Kyrgyzstan: Istanbul Airport

Monday, June 28, 2021- evening

When I got off the plane in Istanbul, I was embarrassed to find myself being a gawking tourist over the “exotic” people around me. It was diverse in ways that made Prague feel like white bread. 

I was out of the Czech bubble. The Istanbul airport was a mosaic of people from the spectrum of humanity: Black, Brown, white; East Asian, Arab, Persian, Turkic, Indian. It was beautiful to hear all of the different languages floating by me and to see the different fashions. The Muslim women who covered the spectrum from completely covered to mostly covered adorned themselves in various patterns and colors. I appreciated all the different cultures, skin colors, and backgrounds mixing right there in the airport. 

Large signs pointed towards the mosque everywhere you went. The board for gate announcements of connecting flights were in English as well as the script of the destination: Hebrew, Arabic, and Cyrillic alphabet scripts scrolled across the screen. A large TV announced that the Prime Ministers of Israel and Egypt were set to meet this week.  

When I washed my hands in the bathroom, I read the large warning signs on the mirror: “Do not drink the tap water! It is unsafe to drink!” I had been planning on refilling my water bottle at the sink—I had just emptied it to go through security—and I was disappointed. Then I remembered an old lesson that I had learned in China: drinking out of the tap is privilege, and most of the world does not have such a privilege. The other sign reading, “Do not use this area for ablution, use the mosque for washing before prayer,” reminded me that I was in a Muslim majority country. 

There is something about going from a homogenous place (whether it be Boulder, mainland China, or Prague) that is mostly made up of one race or ethnicity, and stepping off the plane into another city that is absolutely not homogenous. Going from Prague to Istanbul reminded me of the full array of humanity, which provided a little jolt of needed discomfort. The switch was a little jarring, reminding this white person (me) of their minority status in the world: white people, despite our ethnocentric views sometimes, are not actually the center of the world. Imagine that (said ironically). Having these experiences remind me that the life I often live is one of bubbled privilege and comfort, a life that is distant from other parts of the world where diversity reigns. 

There is also something uncomfortable about going from a relatively wealthy or privileged place to a country that is not. 

Going from a country that participated / participates in and benefited / benefits from colonization to a country that was exploited during colonization is always a bit of a wake-up call. Some might call this discomfort with experiencing and living firsthand the inequalities of the world “culture shock.”

***Of course CZ has been on the receiving end of colonization as well (as it was occupied by the Austro-Hungarian Empire, Nazis, Soviets, and other Communist puppets as well. But CZ has also benefitted by being a historically colonial power in other ways as well (e.g., colonizing Bohemia and Morovia as well as parts of Germany and has benefitted from its European Union privilege.)***

The corridor from the plane to the airport had the announcement: “Welcome to Istanbul: Some cities are just too much for one continent,” referencing the fact that Istanbul spans the Bosphorus Strait and is considered to be located in both Europe and Asia. The rest of the airport was covered in large advertisements on billboards and TVs of the archeological and tourist destinations in Turkey.

I walked out to the main terminal. It was crowded and bustling. I was suddenly out of the European bubble where people have the resources to only wear N95 masks—I had gotten used to only seeing those masks since everybody only wears those in CZ—and back into the world where people don’t have that privilege, and people were wearing all kinds of cloth masks, if they were wearing a mask at all. There were lots of signs around saying “keep your social distance” as well as hand sanitizing stations and even workers in light blue vests that said “hygiene team” on them, but otherwise nobody seemed to care about coronavirus. I sat down at a café and got a vitamin water to quench my thirst.

The airport was huge and gaudy, clearly a project of the authoritarian Turkish government that reminded me of China. Large development projects often provide huge kickbacks to corrupt government officials. The government also has an incentive to put off an image into the international community that they are successful. These days, authoritarian governments like Turkey strive for a “low violence but not no violence” and “good image to the outside world” regime. 

Big airports symbolizing “successful” economies are one way to project success to the outside world. Some political scientists call this an “information autocracy” to explain that controlling information, rather than causing violence (which gives them a bad name/face in the international community), is the focus of contemporary authoritarian regimes. Big, fancy airports are one part of this information autocracy regime. From what I’ve heard of Erdogan’s growing authoritarianism, I think this is accurate for Turkey. Regardless of the reason, the airport was definitely one of the nicest and largest airports I’ve ever been in. It felt like I had to walk miles to get to my gate. 

