still practiced) in which infants that die are dressed as “angelitos,” “little angels,” complete with little feathery wings attached to the backs of their clothing.  As it was told to me, friends and family are not supposed to cry, lest their tears weigh down the wings of the angels.  Instead, they sing, and the baby’s soul flies up to heaven.

Cathy and my sisters took me to my grandma’s house, and we sang to her, barely holding on to life, perhaps entirely unconscious, her soul readying itself for flight.  We sang old Irish and German folk songs and hymns, and laughed until we cried as my mom sang in her munchkin voice a few lines from “Wizard of Oz.”  My cousin played his fiddle.  We said goodbye.  We weren’t afraid to cry, but hoped that the wind of our breath as we sang would buoy my grandma up when she was ready to depart.

The next morning I was back at the yacht club, where the golden sunshine and light breeze signaled a day of easy, casual sailing.  I was thinking about endings, about the beauty of the “last time,” and how there will be so many “lasts” this year, as I say goodbye to a particular kind of life and embark on a new one.  I look forward to the annual traditions that I have taken part in and will take part in just once more, but I know that woven into the fabric of traditions and plans I have for this year are entirely new moments, unexpected and memorable.  Singing goodbye to my grandma.  That golden light across the water.  Remembering what a beautiful and strong heritage I have, and what a loving family I have to share it with.

Photo credit – Liv Wilson (Connibear Shellhouse prior to 7am launching and docking point)

A race is not won in one stroke, but many strokes over the length of the course. Before you pull up you are tapped on the back you turn and there is a hand outstretched. You extend your own hands in front and behind you to your teammates, there is a momentary silence and everyone’s hands squeeze. The hands all squeezing are like a silent mantra, “We can do this, together.” All hands drop and your return to your positions looking dead ahead, where you will look for the rest of the race. “All eight sit ready,” the coxswain’s voice rings out over the silence, “attention, Row.” All nine prepare as they gain speed into the line. The knock of the oar at the end of each stroke signals the next swing out to the catch. Up the slide, roll the wheels, knock goes the blade as it is turned to the correct position. Splash, as the blade is backed into the water and a v of water sprays off either end. Woosh of the slide as eight rowers push off and lean back. Knock. The cycle repeats as the coxswain calls the rowers to add some more push. They come closer to the line. “You are at a 28, two more strokes to build to our race pace of 30. That’s one.” Splash. Knock. Woosh. “That’s two.” Splash. Knock. Woosh. “You’re on! This is where we start it right here!” You have passed the starting marker now a bright bobbing triangle in the recent distance. “We have already begun walking the crew ahead of us.” You keep your eyes locked ahead pushing away stroke by stroke, the competitors behind you. Each stroke is easy now, you are running of free energy as you go into the first turn of the race. “This is going to be a port turn. Ports pressure up. Starboards pressure down.” The boat pivots to starboard with each stroke. “Even pressure!” The hard knock signals the rowers’ response. Down and away to keep the blades off the water. Sitting up at the catch to grab that last bit of water. Jumping off on the drive and easing up on the recovery. Shook, is the rush of air out of each pair of lungs on the drive. Ahh, is the inhalation of each pair of lungs on the rowers’ way up to the catch.

Photo Credit – Hailey Greer (In the Montlake Cut) The Coxswain is wearing a jacket and back is turned in this picture

Photo Credit – Hailey Greer (In the Montlake Cut) Starboards are people who’s blades appear on the left side of the picture, while Ports are rowers who’s blades appear in the right side of the picture

“We are coming in to the Cut.” Every muscle in your body tenses. Every person sits up taller. “That’s your team cheering for you. Show them how we take this boat.” Shook. Ahh. “With Power!” Shook. Ahh. “With Grace.” Shook. Ahh. The sound of the Logger cheer rises as you get closer. “Make them proud!” Splash. Knock. Woosh. The boat is continuously picking up speed. Your crew is feeding off the energy of the crowd in Montlake Cut. The burn in your legs begins to creep back into your mind as you fall off the energy of the crowd and you are long past the cut. “We are on track for our goal time.” The reminder that this race is won on time and that even if we can’t see the other crews in our event we are still racing them. The pop at the catch comes back and the focus is pulled back in. Splash. Knock. Woosh. You only think about the stroke you are taking. “We are coming up on the turn. Starboards I’m going to need that pressure, Ports ease it off.” The whole race you have been neck and neck with two other boats the one just behind you and one just ahead of you. On the turn all three of you’re very close. You can see one of the boats out of the corner of your eye. The turn is over you are back on. “They got the inside of the turn, let’s make up that water in this last 500 meters.” Your back hurts and makes you want to curl over, while your lungs are raw. So you drive harder, and pop off the catch faster. You can see the competition you have regained a lot of ground. “Last 150 meters. Where do you want to finish? Show me here!” The whole boat sends in the final strain. The last sprint to get over the finish line first. Splash. Knock. Woosh. The cycle has sped up. Splash. Knock. Woosh. There is nothing on your mind but getting to then end first. “Your done. Weigh enough.” The breaths are ragged, and uneven. You are tapped on the back once more to find the faces of the people whom you rowed with and an outstretched hand this time for a fist bump. This time the hand tells you, “We did it!”

