Oh, the Places You'll Go

Singapore is an incredibly multicultural city. Many of the signs are written in four languages: English, Malay, Mandarin, and Tamil, (hopefully) covering most of the population. And, as a huge financial center, Singapore is also home to a large expat (short for expatriate, someone who lives outside their own country) community. Growing up as a military brat, "expats" generally referred to other people--civilians who lived overseas for business or their dream retirement, rather than "us." So I always grew up with the perception that expats were rich people--which is, by the way, partly to mostly true in Singapore, but not always.

Like all countries with multiple ethnicities, cultures, and socio-economic backgrounds mixing together, there is friction. And, as per usual in major cities with large populations of immigrants or descendants of immigrants, there are clusters of homogeneity around the city, microcosms of a culture left behind (for some, generations ago). Singapore has several, one of which became our next adventure.

Back on the MRT! Destination: India Town

 The smells of the marketplace hit me like the door frames I so often walk into. Not a bad thing, to me I assure you. Strong spices have held a special place in my heart since my study abroad experience in York, England. While I enjoy good, hearty pub food as much as the next girl of Irish descent (read: a lot), four months with no flavor additives beyond salt can really wear on the tongue. When asked by our professor what we wanted for a group dinner, the unanimous answer was: spices. England was where I fell in love with Indian food, actually--unfortunately, it was late in the semester, when I actually felt that I had enough money to go out for more than take away.

I've more than made up for it since. In fact, I've joined a little tradition of my coworkers. On one-off holidays (Fourth of July, Memorial Day, etc.) when we have off work, we try to get together for lunch at India Town, a good joint in GR. Almost any excuse to treat myself to Indian--too tired to cook, sinuses a bit plugged, a simple craving--is good enough for me. For now, Singapore is the closest I've been to India, and Sanna always has fun, breezy clothes from the market there. Shopping + food + people watching? It sounded like a great day to me.

So I was very excited to go to Little India. We started off in the clothes market, where my eyes were immediately overwhelmed by the sheer amount of color in front of them.

This was just one of the many corridors of clothing.

From simple cotton tunics to elaborately sequined saris, it took several turns around the market before I could finally decide what I wanted. I walked out with two green tunic dresses from the same shop, which somehow caught my attention in the riot of fabric each of the four or five times I walked by. S. Gabriel was much more decisive, choosing a long, dark blue top to serve as a light coat for her upcoming trip to England. But that was just the beginning. Not only can you buy clothing there, but you can also get it made or altered two storefronts away.

Photo credit: S. Gabriel

A left turn revealed another surprise:

One of two curio shops, right next door to each other. Photo credit: S. Gabriel

With our shopping done, we went downstairs to explore the food market.

Photo credit: S. Gabriel

Photo credit: S. Gabriel

Thanks to a gregarious fruit vendor (contrasted with his brusque partner), I tried some new tropical fruit. The one with the dark red outside and bright white inside (on the right) is mangosteen, the "Queen of Fruit." (For those interested, the "King of Fruit" is the durian, which is also considered Singapore's national fruit.) It was really yummy, so S. purchased a bag to enjoy (and pacify the rude partner).

But that was only a snack. So we took to the streets to hunt down a proper lunch.

 

In Singapore, it seems that you can only lose sight of a skyscraper by closing your eyes.

We ignored pamphlets and invitations to obvious tourist traps. Two key signs: they only approach foreigners, and they're wearing the stereotypical safari outfit. In fact, the restaurant we chose seemed surprised to have us. Thankfully, their food more than made up for the bewildered service.

Before: chicken korma, butter chicken, (unfortunately butter) naan, and mango lassis.

It didn't stick around very long.

More than sated by our meal, we entered the crowded streets again, peeking into the shops and restaurants that filled the colorful buildings. 

During that time, we stopped at a crosswalk in front of a Muslim building--whether it was a mosque, school, or community center, I didn't (and still don't) know, but there were a multitude of men in taqiyahs (caps) milling about. Two of them stood behind me, also waiting for the green man to beckon us across. If there's one thing I've learned from living overseas, it's knowing when others are talking about you in a language you don't understand.

