Here’s where you share your first in-class writing exercise of the semester, a brief personal narrative about 1 instance in your life when you created, crossed, bridged, inhabited, or resisted a border.
16 thoughts on “Border Narratives”
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Two and a half years ago I hugged my younger sister Clara goodbye my parents threw her and the last of her copious amounts of luggage in the car. She was about to start boarding school as a freshman. Before her departure, we would see each other often. Two years younger than me, she was in eighth grade while I was a sophomore. I wasn’t surprised that she left, and only a little sad, at first. She had attended the same school as me up until that point but wanted a better arts program and some fresh faces. I stood on the border between seeing my sister often day to day but not getting satisfying time with her and forming a real connection while she returned to NYC from her new home in Millbrook. After the transition, I found myself laughing more with her, sharing more. I’d love to be closer still to Clara, but I’m optimistic that our relationship is moving in the right direction. This past Christmas she’d barge into my room, hop onto the bed next to me and argue about which YouTube video we’d watch next. The border, which I didn’t realize was there at the time, caused me to appreciate my family that much more. The transition was tough, but being on the edge of something new turned out to be a positive experience. That border felt great. I also had more space to myself in the house, so there’s another plus.
There is no singular Miami experience. Pick any city block and you’ll find a mosaic of cultures. Knock on any door and you’re equally likely to be greeted in English, Creole, or Spanish. Zoom out just a little further and you’ll see multi million dollar mansions nestled in gated communities surrounded by slums and rows and rows of suburban houses. And between them, some of the best and some of the worst schools this country has produced. No one raised in this cultural hub could accurately describe any set of traits that would apply to even a plurality of Miami’s residents. But I know something we could all agree on – Miami is the opposite of Middlebury, Vermont.
To be clear, I am not saying that I love Middlebury any less than Miami. In fact, I have always wanted to spend time in a place like this. Growing up in a city is the ultimate separation from nature. Every day in Vermont I have been awed of the mountains, the trees and the stars that surround me. And endless summer can become tedious. I have never seen my friends enjoy the beach more than they did on their first week after their first semesters in the North East. I have also experienced nothing but genuine warmth and kindness from my new neighbors, something that can be hard to come across in a bustling city. So for every new challenge, I can name a dozen things that I already love about Middlebury.
Miami and Middlebury are wonderful places with their own unique styles of community and culture. When I made my decision to attend Middlebury College, I made the decision to try something completely different from what I have called home. I consider myself beyond lucky to be one of the few people who will have the opportunity to experience both.
In my life I’ve crossed many borders, from New Jersey to Connecticut, from Connecticut to Maine. These borders are physical, but also represent significant changes to my life that helped shape who I would become. Yet, these changes, while major, are not among the changes I’ve undergone, the borders I’ve crossed that I consider most significant to my development. For me, the most important borders I’ve crossed have had no connection to the physical world. These borders are those of mental development and maturation that in crossing had the most impact on my development.
The border crossing that stands out as most significant to me is developing the ability to seek comfort in myself and to be okay being alone. I spent much of my life considering myself to be a “social person.” To me this meant that I loved being around people all the time to the point where I felt like something was missing when I was by myself. I didn’t realize that the reason I felt uncomfortable alone was because I hadn’t given myself the chance to connect with myself and learn to find comfort alone. Over my semester off, through travelling around Europe alone and just not having my friends in town when I was I found myself spending more and more time by myself. I was uncomfortable and sad in September when my close friends left town to start school leaving me alone. However, I slowly began to find comfort in myself. I began to feel less uncomfortable alone, and my need to constantly be with other people diminished. Being alone, for me, is now time that I cherish and seek to recharge internally and allow myself to reflect.
This shift in my relationship with solitude is so significant for me because I’ve become so much happier. I consider this a border crossing that has shaped me so much, even though it was only crossed a few months ago. And I suppose I can’t say that I’ve fully crossed it. But I am now more confident in solitude than I ever have been. Being a “social person” doesn’t mean that one doesn’t need time alone. I still consider myself to be someone who loves people and loves spending time with them, and taking time for myself won’t change that.
I woke up to the sound of tree frogs singing and the smell of marsh mud seeping into my body. This is all so strange, so foreign. My transition from the cold, brooding city of Boston, Massachusetts to St. Simons Island, Georgia began. Everything that I have ever known was gone. The accents were different, the people, the culture. Crossing the border from the liberal bubble of Milton Academy to the conservative south was the first time I didn’t feel at home. A few weeks after my family and I moved into our new house my father got a phone call that changed my life forever. My eldest sister Merritt, a recent graduate of Milton Academy, had been struck by a car on her bike trip across the country. She passed the next day. Not only was I crossing a border into a whole new life in Georgia, I was faced with an impassable wall that separated me from my sister. As I now re-enter my life into New England, I find myself facing a whole new border. I am returning to the place where I had my past life with Merritt. Part of me is happy and excited to be in a setting where I feel closer to her while at the same time, I am sorrowful to start this next chapter without her. I must move forward. In time I will overcome this border, but first I must live in it.