Photo Credits – Lilie Gross (Connibear Shellhouse in the morning launching and docking point)

Fall has rolled in the same way that the wind tumbles and sprints starting at the field house and reaching a low rumble in the President’s woods. One of the best parts of fall, other than any and everything pumpkin flavored appearing in stores, are the smells. Cinnamon is a constant scent floating out of the kitchens on campus, and becomes something second nature to sprinkle on in not only a to-go oatmeal, but also on top of an already hot drink. The air is something that we encounter every day and therefore is easily overlooked, but the Northwest air is to me a stark contrast to where I grew up in Southern California. I was grown in an arid climate amongst rolling hills covered in the odd low brush. So once fall comes around it is similar to the rest of the year just a little cooler. The trees go from green to brown, and then usually barren. The trees around Tacoma still fascinate me their being a full process of color range that is throughout the tree. Little can rival the trees and their warm happy welcome of change is the air. Taking in a breath of air in Tacoma is another level of relaxing that I can only begin to approach when on a calm beach at night. Each inhalation revitalizes and cools me down to the smallest level in my lungs, the little balloons that are my alveoli, allow for an exchange of not only oxygen, but almost the life force of our community. I understand as a scientist that there is no quantifiable way of measuring what I consider to be our community’s life force, and I began to try understanding it the second time I visited. I first was met with the kindness and openness of the people here when I visited the summer of my junior year. I truly fell in love with the campus when I visited again in the fall and had a chance to become part of the Logger family. I may be biased in my love for all that happens once the leaves fall. From an early age I associated fall with going to my sister’s soccer games, my birthday, as well as my family making and eating good food together. My kinship with autumn may be in its defiant nature; I am the youngest of three girls which meant that I wanted to do what my sister’s where doing regardless of if I was the right age or size for the activity. At the age of four I was at a loss of why the people who were merely six years older than myself thought they could beat me at soccer. This only led to me trying to scrimmage with them, to my oldest sister’s horror and my delight I would crash her practices. On the sidelines I would squirm, dribbling, practicing, attempting to emulate what I saw, and waiting for my chance to be able to be on a team as well. I have been in team sports ever since first grade, when I was signed up for a recreational soccer team. Just as quickly as I began I had to stop, because I was injured part way through the season. So began my subconscious understanding of fall as change and family. Fall is often defined by the changes we can see in the leaves beautiful golden, red, and orange hues, or those we can feel as the temperature drops outside. However you recognize fall you cannot deny the wonder that occurs.

* En castellano abajo

A lot has happened since I left Chile early that Tuesday morning after unintentionally/intentionally missing my flight back to the United States two days before. Prior to this, I had innocently woken up on Sunday morning thinking that day would be my last when my sister Monica texted me: “ANDY, WHERE ARE YOU??? Tita is waiting for you at LAX!!!.” In all my time flying across the Pacific ocean, I had never missed a flight before. I had been telling people that I was leaving on “August 10th” since the beginning of the semester when in reality it was the evening of August 9th. It seems like I had dreaded coming back so much that my eyes were blinded at the moment I checked the ticket for my time of departure. I didn’t have my things packed until the day before, hours before my new flight. My friend had to call in an airport shuttle for me only a few hours earlier. I allowed myself to be irresponsible because I would do anything to stay. Santiago de Chile was my home for a year. A return to gringolandia seemed like an ominous future of gray skies for eternity…

View of Santiago from San Cristobal Hill / Vista de Santiago desde el Cerro San Cristóbal

But, I’ve been quite happy here so far. I always say “so far” like I’m doomed to reverse culture shock and homesickness, however that’s something I experience regularly in more intense and milder forms having lived in 4 countries until now (the perks of being a third culture kid!) Being back, I’m seeing UPS and Tacoma with fresh eyes. Some parts of campus were renovated. I had forgotten the names of buildings and Tacoma streets (and am still learning).  I heard that school year 2013-14 was an exciting year with a lot of race talk happening, including the new diversity curriculum requirement (!!!). Kudos to the faculty, students, and staff who initiated it. This year’s freshman class is supposed to be the most ethnically diverse in this school’s history. UPS strives to be better.