I passed a very fake “Old Turkish Bazaar” with gothic arches and “traditional” foods like dried fruits and nuts, all very overpriced and appealing to the tourist as most airports do. 

Signs announced not to worry about COVID because “we disinfect your luggage” and “constantly recirculate the air.” 

I had been nervous about customs because I didn’t know if they’d let me into KGZ for tourism. I had to show my COVID test about 4 or 5 different times throughout the journey—to get on the plane and to get through security and customs—but otherwise I had no issues with customs or security and eventually arrived in the Bishkek airport safe and sound.

To be continued... 

Kyrgyzstan: On My Way

Monday, June 28, 2021

Prague -> Istanbul

I love flying. 

On an airplane, I mean. 

I love the feeling of being obligated to just sit still and be for a while. Nobody to talk to, nobody talking to me. Just me myself and I. It’s a little Sabbath Day right there in the sky. A chance to just sleep, read, or think. Or, just sit there and do nothing. My mind can go blank and, for some brief moments, is free of worries: nothing to do, nowhere to be.  

I enjoy being suspended in the air between two cities. In that moment on the airplane, I am leaving the life and responsibilities of the departing city for a moment, while the unknown and exciting possibilities of the arrival city hang in the air. I can almost taste the expectations and wishes for the destination and its opportunities that lie waiting for me there. 

There is a meditation I learned for airplanes. You connect with your breath and close your eyes. Every time you have a thought about the past, you tag the thought with the name of the departing city: Prague. Every time you have a thought about the future, you tag the thought with the name of the arrival city: Istanbul. It’s a fun game to bring awareness to your thoughts about the past and future, with the two cities standing in your mind as symbols of what has passed and what is yet to come. 

I am always delighted when I board an international flight and the announcements are in multiple languages. The announcements are usually in the language of the departing city, the destination city, and English (**cough** legacy of imperialism and colonialism **cough**). For me this time, it was Czech, Turkish, and English. 

I was surprised by how much of the Turkish I could understand. Of course, Uyghur is a Turkic language, but I didn't realize how similar the two languages were. Uyghurs were always telling me how similar the languages were. 

But like a lot of things that Uyghurs told me, I had my doubts about their validity (people had all kinds of stories about how the Uyghurs invented pizza and bagels--that one might be true but I'm not sure--and other claims about Uyghurs role in culture and history.) Uyghur and other Turkic people had told me different things—from “the Turkish and Uyghur languages are almost identical” to “the languages are 10% similar” to “the languages are very different but just with similar grammar structures.” 

Honestly, I’d never really spent that much time listening to Turkish while I was in China, so I didn't really know (and, being that I'm not a linguist, I still really don't know how similar the languages actually are). Uyghurs watch lots of Turkish soap operas and listen to Turkish music, but I was always so focused on learning Uyghur that I never really paid attention to those things. And I’d never been to Turkey. 

But sitting on the airplane and listening to the announcements, I could pick out words and the grammar structures—the suffixes were similar, and many of the verbs, numbers, conjugations, and vocabulary was the same. Since I knew Uyghur, it didn't feel so foreign to me. However, I was going from white washed Prague to Istanbul, and I was in for a bit of a culture shock going from the colonizer's land to the colonized.

The first thing that happened on this white person’s journey from the Global North to the Global South was that they didn’t have a vegetarian meal on hand. Ok, I know I’m spoiled. Previously, I had always requested vegetarian meals, but in the last five years or so, there was always a vegetarian option already on the main menu of international flights, so I had forgotten to request it when I bought the tickets this time. 

This time, there was only one option: chicken. I asked the flight attendant if there was a vegetarian option and he paused for a moment, processing my request. 

“No,” he said after a moment's hesitation. 

I stared back for a moment, processing his answer. I think he saw my pleading and desperate eyes. 

“I can go check for you, though,” he said. 

I thanked him and he came back 10 minutes later with some pasta. 

“I found you a meal,” he announced. 

He had “borrowed” it from the first-class section. The meal set was all fancy with porcelain dishes instead of plastic.

I thanked him profusely, reminded of my privilege that I get to be picky with what I eat, whereas other people are grateful for whatever they can get. Many consider meat a delicacy and a luxury that you would be crazy to turn down. 