They moved ahead of me, exchanging looks. "They're talking about your tattoo," S. whispered. While Singapore is largely more liberal towards tattoos than some Asian countries (like say, Japan), they obviously disapproved. I just had to laugh. If they took issue with what little of my conservative tattoo (just two lines of text) that peeked over the back collar of my dress, I thought, what did they think of the girl standing three feet away with Michelle Pfeiffer's incarnation of Catwoman tattooed across her chest? 

After that little humorous interlude, we did a little more shopping. S. found several Bollywood films to add to her collection, and I found some things for a friend of mine with an upcoming birthday. We ended our outdoor adventure soon after, taking the bus back to her apartment so S. could introduce me to Bollywood movies.

I may or may not be hooked...

Up, Up, and Away

I got on a plane the morning of June 4. Just after midnight on June 6, I had country-hopped all the way to Singapore. It wasn't long before I ran into a familiar set of red, red bangs and a bright smile.

What a great face to be greeted by!

We took a taxi back to her apartment in Upper Bukit Timah (I quickly learned that the correct pronunciation is "bu-kee," not "bucket.") After trying to get over the surreality of my being there (it never completely went away), I washed away my travels, and we went to bed.

We never fail to find a Starbucks for conversation and a little goofing off.

We started off our week-long adventure with a bus trip to Holland Village, a part of the city where Dutch settlers used to live. After some quick errands, we found our way to a Starbucks, where we discussed life, writing, and Singapore over iced chai lattes. Since I hadn't adjusted to the heat and humidity yet, I already needed that refreshing break.

Then it was off on the MRT to Orchard Road

Orchard Road is the main shopping district of Singapore--since I haven't been to Rodeo Drive and only breezed by Fifth Avenue, I'm not sure if I can draw a familiar comparison. We strolled down the street, eating ice cream, taking photos, watching street performers, and laughing at some of the ridiculous billboards.

How is Leo supposed to win on Oscar when he can't even wear a watch correctly? (Photo source: www.ablogtowatch.com)

 

 

 

 

After a nice walk, we stopped inside one of the malls, and soon found a familiar face. As Benedict Cumberbatch apparently objects to the fangirl term "Cumberb****," Sanna and I consider ourselves members of the "Cumber-Collective."

 

We had a late lunch, talked some more about our writing, and did a bit wistful shopping. Then, with night falling, we went across the street to Peranakan Place. Peranakans are descendants of immigrants who intermarried with Malay natives, and have a distinct culture of their own. 

Many of these buildings are now bars and restaurants--while we were a little early for the busy crowd, we did decide to celebrate my birthday a little late by going inside anyway. I had my first pina colada (after getting caught in the rain on a tropical island, what else could I choose?), and Sanna bewildered the bartender by requesting a Shirley Temple. Unfortunately, he was so bewildered that he didn't actually make her a proper one. She had to content herself with a multitude of extra cherries.

After such a full day, we took ourselves back to her apartment, the first day of our adventure drawing to a late close.

My Brief Sabbatical

I'm saying hello to you, my hypothetical readers, from Singapore. On the other side of the globe from where I live out my usual day-to-day, it's been quite a change of pace for me. But when my stunning friend S. Gabriel is involved, change is always an interestingly-dressed adventure. (For non-mutual friends, check out her blog here: http://swedishimmigrant.blogspot.sg/)

S. Gabriel is a teacher in Singapore, where she spent many years as a TCK (third culture kid). We bonded in Japanese class my freshman year, and we've been traveling together ever since! Our adventures have (quite literally) criss-crossed the globe: from the U.S. to York, England to Hikone, Japan to Umea, Sweden and now to Singapore.

This was a trip long in the making. Thanks to the unbelievable generosity of a relative, I was given round trip tickets to Singapore as a graduation present. (Thanks Uncle Eric and Aunt Nancy!!!) And, even though the dates were decided a year in advance, the timing has been perfect. Life has been incredibly stressful of late, with one move down (one more to go) and friends leaving town. It was (and still is) a frustrating and emotionally draining time of transition.

This vacation has been the deep breath I've been waiting for.

And who better to spend it with than S. Gabriel?

There was little to no talk of work. At least, not the kind that pays us. No, about 80% of our conversations revolve around our various works in progress (the plural is mostly hers, since Paladin has been my sole focus for 5+ years now). Our writing sessions/discussions go down a little like this:

An open notebook for Sanna...

