“Ahlan!” said my professor when I walked into my first day of my master’s in Arabic class a month and a half ago. I stammered for a response, feeling completely unprepared as my “Teach Yourself Arabic” book sat on my desk gathering dust the entire summer.

“Ummm in English please?”

I never got a response in English, only more Arabic. Within minutes of my very first language class we were already forming sentences and reading letters. I sat there confused and embarrassed at my lack of knowledge, cursing myself for even trying this.

This is my second master’s degree. After finishing my first,  for which I researched and wrote about Arab portrayals in American cinema in a post-9/11 society, I longed for fluency in Arabic that would give me a little more professional credibility. Luckily, I could make the change seamlessly into this new program at my same university in Scotland. Two weeks after finishing my first master’s I was well under way of my first year of my second master’s degree, in a subject I had absolutely no solid experience in. What on earth was I thinking?

After getting by for a week in Morocco on my holiday last winter, I thought my Arabic skills were decent. I was gravely mistaken. Now I was faced with not only learning how to speak and read a new highly, inflected and complex language with different versions for both writing and speaking, but also an entirely different alphabet (with different symbols).

Now I watch how studying gobbles up my free time: five hours a day in class, five days a week and hours of homework as I try desperately to absorb this odd sounding language. Every day I wake up and it’s a gamble: will I be completely in the dark or will I be able to understand a third of what’s going on in class? Will I feel utterly stupid or just slightly stupid? I find myself struggling, flailing and grasping to keep my head above water. I stutter out crude sentences in class, in my strong American accent: “Ummm…andi…umm…bayt…ka…kabir.” (roughly transliterated as “I have a big house” not including the “umms” of course). I am quite sure that to everyone else I sound like I have a major disability. And I am sure a few of my classmates have even secretly questioned my intellectual abilities.
But the weeks have passed, and I’m learning and doing more than I would have ever believed. I hope so. I’m moving to Syria for the summer, come next May.

While I might stand a very good chance of being laughed out of the Middle East at the mere sight of the funny American girl blubbering like a child. I am eager for a comfortable fluency when forced to live and breath this language.

I do know that a lot of good things come as a result of a lot of hard work. Two long years from now I sure hope that holds true.

I may be a little weary by then, but at least I won’t accidentally order vegetables when I want bread.

I had this vision of myself at this age when I was eight-years-old or so. I spent so much time worrying about what life would be like as I approached 25. I wondered if I’d be strong enough to build a life for myself. Back then I thought the 20s would be this magical age of adulthood, when people work important jobs, get married, have babies and buy houses. The “future” seemed like a strange world to me then, inhabited by unfamiliar people who have dinner parties and carry around credit cards. I also thought that we’d all travel around on hoverboards (ala “Back To The Future, Part II”), but that’s another story altogether.

I’ll be 25 in a few months, and neither the home ownership, nor the hoverboards are true. In fact, after a quarter of a century I’m still waiting for when I’m going to feel like an adult.

I wonder what the eight-year-old me would say about all this. What she would think of me now. Did I do her justice? Have I disappointed her? Would she admire me or just think I’m a tool?

Life didn’t happen like she thought it would. The crossover into “adulthood” didn’t come with fanfare and fireworks. It occurred in the quiet solemn moments, at times when I recognized my priorities had suddenly realigned. There was no threshold to crossover, the milestones in my life came and went just like the other days, until I looked back and realized I had actually become an “adult.” How sad my eight-year-old self might be to realize that those once seemingly enormous moments were mostly just hype.

Last Friday I finished my master’s thesis. After weeks of writing through the night I finally shut my lap-top at 6:00am that day, just as the sun came up over a still, misty Scottish morning. It wasn’t the big occasion I envisioned it to be. I didn’t suddenly feel any wiser or older. Nothing was different, except for the fact that I felt a little shell-shocked and extremely tired. It was quiet and I was alone. There was no congratulatory committee to initiate me into this next phase of my life. Business rolled on as usual. I simply went to bed to sleep for a few minutes before having to get ready for work.

This wasn’t the big event in my big, adult life that my eight-year-old self imagined. Honestly, my life hasn’t turned out how I initially envisioned it. Sometimes I think it’s turned out better. I may not have a mortgage or an extremely influential job yet. But I have so many adventures; the support of a group of intelligent, thoughtful, and fun friends; and the freedom to explore my endless possibilities. And for now, that is alright with me. The big adult things will come someday, but chances are they’ll appear quietly, without any big announcement.