In my privilege, I get to “save the Earth” by reducing my meat intake. For me, it’s about claiming sovereignty over my body and it’s empowering to know that I get to choose what goes in it. For me, the ethical, moral, and environmental implications of eating meat is something that my body can’t sit with anymore. I have the privilege to have access to enough calories and protein through other means, and so I can refuse it. But for others, a vegetarian diet may be a privilege that they may not have access to. For others, I am being picky. 

To be continued...

Why Kyrgyzstan?

Why Kyrgyzstan? 

I’ve been traveling in and around Bishkek, the capital city of Kyrgyzstan, for the past 14 days (!!!). I’ve been getting this question a lot. Many people I talk to have never heard of Kyrgyzstan or Bishkek. If they have, they often could not tell you where these places are located on a map. 

(By the way, for the purposes of simplicity, I’m going to abbreviate Kyrgyzstan as KGZ for the rest of this blog series.) 

Map of Kyrgyzstan. The capital, Bishkek, is located in the central north of the country. 

So, why KGZ? I was immediately enchanted by KGZ from the first time I crossed into its territory while hitchhiking on a semi-truck in 2015. (I wrote about that trip across the China-Kyrgyz border).

The views on the Torugart Pass, the mountain pass between China and KGZ, were like nothing I had ever seen before; they made Colorado’s mountains seem small in comparison. While I rode next to the trucker, I stared out the window in awe. We crossed the mountain pass from China into KGZ, driving up and down mountains and through valleys, with snow-capped mountains with glaciers in the background and rolling grassy hills in the foreground. 

In 2015, I was in KGZ to explore. I was on a summer trip doing research on the Xinjiang Uyghur Autonomous Region, and scoping out the ethnic minority conflicts and border issues in this dynamic and diverse region along the ancient Silk Road. I visited Osh, KGZ’s second largest city, and was hosted by the family of a contact I had made through jiujitsu. They never let me train, since I was female, but the wife spoke some English and hosted me at their home and cooked me meals my entire stay in Osh. During the trip, I was pleased to be able to communicate with the locals in Uyghur. I was also fascinated by the recently independent country’s nationalism and ethnic diversity. From that moment on, I knew that even if KGZ was outside of my current scope of dissertation research, I would return at some point to do research in this fascinating and beautiful place. 

Fast forward to 2018 with the ongoing Uyghur humanitarian crisis unfolding. I knew I couldn’t stay silent and knew I would be writing controversial articles about the atrocities. I knew I could not go back to China as long as the current regime under Xi Jinping was in power for fear of being arrested due to my research and publications. I couldn’t go back unless some major political and liberalizing changes took place in China. It was time to re-think my research agenda and plan an alternative field site. Meanwhile, I was applying for postdoctoral fellowships at a number of universities--Princeton, Yale, Harvard--and they all wanted a research proposal. 

Here is what I wrote:

“Chinese development projects along the “New Silk Road” carry implications for the escalation of the Chinese political-economic model of authoritarian-capitalism outside of China. Chinese-funded roads and oil pipelines involve negotiations of territorial sovereignty in post-Soviet space. While Turkmenistan, Kazakhstan and Uzbekistan have relatively strong authoritarian governments, in Kyrgyzstan and Tajikistan local governments are comparatively weaker. I hypothesize that the threat of Chinese authority undermining local governments will be more prevalent where the central state government appears weaker. 

Using these preliminary results, I will examine the human and political impacts of Chinese New Silk Road economic development on local attitudes of xenophobia in Central Asia, especially in Kyrgyzstan. Growing hostility towards Chinese migrant workers may reflect a global trend toward xenophobia. Investigating this phenomenon will measure the feelings of locals toward Chinese development projects as a potential threat to their territorial sovereignty.

I will use my Uyghur language skills, and employ a local interpreter when necessary, to conduct field research in Central Asia to investigate how local communities view and respond to Chinese development projects along the New Silk Road.” 

I never did get offered those prestigious postdocs (and thank god I didn’t). But I did use a similar proposal to apply for the Research Fellow position at the Czech Academy of Sciences two years later, and my proposal was accepted in October 2020. Part of my job right now is to conduct field research in Central Asia and they are paying me to do so. 

And so, here I am. 