...and some form of caffeine for me

While she worked out scene after scene in her own novel-to-be, I continued my revision process of Paladin, working through (almost) seven chapters, more than I've done in the last month (if not the last two). With her help, I've flushed out several scenes with *shudder* description. Thanks to my general impatience, those details are one of my weaker spots, but I know the finished product will be far better for it. (Okay, I hope the finished product will be far better for it.)

I know what you're thinking: "You went to Singapore and this is what you want to talk about? Writing?"

Well, yes.

I don't write well when I'm stressed. When I get home from work and errands, I just want to crawl into bed or get sucked into funny things on the Internet or watch six episodes of Supernatural in a row. Or all of those things at once. I just don't have anything left. No energy, no creativity, no spark at all--just "meh." That's why my blog goes through such dry spells sometimes--if I can't even lift my fingers to work on my novel, how am I supposed to figure out how to make my life sound interesting?

So the chance to indulge in my not-practical passion with energy and excitement has been an amazing gift this past week. And even though my inbox is undoubtedly full and I have to move again in a few days, I feel more at peace now than I have in over a month.  

Unwilling Discernment

*Warning: this post may or may not contain spoilers regarding Oz the Great and Powerful. Read at your own risk*

Now, I don't usually write movie reviews because:
1. I have terrible taste in movies. I giggle my way through explosions and one-liners, snark my way through rom-com sentimentality, and weep through animated films (Up, The Lion King, and Tangled are particular weaknesses of mine. I won't even see Toy Story 3 for fear of irrevocably damaging my psyche). I don't trust my own taste in films.
2. Discernment. Blech. See, I go to movies to be entertained. I am the poster child for the generation of short-attention spans. I pay to be entertained, not to embroil myself in philosophical debates. If I wanted to be entertained and think at the same time, I'd read a book.
3. If I get a whiff of pretension, that's it. I'm done. I'm out of the story and wondering what I'm going to bake over the weekend instead. Or if I remembered to turn off my flatiron.
4. I tend not to pick up on things if I'm completely tuned into the story. For instance, I didn't notices the lens flares in Star Trek until everyone and their second cousin started jawing about it online. I didn't notice the blue filter in Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix until my brother complained about it.

So I just proved why I'm not to be trusted as a film critic. But I'm going to do it anyways. You see, my wonderful boyfriend (who's happens to be studying film production) and I made a spur-of-the-moment decision to see Oz the Great and Powerful. He'd remembered my desire to see it, and yesterday had been a rather rough day for me. So he was sweet enough to sacrifice some of his precious sleep and cheer me up with what promised to be a light-hearted, CGI-filled celebration of movie magic.

Beautiful.

As previously stated, I'm pretty easily pleased on the movie front, so neither of us expected what happened next.

The story is that of the Wizard of Wizard of Oz fame, of how the man stepped behind the curtain and into our collective imaginations. Despite limitations placed by rights issues, (i.e. no ruby slippers or music), the movie holds a lot of promise. Stunning CGI-work. Talented cast. Beloved franchise. A Hollywood budget that could support me in a comfortable lifestyle until my inevitable death under an avalanche of hoarded books.

James Franco stars as Oz. This casting choice alone made me a little hesitant. I don't really care for his work. Whether or not it's residual sympathy for Anne Hathaway for leaving her out to dry when hosting the Oscars, I can't say. But it made me nervous for someone who seems (to me) to be an unlikable guy to be cast as an unlikable character. I already knew I was going to have a hard time believing any character growth.

He begins the movie as a charlatan and stereotypical selfish jerk--playing pretty women, insulting his loyal assistant, and generally thinking very highly of himself. His only redeeming(?) quality is his ambition: he wants to be the next Edison. (Which could speak volumes about his character, depending on where you stand in the Edison/Tesla debate.) He hops into his hot air balloon to escape a former squeeze's strongman boyfriend and promptly gets sucked into a tornado that he somehow fails to notice. Maybe sepia tones make them harder to spot.

In the tornado, he makes a deal with an unnamed Power that Is. Given lack of further evidence, I'll consider his Santa Claus-meets-genie deity to be his amorphous (and so Hollywood) idea of the Judeo-Christian God. If he survives, Oz pleads, he'll do something great with his life. He promptly lands in the technicolor, CGI splendor of the land of Oz. And into the lap of Mila Kunis.