In every chapter of our lives, we are faced with a challenge. A chance to rebrand ourselves, to be better than we were yesterday and a chance to grow. With every page we turn, we overcome another one of these challenges. But for every border we jump over, we find ourselves in front of a new one.
One border I have had to cross in my life was into the daunting land of China, where I went to high school for the last 2 years. It was petrifying and welcoming all at the same time. Besides the obvious ‘linguistic’ border that is Mandarin, the Middle Kingdom holds many unforgiving borders for residents and visitors alike.
One such border that comes to mind is that of nationality; being a foreigner in China has proven to be extremely resourceful. Be it simply getting special treatment wherever you go, being bombarded with a plethora of questions, or even having a group of teenage girls run up to take pictures of you because they’ve mistaken you for some celebrity, only for them to realize you’re just some other kid in high school, the same as them. It can even hold the most rewarding and invigorating moments of your whole life; I know for mine it did, allowing 3 of my friends and I to DJ at the biggest nightclub in the city despite having no qualifications whatsoever.
However, this border is not always beautiful. Chinese values, ideals and assumptions about the cultures of its neighbors far and wide can often be frustrating for oneself. If I had a dollar for every time a taxi driver thought I was Indian, I would probably not have to take taxis anymore. If I had another dollar for every time I’ve had to explain which country I’m from and where it is….let’s just say I could probably pay for this semester of college. Defusing any presumptions or stereotypes and cutting all the red wires of misconceptions has proven to be rather exhausting, but in a way I think that it’s made me appreciate who I am and where I am from even more. These borders, despite being both rewarding and frustrating, show myself who I am.
As a child, and into young adulthood, I have ventured in a car across the western United States with my dad. We have visited Oregon, Southern Utah, Washington, Idaho, Montana, but my most memorable trips have always been to Pinedale, Wyoming. For years, I would ride in the passenger seat of my dad’s Chevy Suburban mindlessly, disregarding my surrounding, with my eyes glued to my phone. Every once in a while, my father would comment, “Get off your damn phone!” or “When I was your age, my dad wouldn’t even let me listen to music.” This exclamation would be followed by about 5 minutes of wandering eyes and conversation, followed by more screen time. Our journeys consisted of Subway, ranch corn nuts, and the all too often stop at a historical marker. I dreaded these drives, wishing I could teleport all the way to Pinedale.
As I grew older, I gained an appreciation for this drive, what it means to my father, and how excited he gets crossing the Utah Wyoming border. In the Summer of 2018, it was my turn to take the wheel, by myself. I loaded up my white 2014 subaru crosstrek, and got onto I-80 heading east. Leaving my home, I cycled through my head of what I had brought and all the things I may have forgotten. The list replayed through my mind: fishing gear, food, clothes, pocket knife, wallet, camera. I was daunted yet excited. Unprepared but ready at the same time. I was anxious to get on the road, not wanting to stop and rest, but crossing into Wyoming made me relax. Making it to the “beautiful” town of Evanston allowed me to decompress and enjoy my drive. I realized that I would never drive to Pinedale for the first time again. Rather than rushing, I slowed down, and enjoyed my journey just as much as the prospective destination. I was overwhelmed by the same excitement my father feels crossing that border, allowing me to reminisce on old memories while speculating about future ones.
I had put it in the back of my mind for awhile. During year-long waiting period, it seldom crossed my thoughts. We received the news sitting on the floor of the living room after eating family dinner. It did not feel real. I became a big sister in a matter of a week – visa approved, plane landed in JFK, and my mother and him met me after school.
The beginning was playful, simple, and everyone wanted to meet him. We afternoons together, coloring and reading books. Then within six months, I transitioned to high school, and everything shifted with it. I began to have less time and energy to put into creating a relationship with him. Afternoons would be spent doing homework, rather than connecting with him. My stress and tiredness from school and sports would translate to him as not wanting to be around him. We lost all the progress we had made, and fell into a routine of silence. What we have is not similar to the friendship I see between others and their siblings. It is not close, or open. It is a quietness – a coexistence without communication.