KGZ is a popular place for US graduate students and other researchers of Central Asia to conduct ethnographic research because the government is relatively weaker and poorer than the other Central Asian countries. KGZ’s state security and surveillance is not as developed, and freedom of speech is somewhat tolerated. Conducting research in the other Central Asian countries could be risky--I could get arrested if found out that I was “stealing state secrets.” But KGZ does not have this kind of totalitarian government, nor the capacity to monitor random esoteric social science research. KGZ is also relatively more open and liberal, considered the most “democratic” of the Central Asian countries. KGZ has relatively free and fair elections and a large presence of Western-funded and independent NGOs and organizations, such as USAID and the UN. 

Being that KGZ borders the Xinjiang Uyghur Autonomous Region of China, there is also a large Uyghur population--both those Uyghurs who were born in KGZ (Uyghurs are a recognized ethnicity minority in KGZ), as well as Uyghur refugees from China. I had also done some preliminary research on the queer scene in KGZ (see Bagdasarova 2018; Suyarkulova 2019), and knew it was a potential site for more research on that front as well. 

In short, I’m here to look at Chinese economic development, Chinese migration (and hostility towards it), Uyghur diaspora, and LGBT issues. 

Finally, I have recently realized that KGZ is not even on the map for most people. People’s mental maps of the world have a big blank space in this region--some people have heard of Kazakhstan (maybe from Borat?), but not Kyrgyzstan. In this sense, for a lot of Westerners, KGZ does not even exist. An entire country, an entire people, and a long, rich history--from the Silk Road to the Mongol Empire to Soviet occupation--that people don’t even see. That area of the world is a blank spot in most people’s minds. People know of China, they know of Turkey, they know of Europe, but the space in-between is basically a blank spot. 

And that blank spot in-between China and Turkey are the post-Soviet countries--the countries, including Afghanistan, that were ravaged by years of colonization and war. These countries are some of the strongest authoritarian (some say totalitarian, some say kleptocracy) countries in the world now with shocking and atrocious human rights abuses that rival China’s (e.g., killing, arrests, and disappearances of activists and political opponents).

Western countries are complicit in these human rights abuses because a lot of the money--money mostly from oil, gas and mining--from resource extraction by these governments is held in German, Dutch, and Swiss banks. While the people are starving and lack water, the governments are funneling large amounts of money abroad.

But how can people in other parts of the world care about what is happening in this region if they don’t even know that these countries exist? And if they don’t know that these countries exist, then they don’t know that the people and cultures in them exist. And if they don’t know that the people in them exist, how can they care? How can advocates move forward an agenda of freedom in these countries among so much ignorance? 

The first step toward healing the world--from climate change to poverty--is about understanding that WE ARE ALL CONNECTED. This theory is something that I like to call “integral geography,” inspired by Ken Wilbur’s “integral theory.” 

Integral geography is about understanding how everything is connected--the oil and gas of Central Asia fuel climate change, while European banks benefits from the cash flows. We are all connected, whether we realize it or not. But we cannot start to heal the major and most pressing problems of our world based on these inter-connections unless we are aware of where those connections flow from and to. If the Earth is like an interconnected and interdependent organism, KGZ is one of the many sprained ankles. How can we heal a sprained ankle if we don’t even know that the ankle exists? First, we must become aware of the ankle. Second, we must feel and understand the pain that is emanating from the injury. Third, we can start to send resources to heal the ankle. 

I am feeling inspired to spread awareness about this place, putting this place onto people’s mental maps as a first step toward creating a more integral geography. In my utopian vision, we as world citizens will be aware of all the countries and people of the world so we can slowly start healing together. 

So, in conclusion, I was captivated by the beauty and culture of KGZ. It was the perfect research site, since the Kyrgyz language is similar to Uyghur and borders China with lots of Chinese and Uyghur migrants, refugees and immigrants. It is also a field site with possibilities to investigate the relationship between authoritarianism, colonialism, Islam and LGBT rights.

In an effort to contribute to integral geography, KGZ is one step along a longer journey to address human rights abuses around the world and heal together as an interconnected world, not separated by nations and ethnicities but united in our shared humanity. 

My Second Tattoo: Burning and Flying

The story of my second tattoo (pictured here) is just that: a story. Each part doesn’t just symbolize one static thing, but rather it symbolizes an evolution.

I got the tattoo in Xinjiang in September 2017, just a few weeks before I was scheduled to leave China for the last time. The political situation was tightening everyday--my Uyghur friends were disappearing, Hong Kong was heating up, and foreigners were getting kicked out--and I knew I wouldn’t be back for a long time, if ever. I wanted to get the tattoo as a symbolic marker of my time—and struggles—in Xinjiang as a life changing experience that was now coming to an end. 