Mila Kunis plays Theodora the Good, a witch who wears pants tight enough to have been nicked from the closet of David Bowie's Goblin King. Playboy Oz, of course, is more than ready to take advantage of a smoking hot-yet-innocent young woman. She is the perfect mark, if one doesn't take her claims to be a witch too seriously. Seduced by Oz's facial hair, (and, yes, because he seems to be the fulfillment of a rather important prophecy) she promptly waltzes with the stranger and takes him home to meet the family--her sister Evanora, dressed in a suspiciously dark and slinky wardrobe.

Long story short, Theodora and Evanora aren't who they appear to be. I'm not sure if this can count as a spoiler--I mean, you have two brunette witch sisters in Oz. If you can't guess who they are (or rather, who they become), you're even less perceptive than I am. Let's just say that, by the end, Theodora looks like she went to a St. Patrick's Day-themed tanning parlor, and Evanora is about to get creative with her sock choices.

But no worries, Oz gathers to him some inexplicably loyal companions, joins forces with Glinda, has his heel-face turn, and becomes the wise (and, according to Glinda, good) savior of Oz. Theodora and Evanora are banished from the Emerald City, and there is much rejoicing.

But wait! You ask. How did Theodora, the beautiful, innocent, GOOD witch Oz seduced in the beginning, fall from grace?

Rejection. Oz saw just another mark. But she fell in love. So when he left her (purposefully without saying goodbye) and began showering attention on her enemy, Glinda, she was heartbroken. Now, in Kansas, a jilted woman was only dangerous if she had a male protector angry enough to confront Oz. But Toto, Oz wasn't in Kansas anymore. Theodora didn't need anyone to get angry for her. With a little push in the wicked direction from Evanora, she took matters into her own hands. She became the Wicked Witch.

If that doesn't ring any alarm bells for you, let me recast the story a little: Boy meets girl. Boy flirts with girl. Girl falls in love. Boy dumps girl. Girl is heartbroken. Boy moves on. Girl turns into an ugly, psychotic b****.

Yes, the Wicked Witch of Oz the Great and Powerful is the crazy ex-girlfriend.

It's not a new stereotype. After all, "Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned." And yes, there are crazy exes out there of both genders, so it's not entirely baseless. But this particular shade of "crazy ex," in my understanding, almost exclusively applies to women. How many rom-coms, comedies, and sit-coms (not to mention memes and YouTube videos) feauture neurotic girlfriends and stalker ex-girlfriends? (This, for the record, is one of the many reasons why I prefer action movies.)

To turn the Wicked Witch, one of the most formidable villains in pop culture, into a crazy ex is demeaning and disgusting. In the original Wizard of Oz, the Wicked Witch wants to avenge the death of her sister (and, may I add, the theft of sentimentally valuable shoes from her sister's corpse). It's a motive that works equally well for villains of both genders--the Gruber brothers, anyone? It's simple and believable. It works.

Disbelief, soon to be followed by "Oh hell no!"

Last January, my interim group got the chance to meet Gregory Maguire, the author of Wicked. While we sat in his living room (me with my jaw on the floor in true fangirl fashion), he explained how his narrative came to be. The book started as an exercise to work out the problem of evil. He wanted to know why evil people became evil. He wanted to understand why people would commit terrible crimes and inflict pain on others. He toyed with a few iconic villains, finally settling on the Wicked Witch. The result was a narrative of isolation, rejection, and depth, and that gritty, sympathetic backstory for Elphaba became a bestselling book and a ridiculously famous Broadway musical.

Credit to Playbill Vault

I know that the writers of Oz the Great and Powerful were trying to be original. I know that they didn't want to draw even more comparisons between their movie and the pop-culture juggernauts that came before. But how did they expect their narrative and their characters to hold up against The Wizard of Oz and Wicked when they turned the Wicked Witch into a demeaning cliche?

Before I stepped foot into the theater, I knew I was going to have trouble sympathizing with Oz. And I was right. He broke an innocent girl's heart. While the responsibility for Theodora's descent into darkness doesn't entirely rest on him--it took a little nudging from Evanora--some of it does. And does the newly-good Oz take any of that responsibility?

In the end, after Oz's grand plan successful expels the witches, Oz turns to Theodora. I'll try to paraphrase this as closely as possible: "I know this evil doesn't come from within you," he says. A promising start. But then: "If you ever wish to return to the Emerald City, I will welcome you." This is the perfect chance to acknowledge his fault, to apologize for his role in her downfall. But no: he lays the blame squarely on Evanora and magnanimously offers his forgiveness--yet seeking none for himself.