If we met, I’m not sure what the eight-year-old me would have to say about this future version of myself. One thing I do know is that I’d take her aside, let her know that she shouldn’t worry so much about growing up, because I have so much to tell her.

I grew up in Phoenix and have fond memories of summer “monsoons” in the desert. Each year was so dry and arid; winter was practically non-existent (in fact, I distinctly remember running out to meet the ice cream man wearing shorts and a t-shirt one Christmas Eve). The summer rain represented the only visible marker of a change in seasons.

I really used to enjoy those summer storms. The warm rain offered reprieve from the hot, summer sun. Most of the time there would be a blackout. My mom would light candles when the power was out for any extended period of time, and I would crawl into bed in my pajamas and listen to the thunder. I was always amazed at how even when it was rainy and stormy outside, the sun would never stop shining.

When my family moved to the Midwest when I was in high school, I became acquainted with a different type of storm. These storms were ominous and dark. The sky opened up in a torrential downpour, sometimes raining down golf ball sized hail. Choosing to go to the University of Kansas for undergrad meant even more scary storms. I woke up one Sunday during my junior year to watch the Lawrence “microburst” of 2006 pass over my bedroom window and wreck havoc on the rest of the city, as my sorority sisters and I ran for cover on the first floor. Another summer I almost nearly got swept away in a flash flood when trying to make my way back from errands in Kansas City. It took 45 minutes of white-knuckled driving and lots of prayers muttered under my breath to drive just a few miles to safety. Midwestern storms quite literally blew Arizona monsoons out of the water.

I am now more than halfway through my first summer as a resident of Scotland. I have quickly learned the weather is quite predictable in Scotland: rain is a daily occurrence no matter what the season. In fact, I’ve lost count of how many umbrellas I’ve surrendered to the harsh northern winds, and I’ve given up carrying one altogether. I had just about reached my limit of this weather last week. I was frustrated that my summer was almost over without ever really getting much of a summer at all (with the exception of a few days in Croatia and a week in Tuscany, where luckily the sun was shining with the temperatures to match). The gladiator sandals I bought in April, with dreams of breezy summer dresses and picnics in the park filling my head, lay pretty much untouched in the corner of my room. Instead, I’m wearing boots and leggings to combat the cold wetness that has permeated most of my June and almost all of my July. I was mourning the loss of warm weather and sunshine last Friday, locked up inside, hunched over my laptop working on my master’s thesis (which I’ve unfortunately put off as long as possible).

A rain soaked morning finally gave way to sunshine, while I was stuck inside cursing my own procrastination. But then, while the sun was still blazing in the sky, the rain began to come down in torrents and light cracks of thunder filled my ears. All of the sudden it struck a chord in me. I was taken back to my 7-year-old self, relishing in the sunny desert rain. I stood at the window for a few moments admiring the lush, wet greenery on the outside, wondering why I wasn’t more thankful for the refreshing rain. All at once I realized how really blessed I am. All the stress of my thesis and the mountain of tasks in front of me dropped away. I took that much needed moment to spend in gratitude.

And then just like that the rain stopped. With the sun still shining I threw on my sneakers and went for the first rain-free run I’ve had all summer.

Dear America,

Happy 233rd birthday! You may be older than Armenia or Latvia, but trust, me you’re a spring chicken compared to Bulgaria or Japan.

I know I’ve only known you 24 years (going on 25), which isn’t a long time, but I feel fairly familiar so I’ll take the liberty to say what I’m going to say right now.

You and I have had a love/hate relationship. Sometimes you embarrass me. For example, when others don’t respect our choice of past President, or when they poke fun of our native cuisine (hot dogs, yeah?) or our complete inability to wear a scarf in a way that is both chic and useful. I’ll be truthful and admit we aren’t the coolest kids on the playground.

But it took walking away from you to realize how much I really like you, America. Because let’s face it, though you may lack the effortless cool of France or the beauty of Kenya, you are usually the life of the party. You’re the one standing in the center of the room, drink in hand, shooting champagne out your nose, making the whole room laugh (whether it is with you or at you, it doesn’t matter as long as we’re having a great time).