I am constantly called a “social person”, but with him it is difficult to connect on any level. I wander lost and depleted in ideas of what it is to be an older sister. Some days our relationship is so strained it seems I am a stranger in his life, living in the same house, our home. I tried afternoon games of cards, baking cookies, and playing basketball in the driveway, but there is no consistency. I do not know how to become a constant in his life. Now in college, I find myself physically unable to put energy into us. I am dwelling in the uncomfortable space between having a brother on paper, but not feeling as I am a big sister in his life.
A lawyer, journalist, Wall Street stock broker, and a pilot. As my classmates share their aspirations, my turn to do the same is quickly approaching. I love biology, but dislike chemistry. I enjoy reading, but have never felt like a writer. I am certainly not a math student, nor a computer science whiz, and have somehow managed to be a JV field hockey player all four years of high school. By fall of senior year, all my friends and most of my peers have their “thing”, be it soccer, English, or STEM, the “hook” that supposedly makes them stand out on paper, thus granting them admissions to the “Ivies”, UC schools, and NESCAC’s. How ironic, I think myself, that my college counselor advised me to have my college major and career path planned out at age 17 in a 10:30 meeting when an hour later I found myself in an assembly about mindfulness and the importance of living in the moment and now, at 1:45, I am sitting in a writing seminar class with a teacher asking me the same questions about my future as the morning. As much as I wanted to point out this paradox in our school and greater society, I instead found myself saying “a doctor for Doctors without Borders.” While the rest of my peers shared their equally ambitious goals, I perused the Doctors without Borders website and envisioned myself in the pictures it featured.
As a society, we are encouraged to dream big. There are stickers and sayings and cheesy posters about shooting for the stars and TED talks about envisioning future success as a method to achieve it. Yet I hear equally as much noise about living in the present and not worrying about the next year, day, or even minute. There are the same stickers and sayings and posters and TED talks. My high school experience wasn’t an exception to this societal duality many others find themselves caught in, whether they realize it or not. Everyone finds themselves somewhere along the spectrum, which varies depending on the season of life. For me personally, my aim for admission to top colleges forced me to plan out my future, which lead to lots of daydreaming about living in New York City, attending Columbia University, and becoming the next winner of the Nobel Peace Prize or an equivalent impressive award for an altruistic doctor. I found myself far from the border of living in the present and dreaming big with little care for the current day but ambitious hopes for the coming years.
Much of this fell to the wayside when I was rejected from my “dream school” the fall of my senior year and was forced to rethink my college experience. I was no longer going to be attending an Ivy League nestled in New York City, a basket in which I had placed most of my eggs. I applied to more schools and rethought my doctor ambitions as I developed an contempt for AP Chemistry, slowly inching closer towards the “living in the present” side of the border. I had great fun engaging in senior traditions and developed a great, tight-knit group of friends and the line separating the two states of mind slowly came into view. Once I decided to attend Middlebury as a member of the class of 2022.5, I started to plan my “Febmester” without worrying too much about the many tasks accompanied with a plan to live in Haiti for three plus months. Yet “what are you planning on majoring in?” and “what specifically do you plan to accomplish in Haiti?” questions kept coming in from family members, friends, and new acquaintances.
Despite hardships, difficult emotions, and tough days, my days living in Haiti turned out to be the best three and a half months of my life. I found myself living more in the present than I ever had in high school while still daydreaming about my own non for profit, anxiously scribbling ideas in my journal and scoping out real estate, eager to start my life in Haiti. I was learning to walk the border between the two equally important opposites: today and tomorrow. Returning to my home state of Colorado just before Christmas came with many tears of leaving my best friends and the sweetest souls I had the opportunity to encounter. The prospect of college did not excite me nearly as much as it did graduation day in May of 2018 and I simply wanted to receive my degree and start my life in Haiti. I was far from the border I had learned to live near. Yet after many conversations with friends, family, and mentors, their words about the importance and prospect of an education not only as an incredible experience but also as a necessity to serve best in my future home began to take root in my mind and after attending my first college course today, Global Health, I know them to be true. For me, the border between the present and future is not one to cross, but to walk and I am working to be present without losing sight of my dreams.
Growing up, I lived on the boundary line between two adjacent schools. The school that I went to on one side, my home just barely breaking through into its domain, and the school I had always hoped and dreamed of attending on the other.
Prior to my time in school or athletics, my social life consisted mainly of games and activities with the people local to me, those I found near to me geographically, the neighborhood kids. Because of this, nearly all my friends lived within just a few blocks of me. But there was one thing that continued to separate me from all those in the group: the school border. For no particular reason my friends all lived on the side of the border which would have them going to the better school, and I begrudging remained on the other side, alone. The school border, the arbitrarily drawn line in the sand, had so long divided school from school, town from town, and now it divided me from those who I called my own.