So when Theodora screams "NEVER!!!", who can blame her?

In discussions I've had since seeing the movie, I've faced my own flawed thinking head-on:

1. I'm biased. As a woman who has been wronged herself, I automatically sympathize with Theodora. This, combined with my previous antipathy towards James Franco, made me predisposed me to certain opinions on their relative characters. 
2. I'm hindered by my automatic choice to take the movie on its own terms. Despite promising distance from The Wizard of Oz, it's still a prequel to the iconic movie. My boyfriend (gently) pointed out that of course Oz doesn't have complete character development--he's still a selfish con man in the 1939 classic.

Those two things greatly influenced my perspective on the movie in an obviously big (and rather negative) way. Was it entertaining? Yes. Visually stunning? Yes. Were the supporting characters adorable? Yes. But what kind of message are we sending when we take an iconic, female villain--one who is often taken as an example of a woman in power in media--and turn her into a scorned woman?

It was troubling enough to take me, usually an unwilling participant in such endeavors, into the realm of discernment. 

Everyday Snapshots

You've already been introduced to my bookshelf.

A new find--a blanket of many colors.

A book lamp for my future library.

Meet Bob the hydrangea. How he's survived a month under my care is a complete mystery. Even Alice finds him as curious as a smoking caterpillar.

The kitchen adventure for the day.

Time to eat!

The Belated Christening

So, I’ve mentioned my novel before, I think. Probably. It’s only a project that took me 4 years to complete to some modicum of satisfaction, so it’s not like it’s a significant part of my life or anything like that. It has gone by many names: my firstborn, WIP (work in progress), my baby, my novel, my story, etc. etc. Now, however, it has been officially tentatively titled:

Paladin Awakens

There is nothing particularly extraordinary about that title. It doesn’t leap off the page to shock, inspire, or befuddle. But it does exactly what I want it to. It conveys several important pieces of information:

It’s a fantasy novel. Anyone familiar with the genre will understand when I say that this title wouldn’t look out of place on a bookstore or library shelf amongst its genre-fellows.
It reveals the main character. My protagonist wears many hats, and the role of "Paladin" is one of them. Also, the word itself conveys a lot of specific information. A paladin isn’t just a knight, but a champion—and one usually associated with a noble cause.
It ties into her backstory. I’ve been very careful about what information I do or do not reveal in the book, mostly because I’m allergic to gratuitous exposition. When I read it, I break out in eye-rolls and insulting condescension. So the little tidbits are my way of revealing things without awaking the inner critic.
It’s simple. There are enough self-important, bombastic sci-fi/fantasy novels out there, or others playing to fads of the genre. If I see another urban fantasy or vampire romance (both full of True Blood- and Game of Thrones-style adult fun times) in the sci-fi/fantasy section, my eyes may just roll out of their sockets. I can’t take myself too seriously, nor did I spend four years crafting this book relying on plot devices that exhaust me. It is what it is.

Now, to the point: why is my book now officially tentatively titled? Two-ish weeks ago, I discovered the existence of a contest. Now, normally contests aren’t my thing. I’m only competitive when it comes to Settlers of Catan and Phase 10. And I don’t have the mental or physical discipline to humiliate myself with feats of strength. But this contest seemed to be worth a shot…maybe mostly because I had most of the components previously prepared.

The entry period for the Amazon Breakthrough Novel Award contest closed January 27. I found out about it January 25. Which is why the previously prepared components thing was kind of a big deal. Also, just entering the competition would also be a personal victory, fulfilling one of my New Year's resolutions (see my entry "Resolutions Both Inane and Grandiose" here: http://peepinprogress.blogspot.com/2013/01/resolutions-both-inane-and-grandiose.html).

As I read the rules, I realized that I could do it. I could enter my novel into the contest.