And no one quite does summer like you, with baseball and Sno cones, sprinklers on the lawn and fireworks in the sky. Even though you’re all strip malls and parking lots, cornfields and skyscrapers, you’re also open roads and swimming pools, basketball courts and ice cream stands. It is this time of year, when I’m in rainy, cloudy Scotland, that I miss you the most.

More than anything though you make me believe that anything is possible. You listen to my silly fantasies, even if they involve gold plated Rolls Royces and cocktail parties with Bob Dylan, and you almost always say, “You can do it.” You make me feel like nothing is out of my limit (well, at least as much as an over-inflated mortgage can buy). You make me believe that the whole world can be mine, because you really believe that yourself.

And no matter how far I go and how many times I leave, no matter how many times I’ve tried to disown you or pretend I don’t know you, you’re still always right there waiting to welcome me back. Because of you, I am me and I can’t imagine it any other way.

But do me a favor America: don’t let me down. Don’t lose track of who you are: you’re brave, you’re free, you’re pioneering. This is how you began, but somewhere along the line you’ve lost some of that. Please redeem yourself. Be more considerate of those who are different than you, and don’t forget you were born out of a desire to be different. Re-evaluate those you once hated and treated with disdain. Someday they’ll make better friends than enemies. Be smarter with the way you conduct yourself, don’t think you’re entitled to everything just because you are you America. You’re paying for some of these consequences now, don’t forget this lesson in the future.

You have so much potential. There’s nothing quite like you America. Please believe.

I wish you the happiest of birthdays. May your 233rd year be better than the last.

Love Always,

There is an ancient Bantu word in Southern Africa called “ubuntu.” It is a classical African concept with no equivalent English word that compares. It can only be described as a philosophy, a way of being. It’s not something you say, it’s something you do. It’s something you are.

Roughly defined, ubuntu is the connection with others and the willingness to see not just yourself, but all people, do well. Ubuntu is the thread connecting the spider web of humanity, and it is through this web that we discover ourselves and the potential of those around us. Ubuntu is human engagement in an existence of co-creation. It is a life lived with an open mind, open hands and an open heart.

Nobel Peace Prize winner and native South African, Archbishop Desmond Tutu, says it like this: “It is about the essence of being human, it is part of the gift that Africa will give the world. It embraces hospitality, caring about others, being able to go the extra mile for the sake of others. We believe that a person is a person through another person, that my humanity is caught up, bound up, inextricably, with yours.”

I am lucky enough to know this ubuntu. For me ubuntu is the family that raised a little girl with unconditional love. Ubuntu is the teachers who challenged her to achieve and guided her along the way. Ubuntu is her friends who were always there in good times and bad. Ubuntu is that girl, all-grown-up, staring with awe out of a plane window over Africa. Ubuntu is the family she’ll meet there who won’t give up no matter the obstacles. Ubuntu is all those who will touch her life in the future. Each and everyone of them share a connection rooted in integrity, compassion, and generosity.

After 27 years of imprisonment in apartheid South Africa, Nelson Mandela knows what ubuntu is, too: “Ubuntu does not mean that people should not address themselves. The question therefore is: Are you going to do so in order to enable the community around you to be able to improve?”

Imagine what the world would be like if we took more time to ask not how we can improve ourselves, but how we can empower those around us to make the world better for all. What we can do to contribute.

Admittedly, as I was writing this I realized how much of my own ubuntu I’ve let unravel since being away from Africa. I spend so much of my day vainly trying to improve myself, whether it’s hours at the gym, being engrossed in some book for my master’s dissertation or worrying about finding funding for next year. I’m just as guilty as anyone for not finding the time to live more responsibly, more graciously. It’s often those times when I’ve asked myself not what people can do for me, but what I can do for them, that my life has been more productive and fulfilled; when I’ve been happiest.

It shouldn’t be a challenge. I need not look hard to find ubuntu in daily life:

It’s felt in the beat of joyous street traffic and people making their way through the day. Ubuntu.

It’s in the honest laughter of friends sharing private jokes. Ubuntu.

It’s in the hard work of a doctor working to save a life, a teacher steering a pupil towards success, a lawyer researching an important case, a construction worker toiling away to provide for a family. Ubuntu.

It’s in the reconciliation of former enemies. Ubuntu.

It’s in the formation of new friendships. Ubuntu.

In crisis and triumph. Ubuntu.

In tears and laughter. Ubuntu.

In generosity and hardship. Ubuntu.

Because out of many we truly are one. And many there are.

Ubuntu…