Getting Oriented, as My Mother Would Say

Today was the first day of orientation. It entailed the things I hate most: wandering around a place pretending to look like you’re happy and comfortable and something other than prehistoric, but in fact knowing no one or nothing.

But it turned out fine. I got my geriatric-student ID card with nary a snicker from the photographer. I even managed to strike up a conversation with several people. I didn’t know I could do that: just walk up and say “hi.” I hung out some with my SF friend from last night, and also met a delightful 27-year-old woman from NYC. For some reason, I’ve not had substantive talks with any men. Maybe they scare me). Like me, the latter also got her degree in photography and also has a mother who was adopted. She volunteer-teaches at a nonprofit photo center in town and co-leads a class for teenage girls at the local mental institution, also known as “The Retreat.”

My landlord, Victor,  called and said I could dump my stuff in my new apartment (which I haven’t even seen yet). The two woman offered to help, and  did a “scissors, paper, rock” to see who would drive the second car. My SF friend won. “Does that mean I drive or I don’t drive?”

I knocked on Victor’s door and when he extended his hand I threw my arms around him, so relieved was I to see a familiar face. The apartment is smaller than I thought, and filthy, but I still like it a lot. It smelled faintly of ganja. With a little help from my friends all my stuff was up the stairs in less than fifteen minutes.

The landlord’s son was there doing some cleaning. I asked, —”Your parents had five children, right?” —”Yes,” he replied. “Five, if you don’t count me.” I’m confused.

I met two of my neighbors, who seemed great, as did the abundant dogs that came in to check out my digs.

I returned to my hotel, but before long it was time to head back to campus.

You know what’s one of the hardest things in the world to do? To pick which table you want to sit at. Do you pick an empty one and risk having a bunch of bores join you, or — worse yet — being left alone? Do you pick a table that’s well-established and worry that you’re butting in? I like picking one that’s half full. It has both character and possibility. But what if it’s the wrong possibility?

Settled at my painstakingly mis-chosen table, I heard a familiar and beloved refrain:  Nkosi Sikelel’ iAfrica, sung extemporaneously by a professor and a South African student. I struggled with my shyness and overcame it, leaping out of my chair and joining them just in time for the last two lines. I could have gone on to the next two verses, but the prof stopped so I skittered away like a cockroach.

The evening’s last event was dinner with colorful napkins and motivational speakers. I was moved almost to tears by some of what I heard, in part because I thought — for the first time ever in an educational setting — “These are my people.” From the podium they spoke of dedication to learning about and understanding other cultures, and wanting to serve these populations.

But then there were the moments that made me choke up — not in the friendly little frog way, but in the “I can’t breathe; I’m going to die” way. Like why did that guy say, “You will all get to know each other as intellectuals.” I ain’t no feckin’ intellectual. Can’t we do some coloring?

I guess I’d better stop now. I overslept today. Can’t tomorrow.  At 10:00 pm I’ll move into my new apartment. I won’t be able to unpack till the weekend so I hope I can locate some clean clothes.

A week ago yesterday I taught my friend M about “DOC” — the trick for deciphering the phases of the moon. If the arc of the moon is facing the way a D does, it’s waxing. That night I spent with M, the moon was a sliver D. Tonight as I walked through the prematurely chilly night back to my car, I looked up. The moon is getting close to full. Time passing. I wish those memories would as well.

Love,
Ginna