That realization sparked the kind of frenetic energy that leaves me almost incapable of focusing on anything else. With my dysfunctional attention span finally working in my favor, I went home after work and got right to it. There were three basic components:

The Pitch. Basically, it’s what could appear on the back of a book. A brief synopsis, compelling details, and a few words on the writing style. They asked for about 300 words. "Pfft." I thought. "I can write 300 words. Because I am awesome."
The Excerpt. This is the first 3,000-5,000 words of one’s manuscript, which, in my case, is the first chapter. Since I had already edited the first 3 chapters for my final project in May, I was somewhat satisfied with what I had to submit.
The Manuscript. According to ABNA rules, it has to be between 50,000-150,000 words. With my word count sitting somewhere between 110,000-120,000, I was sitting pretty. All I had to do was skim the last chapters to account for some minor details, and it was good to go.

So, Friday night, I wrote my pitch, re-read my excerpt, quickly edited the last of my manuscript, and submitted it. In the first round, 10,000 manuscripts would be rounded down to 2,000 based on pitch alone. This is mine:

Four hundred years after a rather catastrophic forced retirement, ex-Paladin Liera Sora has assumed the identity of Lia Roric, human healer for the fighters of the Arena. Living in the slums without her magic isn’t easy, but she’s kicking back, relaxing, and rolling with the (often literal) punches for the first time in her long life--which makes it awkward when she encounters an old comrade-in-arms who wants to bring her back into the fold.

The last thing Liera wants to do is get involved in another war, but after a serious guilt trip and the appearance of her murderous little sister, she finds herself homeward bound with a former rival, an awestruck go-fer, a felonious best friend, and an old Magus who’s more wisecracking than wise. Everyone is depending on her to resume her duties as Paladin and save the world--again. But first, she has to regain her powers and quell some vicious ghosts from her rather eventful past.

Bringing a healthy dose of self-awareness and some humor to the tropes of sword-and-sorcery, Paladin Awakens begins the story of an anti-heroine whose biggest strength might be her inability to forgive her own weakness. Everyday woes and humorous quirks ground the memorable cast as they set out on a quest that forces them to confront both the evil without and within.

I was quite pleased with the result. Apparently, so were the ABNA judges. Because yesterday, February 13, they posted the authors and titles of the 2,000 second-round contestants, and my name was there! The proof is in the PDF:

http://g-ec2.images-amazon.com/images/G/01/APUB_images/ABNA_SciFiFantasyHorror_SecondRound_2013._V375961751_.pdf
On March 12, they announce the 500 contestants that made it to the quarterfinal rounds based on their excerpts. This, I have to admit, makes me nervous. As previously mentioned, I’m not a huge fan of gratuitous exposition. I also didn’t want to start my novel with the expected, action-packed prologue. So Paladin Awakens starts off on a quieter note, and that is very risky. I’m also nervous because, as exciting as making the second round cut is, I really, really want to make it to the quarterfinals. Because the quarterfinalists get their manuscript reviewed by Publisher’s Weekly.

That is just an amazing opportunity. The chance to have my work reviewed and get some exposure…wow.

So now, I’m eagerly awaiting March 12, when they announce the quarterfinalists. Your prayers, support, and encouragement will be gratefully accepted during this time of tenterhooks.

A Split of the Tongue

Disclaimer: No, I did not get any new body modifications. Relax.

This was my first Christmas holiday as a "working woman." I cringe, admittedly, upon using that phrase. Not only does it bring to mind the practitioners of an infamous trade, but it also implies that a woman needs to be defined as "working" in a mid-post-feminist America. Do I call my brother, also a recent post-grad, a "working man?" The answer to that semi-rhetorical question is: No, because that would be weird.

Ahem.

To put it in a way more acceptable to the writer, this was my first Christmas holiday in which the holiday was not a break from schooling, but from work. I used paid vacation days. Vacation days!

It was not, due to my relatively recent elevation to the working world, a very long vacation. Comparatively, at least. Rather than the 2+ weeks of holiday bliss, I had 1.

My parent’s current residence is in North Carolina, amidst that fabled land below the Mason-Dixon Line known as "the South." While, in my opinion, North Carolina is far less South-y than say, Georgia, it still brings out the twang in me. Which irritates my Boston-born mother to no end.*

*This is not the singular source of irritation between me and my mother. Other subjects include, but are not limited to: reciting Lord of the Rings dialogue along with the actors, tattoos, and my use of the staircase as temporary storage space.

Beyond "y’all" and the thickening of said twang when I’m emotional, it really doesn’t mar/beautify my speech in a particularly noticeable manner in Michigan, especially with people who are used to me. But, combined with other various linguistic idiosyncrasies, it does leave me with rather unusual speech patterns.