That line, that menace, that border; it changed me. It forced me to develop new friendships, talk to new people I had never seen before. I grieve to say that I was never able to cross that border, that it overpowered me. I could cross it physically, I could go into town, I could walk to the store down the street, I could even see my old friends, but there was nothing I could ever do to rightfully insert myself back in the group that had made my youth. The people I had once known as close friends were now no more than mere neighbors. I adapted, I survived with my new friends, thrived, even to this day. But it still carries itself as a great burden the thought of what could have been, people I lost, friends I lost, love and belonging I could never quite replicate. My stubborn mind, since that dreadful first day of school, has fed relentlessly on the thought of what could have been, had that school border not existed, had it existed a quarter mile down the road, had it one day returned my friends to me.
The border between East Hampton Highschool and the Ross School is rooted in a discrepancy in privilege, wealth, and socio-economic class. The image of each institution lies in the types of students who attend the schools rather than the schools’ values and principles. The locals who’ve lived in Montauk and East Hampton for generations send their children to East Hampton High, whereas the New York City runaways, or “cidiots,” send their children to Ross School. Athletic kids go to East Hampton, artsy kids go to Ross. East Hampton wins state championships, Ross students win film festivals.
When I decided to cross the border from East Hampton to Ross, I lost the respect of many peers and admiration of many mentors. As a sixteen-year-old, I was lost when former baseball coaches would call me, confronting me with questions like “why would you transfer to Ross? You’re jeopardizing the future of our varsity program,” and “Augie, I thought you wanted to play college ball: you do know Ross doesn’t have a team, right?” Frankly, I had no idea how to answer these questions. I didn’t know what my future would look like without a baseball team and I didn’t know why I wasn’t listening to the thoughts of my peers and mentors. I did know, however, that I dreaded going to school every morning. I dreaded the mindless multiple-choice quizzes, the tedious worksheets, and the indifferent demeanor of everyone in the building. I didn’t know what I was getting myself into, but I knew exactly what I was leaving.
After I left East Hampton, lifelong best friends became merely faces I’d wave to at the local A&P and former baseball and basketball coaches would look down if they saw me in the village. Although my new school would cultivate new interests and provide me with substantial academic enrichment, there will always be a part of me that feels guilty for leaving my life at East Hampton High School.
When I was fourteen, my good friend came out as genderqueer. And for the first time in my life, I learned that someone could use the pronouns they/them. Tiz, once known as Max, struggled with being perceived as male for ages. In retrospect, I can see that uncertainty in their eyes when we met many years prior to their coming out. In more ways than one, the person they were then is many galaxies away from who they are now.
My strife was set on the other end of the binary. I am “very feminine,” as my mother asserted when I told her I was gender non-binary. At that age, I wasn’t sure if I appeared feminine due to my societal conditioning or my truth. But “girlhood” felt incorrect at the very core of my being. I was not a girl. When Tiz showed me that there was another option, I leapt over that border. When I tumbled, I tumbled hard. That first year of exploration, I felt immense resentment and anger, two strangers. Where were they coming from? Did I have the right to be angry? What if I wasn’t non-binary at all, and I was only inflating the issue with my self-righteousness?
In addition, I didn’t understand why it was so difficult for others to comprehend this personal revelation. But this anger — another border in its own right — ate away at my relationships with the exception of my peers who were either allies or genderqueer in some way. But my family for instance didn’t entirely understand.
“And why?” I asked them with ferocity. My immediate family members — my mum and grandmothers — had all crossed a similar border. They were lesbians in a Mormon community. They came out. They left unwelcome territory and made vibrant lives for themselves. Was I not attempting to do the same thing? And why were they not rallying behind me?
Time, my friend. It takes time.
Even to walk across the Niagara Falls to Canada, US Customs requires ID, Passport (or its equivalent card), and a brief search of your belongings. Although I have no firm evidence regarding the smuggling of goods through the Niagara Falls checkpoint, I have to assume that it must be an unusual occurrence for an officer to discover anything more than an “I ♡ NY” mug or a jar of maple syrup. But I know better than to complain. The office, although quaint, carries an unspoken significance. Somewhere across this beautiful body of water, mankind drew a line in the metaphorical sand, with one side Niagara, the other Horseshoe.
It was as though the fish themselves were split in allegiance. How would a customs officer ever know which fish are Canadian and which are American? The Canadian fish would be more polite, I suppose. Regardless, the fish certainly did not seem to mind. But the question stuck with me. What gave us the right to tell those creatures of the sea that their home, one we do not even inhabit, was divided amongst ourselves?