After a year of traveling, carrete, adventuring, making mistakes, learning lessons (but also some serious academic work, of course!) my body wanted me to settle down for just a little while. I have amazing professors this semester, all of whom are (or are partially) of color (!!!). I’m taking classes interesting classes: Central American Literature, Race & Multiculturalism in the US context, The Business of Alleviating Poverty, and International Marketing. I also took an Intro to Hiking/ Camping class for which I get activity credit.  I’m getting involved in immigration justice efforts, a cause that I care deeply about and that hits close to home. Because of all this I’m also more motivated than I’ve ever been in my time here.

I’ve realized again that the core of UPS is truly our professors. When I find those connections with professors like I have this semester, I realize why I decided to go to school here and why I have decided to stay . Taking the right classes, it can be a personal education. A “liberal arts education.” This is where I’ve learned to think critically and make sense of how I move, and the space I occupy in this crazy microcosm of a world.

There are little things I do to cope with homesickness. I have a latina friend on staff who I get coffee with sometimes. Two of my floor mates are exchange students from the University of Passau in Germany. One of them is half Spanish, and it’s so great to have someone I can regularly speak Spanish with. I live in a supportive environment with an awesome group of girls and a boy in the “Michel Rocchi International District”, an academic-residential floor housed in Commencement Hall that engages students in international issues and activities when they return from/leave for study abroad. Through these things, I’ve found some sense of a “transnational” community.

Fireworks at Log Jam/ Un show de fuegos artificiales durante ‘Log Jam’ (un evento de presentación de las actividades y grupos estudiantiles de la universidad).

Pike’s Place Market with my flatmates/ El mercado ‘Pike’s Place’ de Seattle con mis compañeras de piso

This past fall break I finally got the chance to Skype with some of my best friends I met in Chile. We talked about how returning to our home countries, we aren’t the same people who left.  I’m not the same person I was as a sophomore here a year ago. Chile changed me in so many ways that I still continue to realize.  I became more myself in my time there, and the whole experience solidified my social identity, my way of life and way of being. It reinforced the affinity I have with Latin American cultures, which because of similarities with Filipino culture just feels like home to me. I made the most amazing friends from Bolivia, Brazil, Taiwan, Germany, Peru, Mexico, Italy, France, El Salvador, Japan, Costa Rica, Colombia, Sweden, and from the Midwest/East Coast of the United States and local Chilean friends. My friend Isabella and I have already talked about having our future children do an interchange, my kid to Brazil and her kid to the Philippines. At some point when I move back to South America the plan is to to crash at her place in Sao Paolo for a month to learn Portuguese. I’m young, the future looks bright, and I will be graduating next May…

I could write about all of this forever, which is why it’s so great that I now have a platform where I can do so!

En Castellano:

Mucho ha pasado después de ese martes por la mañana cuando salí de Chile, tras haber perdido mi vuelo de vuelta a Estados Unidos a propósito/ sin querer, dos días antes. Anteriormente, había despertado inocentemente el domingo por la mañana pensando que iba a ser mi último día cuando de repente mi hermana me manda un mensaje. “¿ANDY, DÓNDE ESTÁS??? TITA ESTA ESPERANDOTE EN LAX (aeropuerto de Los Ángeles)!!! En todo el tiempo que he pasado volando a través de los océanos pacífico y atlántico, nunca he perdido un vuelo. Desde el principio, cuando me preguntaban sobre la fecha de mi salida decía el 10 de agosto, cuando en realidad era el día 9. Parece que temía tanto volver que me quedé ciega al momento de ver la hora del despegue en mi ticket. No hice las maletas hasta el día antes previamente al vuelo nuevo. Mi amigo tenía que llamar al Transvip unas horas antes. Me permitía ser irresponsable porque haría cualquier cosa para quedarme. Santiago de Chile era mi casa por un año. Volver a gringolandia me pareció un futuro ominoso de cielos grises, para una eternidad…