Thanks to the South, "y’all" comes to me naturally, while "you guys" sets my teeth on edge, and, finally, I’ve made my peace with "ain’t."

Thanks to a mix of the South and my mother, I now pronounce "aunt" as both "awnt" and "ant," depending on a context unbeknownst to myself.

Thanks to my mother, a barrette is a "BAR-ette," not a "buh-rette," tennis shoes are sneakers, and soda is soda.

Thanks to the UK, I use "whilst" in everyday conversation and exchange the awkward "apartment-mates" for "flatmates."

Thanks to Italy, I use "alora" (translation: "Oh well") with a sigh.

Thanks to Japan, I tell my friends "ganbatte" before a test or paper. I also mutter in Japanese when my friends think it’s funny that I don’t speak Spanish.

Thanks to the military community, I’ve picked up a wealth of acronyms that now have very little bearing on my daily existence. PCS, AFN, FISC, NEX, EUCOM…

And then there are the non-linguistic things that I’ve collected over the years. Like talking with my hands, which I picked up in Italy (I have a good joke about that, if you want to hear it). Or pointing at my nose when referring to myself, a Japanese gesture. Why do I tend to rush across the street, even if I’m using the pedestrian crosswalk? That’s a toss-up between Naples’ mopeds and London’s bicycles.

So, now that I’ve been more-or-less settled in West Michigan for the past four years, I wonder how I have been affected—and how I will continue to collect language and habits. Already, I can sort-of tell you what TULIP stands for, and what the CRC is. I know a handful of Dutch foods (mostly sweets, but that’s to be expected from me. I pay attention the important things). I’ve mastered—though still resent—the ubiquitous "Michigan left." I’m slowly becoming comfortable with driving in snow. I understand that when people are "from Holland," they mean a town, not a country.

But I refuse to call soda "pop." While I do enjoy an everyday usage of an onomatopoeia, it just sounds wrong to me.

This murky mix of what-have-you obviously comes from my rather unusual upbringing. But as I continue to settle into a lifestyle outside the community I’ve known for the last four years—I think about where I was this time last year, on the tail-end of the adventure that was college. How have I changed? How will I continue to change? What effect will a more permanent location have on my identity?

In January 2012, I boarded a bus still embroiled in a rather emotionally distraught time for me. This bus took me, along with thirty-odd (and, let’s be honest, just plain odd) adventurers to New England. As this was an academic trip, we were each given a journal in order to record our state of mind. I thought I’d clean up the entry regarding our first day in Plimoth, as it has a rather uncanny bearing on my train of thought almost exactly one year later:

The last time I was in Plymouth, I was eight years old. My dad and I, a budding American history buff, drove up from Newport Rhode Island. I really don’t remember much about the trip beyond being mildly disappointed with Plymouth Rock and looking at the replica Mayflower. But I do remember how Plymouth and Newport made me feel, even as a child. Both seashore towns were quintessentially New England.

Such a distinct identity, I suppose, was the goal to begin with—the Pilgrims were Separatists, after all. They wanted an identity of their own. But it was only a religious identity—so for Emerson, the identity of the American Scholar is still unformed. And centuries later, the American Identity is still amorphous, blurred by multiculturalism and the deconstruction of stereotypes in the name of equality and political correctness (the goodness of both, of course, are still hotly contested). There really isn’t any solidity to identity in America—it has to be built, based on region, socio-economic class, gender, credo, or even on a sports team.

But here in New England, some solidity remains in the buildings, the heirlooms, even in family names. No wonder Mayflower families are so proud. Their ancestors started the American quest for identity. I wonder if that makes them a step ahead of the rest of us.

I think a lot about how one’s community affects identity. Community is growing more and more unstable in an age of a global economy and social media, and as someone who’s already been greatly affected by that instability, I feel like it’s a topic that requires due consideration.

On that same trip to New England, our group had a now-infamous conversation on the topic of community—a subject, I must admit, that is a rather sore one for me. As previously stated many, many times, I didn’t have the typical American upbringing. I’m not even sure I can be truly qualified as a Third Culture Kid, having been moved around so often. In college, people were often stymied by my background, more comfortable with missionary kids than military ones. As I tried to explain how I defined my community, I found myself on the defensive. How could they understand? Most of my companions, having grown up in one place, had always around the same people until college. And when they did go to college, they often had previous family, church, or school ties to support them. Community has always been defined for them. They were born into it, placed into it by people in power or by circumstances beyond their control.