In the middle of the bridge, the two countries placed a set of footsteps, paved into the stone, with one foot in each sovereign state. As an exercise of the “full Niagara experience” as my girlfriend at the time called it, I stepped into the footprints and stared out at the majesty of the Falls. I tried to feel patriotic, thankful for the freedoms of my home country. But all I could think about as I looked upon the crashing waters was an awe for the Nature that surrounded me.
The sun was in the process of setting, but I didn’t notice; I was in the back seat, surrounded by boxes and ipllows and duffel bags, staring at my laptop with my headphones in and blasting as I attempted to read the assigned reading through the noise.
Suddenly, my dad, who was driving, announced, “Welcome to Vermont!” and my mom in the passenger seat let out a small cheer. Their voices were soft underneath my music, but I still heard them, and I strained in my seat to see the sign that I knew had prompted this declaration, but it was gone, well behind us at our 70 mph pace down the interstate. All I saw was a small white house, the background of a tall green forest, and the sfot light of the sun fading between the trees.
I continued to stare at the passing landscape for a few seconds, and then returned to my homework.
Maybe it was stress, or the nerves of wanting to impress a professor, or impatience, or plain apathy. But I wasn’t too focused on the fact that I was entering my home for the next four years for only the third time. There was work to do.
The border that comes to the front of my mind is that between my transition into self awareness out of a lack thereof.
My upbringing and graduation into the later stages of adolescence were defined by my output of care and awareness towards my mother. I even wrote my college essay about this very practice. I distinctly remember writing, “I could feel her, not myself, in our big moments of distress and change.”
My mom is a strong woman, a great woman, and one fully functional without the whispers of my emotional care. Yet, it has taken me almost 18 years (maybe less considering the duration of infancy) to step away from my worry about her and confront my anxieties about myself.
So, I guess that’s where I stand now with the tips of my toes kissing this threshold of an unknown selfishness (don’t get me wrong, I am a selfish teenager, but this one is different.) I have to take her calls assuming that she is fine and able, as she always has been. I have to let go of my worries about her loneliness and bask in her strength as my mother, guardian, and guiding light. I have to step over a metaphorical line into the good and whole region of self care and succumb to the self realization, development, change, and betterment that comes with the new territory. I have to allow myself to be healthily selfish and avoid projecting my worries and anxieties into the life of someone I so admire, so love, and will so miss as I transition into this period of growth.
I’m often too scared to cross borders, to be in that terrifying state of the unknown. It happened last night, as I shifted back and forth in my new bed and heard the muffled conversations and laughs of people in my hallways, and the rain hitting my window. I know it’s okay to be in this state of unknown. That state is inevitable when we cross borders. But I still shifted and rolled over, trying not to suffocate under my blanket (update: I just was informed that Battell rooms can be suffocatingly hot, and it’s best to crack a window. So probably my uncomfortableness wasn’t totally mental). I turned over and lay on my stomach, face on my pillow. I need to cross borders, I know that. I can’t be the same person who sat in the same place everyday for lunch for four years, who desperately wanted to escape but had no idea how. I need to be brave, and accept completely the uncomfortable feeling that overwhelms me. It’s all good. The future is unknown, and that’s totally okay. I want it to be unknown. I want to be surprised at what I discover when I cross this border.
From a very early age my grandmother told me that our minds are our wings and our prisons. Growing up in a repressive dictatorship, she had to make peace with her fears while she dared to dream new worlds through which to fly. If it was easy to imagine how I could let my ideas take flight, I could not fathom being imprisoned by myself until I was diagnosed with depression at age 16.
This invisible—and yet flaming—confinement forced me to face new limits; limitations and challenges that separated me from my warm dreaming and sentenced me to a cold, resigned reality. Divided, I caught myself looking at those around me and wondered how could I ever surpass the thick transparent glass between us. I wondered how could I ever obtain a visa, an invitation letter written assertively to convince the guardians of my own border to let me reunite with who I knew to be me.
Forced into an exile of solitude, I cursed at the unknown warden who had signed me for a prolonged solitary confinement. I began wondering why my eyes screamed pain, but my smile lingered reminiscing the past; why the things that were once so common were now scarce and what was once ‘an Other’ seemed now to be myself. Having nowhere to go but within I realized my mind was not one, but many—judge, warden, defendant, captor and prey.
It was at that moment I came to myself and saw the borders I much feared as ones that needed not exist. Indeed, I found that the toughest walls to breach are those we built within ourselves; ones that break and scatter us and have us think coming home is a concept too foreign to assimilate. Looking through that glass I saw my grandmother. And, crossing to meet her I understood that when we face the harsh reality with dreamy eyes, we reach a new status; one in which we may fly over any border.