Pero sinceramente, he estado bastante contenta hasta ahora. Siempre digo “hasta ahora” como si fuera condenada a una existencia de choque cultural inverso y nostalgia, pero ya estoy acostumbrada de pasar esto en formas más fuertes y apacibles después de haber vivido en cuatro países hasta ahora. Ya que estoy acá, veo a mi universidad y a Tacoma con una perspectiva distinta. Se renovaron al campus. Se me había olvidado los nombres de los edificios y las calles de la ciudad (sigo despistada, pero aprendiendo!) Había escuchado que el año escolar 2013-14 fue un año muy interesante en mi universidad, con mucho ruido del tema de la ‘raza’ y incluso un nuevo requisito del currículum de diversidad (como tenemos una facultad y alumnado poca diversa en comparación con otras partes del país como California por ejemplo y no refleja la diversidad étnica que queda afuera de nuestra “burbuja”, realmente es un gran problema) . El grupo de novatos de este año es supuestamente el más diverso en toda la historia de la universidad. La Universidad de Puget Sound se esfuerza por mejorar.

Después de un año de viaje, de carrete, de aventuras, de cometer errores y de aprender de ellos (¡pero igual un serio estudio académico en la PUC!) mi cuerpo quería quedarse quieto por un momento y estudiar realmente en serio. Tengo profesores increíbles. Fue todo un milagro y tal vez una muestra de progreso, que al volver todos mis profesores este semestre son extranjeros y de distintas etnias. Estoy tomando clases fascinantes: Literatura centroamericana, Raza y multi-culturalismo en el contexto de Estados Unidos, El negocio de aliviar a la pobreza, y Marketing internacional. También tomé un curso de camping / trekking, por lo que me dan crédito de educación física. Estoy involucrada en esfuerzos de justicia para los inmigrantes, que es una causa que me importa profundamente y que personalmente me ha afectado la vida. Por lo tanto, estoy más motivada que nunca.

Me he dado cuenta de nuevo que el corazón de esta universidad, lo que lo distingue de otras universidades, son los profesores. Cuando encuentro a esas conexiones y relaciones como ha pasado este semestre, entiendo por qué decidí asistir a esta universidad y por qué decidí en quedarme. Con las clases buenas, puede ser una educación personalizada. Una educación de “artes liberales.” Una que me ha hecho pensar críticamente y dar sentido a como muevo, y el espacio que ocupo en este microcosmo loco del mundo en que vivimos.

Hay unas cositas que hago para aguantar a la nostalgia. Tengo una amiga abuela latina, charlamos y tomamos café juntas (Cuando me conoció ella pensó que soy chilena!). Dos de mis compañeras de piso son de la Universidad de Passau en Alemania. Una de ellas es media española así que es genial poder conversar en español. Vivo en un ambiente acogedor con un grupo de chicas muy simpáticas (y un chico) en el “Michel Rocchi International District”, una residencia-academica ubicada en Commencement Hall, que nos hace participar en cuestiones internacionales y actividades antes de que los alumnos se van/ cuando se vuelvan de estudiar al extranjero.

Durante el fin de semana largo por fin tuve la oportunidad de hablar por Skype con unos de mis mejores amigos que conocí en Chile. Conversamos de como al volver a nuestros países, no somos las mismas personas que salieron. No soy la misma persona que yo era hace un año en esta universidad. Chile me ha cambiado en maneras tan distintas y de que sigo dando cuenta durante mi tiempo en Estados Unidos. (¡Déjame ser un poco cursi!..), mi tiempo allá me hizo sentirme más ‘yo’ que antes, y la experiencia en total se solidificó mi entendimiento de mi manera de vivir y de ser. Reforzó la afinidad que tengo con las culturas latinoamericanas, que me siento en casa por las semejanzas que tiene con la cultura filipina. Hice los amigos más increíbles de Bolivia, Brazil, Alemania, Taiwan, Perú, México, Italia, Francia, El Salvador, Costa Rica, Japón, Colombia, Sweden, del medio-oeste y costa del este de Estados Unidos, y mis amigos chilenos. Mi amiga Isabella y yo hemos hablado de que cuando tengamos hijos haremos con ellos un intercambio Brazil-Filipinas. Tengo el plan de quedarme en su casa en Sao Paolo por un tiempo y aprender portugués en unos años. Soy joven, el futuro me parece brillante, y ya voy a graduarme en Mayo.

¡Podría escribir sobre este tema sin parar, por eso que es tan genial que ya tengo una plataforma para compartir mis experiencias! (y que la U me pague a la vez…)