However, most people understood, I felt, the concept of choosing friends and schools—after all, even if they hadn’t done it on a semi-regular basis, they had gone through a similar process freshman year. What really got some proverbial hackles up was the concept of choosing a church.

First, I do understand that the term "church shopping" may seem callous in light of the importance of a church community. But that is the term I’ve grown up with.

Second, circumstances surrounding my high school years make choosing a church an incredibly personal subject for me, something that’s tied—surprise!—to my identity. First off, know that I was blessed with dedicated teachers, good friends, faithful Sunday School and youth group leaders, and great experiences in Georgia. But the theology of the school and its sponsoring church was incredibly oppressing. I spent most of those years confused, torn between the conservative theology presented to me six days a week, and the openness of the non-denominational churches I had been raised in. I’ve already talked about the effect it had on my reading and writing, but this struggle also had a colossal effect on my faith identity.

I won’t beat around the bush: I hated going to church in high school. There were a lot of factors involved. I struggled with my attention issues during the long sermons, my mind screaming for freedom. And the people my age, though they were kind, had (for the most part) been attending the same church with the same families (most of whom were related by blood or marriage) for their entire lives. It was an unintentional clique whose walls I never seemed to transcend. And there was just so many ideas and rules that my heart just couldn’t accept.

It didn’t help that the school and the church were almost the entirety of my community. Six out of the seven days of the week revolved around this environment. And so, while I made wonderful, wonderful friends, the environment itself often made me feel like an outsider. I felt so incredibly alone in my struggle. A lot of my identity during that time was formed in reaction to the negative emotions I had to deal with while I was there.

By the time I went to college, my faith was hanging by a thread. It was only by the grace of God and the change of scene that kept me from washing my hands of Christianity and settling with agnosticism. I felt burned out by church, disgusted with all of the rules—both written and unwritten. Going to church freshman year was a rare occurrence, something that didn’t sit well with some of my new friends. They meant well, but it was difficult to explain how much I needed a break from church.

It sounds terrible, I know. But I needed to stay away. I needed to wrestle with the anger and the bitterness. And it took a while. My junior year, I started to make a conscious effort of increasing my church attendance. And I—wait for it—chose a church.

After two years of thinking and growing, I knew that I needed openness and honesty in a church. I needed a church that didn’t shy away from the grit and grime in life, that didn’t hide behind a façade of perfection and certainty. I needed a church where the messages had applicability and a firm foundation in the Bible. I needed a church with joy. Junior year, after going to a church with one of my friends who owned a car, I felt like I had found such a place.

But when I mentioned the idea of choosing a church last January, I felt attacked. Instead of understanding the years of struggle and prayer and crying out to God that led up to the point where I felt ready to rejoin a faith community, it seemed that my decision was taken as being based purely on shallow preferences. I understand where that misconception can be found—how many churches have been ripped apart over minor differences? With such a large group, I had no opportunity to defend myself. And even if I had been given the opportunity, how could I explain such a personal decision without bringing up parts of myself I wasn’t ready to show? Parts of myself that were (and are) still being shaped by abiding joy, deep pain, and everything in between?

With all of that weighing on me, I’ve been thinking. And a year later, my identity has continued to grow under the influences of region (West Michigan), socio-economic class (entry-level employee), gender (female), credo (Christianity), and sports team (none). It’s influenced by the choices I make, the way I spend my time, and the incredible distance between myself and my family. It’s influenced by the new friends I make and the old friends who are tied by affection and social media. It’s influenced by my faith, by the church I attend, and the times (both quiet and not) that I spend with God.

In a year, where will I be? Honestly, I don’t know. But I have to think about it. Because where I’ll be next year might be where I’ll be in five years, in ten. Now that I’m a post-grad, the possibility of permanence is more and more likely. It’s time for a career and (hypothetically) a family. I have to build my community with patience and wisdom, because it’s going to stick with me for a long, long time.

I know that I can’t take this lightly, not when our communities hold such power in forming our identities. You can hear the evidence in my "y’alls," in my heaving sigh of "alora," but it’s also so much more than just a split of the tongue.