Xinjiang was life changing for me in that it was a time (2014-2017) of coming to learn firsthand about authoritarian oppression and Indigenous suffering at the hands of settler colonialism; living in two cultures simultaneously (Han and Uyghur) so different from each other and so different from my own; being so far from my home and family; and finally, coming out and into my own sexuality and independence as a bi person and geography scholar. 

I also wanted to get the tattoo in memory of my late grandmother who had recently passed away. Finally, the end of 2016 and beginning of 2017 was when I suffered from the concussion, and I intended the tattoo as a “scar” of this time to serve as a reminder of the pain of my concussion and the liberation I experienced after I healed from it. 

The original idea for the design

My friend from jiujitsu recommended a Han Chinese tattoo artist (Uyghurs don’t tattoo as this is against Muslim faith) and I made an appointment to see him at his studio in late August 2017. I went to his studio with the intention to tell him my story--my time in XJ, my grandmother, and my concussion--and my reasons for getting the tattoo, and ask him to design something from there. 

I told the tattoo artist that I wanted something to symbolize two phrases. 

First, the phrase “this too shall pass.” This phrase symbolized the suffering of my concussion and the passing of my grandmother (as every life must come to an end). I told him that I felt very strongly connected to the image of birds flying away as a symbol of this philosophy and mindset that everything is temporary

Second, the Chinese proverb that goes, 野火烧不尽，春风吹又生 (yehuo shao bu jin, chunfeng chui you sheng), which translated literally means, “A wildfire does not burn it all completely, there is life again when the spring winds blow.” Another more literary translation, which I got from the dictionary, says: “Even a prairie fire cannot destroy the grass, it grows again when the spring breeze comes.” 

The beautiful thing about proverbs is that you can interpret them differently according to your own life experiences and apply them to how you see it fit your own life. For me, the proverb symbolizes this sentiment: Like a phoenix burned to death and rising from the ashes, it is only through hardship, suffering and even death that can provide the space and room for growth and re-birth. Even extreme suffering does not kill your spirit or your soul, you can find a second coming or a second wind, a re-birth and new growth with the spring breeze--the breath of life--that can only happen on the fields where the fire had occurred.

For me, these two proverbs spoke to the experience of temporality of life and the rebirth and freedom I experienced after a year of hardship, trauma, and loss, namely struggling with my PhD comprehensive exams while living in Xinjiang, a bad concussion, and the death of my grandmother. 

I explained all of the above to the tattoo artist and he nodded, saying he would design a tattoo for me. 

Before I left the office, he asked me if there were any plants that were special to me growing up in my hometown. I told him about the maple trees in Frick Park and Schenley Park where I spent so much time growing up.

When I was younger, my sister and I often went to Frick Park with my dad, a huge park in the middle of urban Pittsburgh with steel tycoon Henry Clay Frick as its benefactor and namesake. We often went to the portion of Frick Park that we called “The Hallow,” its key distinguishing feature a large grassy field situated in the valley of two forested hills. We would often go running there on Saturday mornings, or take our greyhound-lab mix Wyatt to play fetch in the creek. Our cross-country courses, as well as the Run Around the Square 5K course, went through that part of the park, and we (my Dad, sister, and I) would often run those courses and try to improve on our times. Dad and Wyatt would tag along and we would throw the tennis ball for Wyatt in the grassy fields. I have very fond memories of that park. In addition to running there, I often went biking and spent time with my high school sweetheart there (we did a whole cutesy photo shoot with my digital camera there on our own before selfies were even a thing). It’s one of my favorite parts of Pittsburgh, and when the oak and maple leaves change in the fall, the park lights up in a symphony of color. 

The manifestation of my ideas into the artist's sketchpad:

When I came back a week later, he showed me the design on his sketchpad: 

The artist unconsciously brought to life something unexpected. The burning of the maple leaf, which he had designed based on the Chinese proverb about rising from the ashes, I realized in that moment also symbolizes for me a burning of my original image of myself and dreams for myself that I had as a child in Pittsburgh: as a straight woman who would be married and successful (maybe even famous), rich, and smart. 

The tattoo symbolizes the burning of old expectations of myself as rich and successful; the burning of old expectations of myself as perfect; the burning of old expectations of myself as straight. It’s about the burning and letting go of the plans, expectations and beliefs about myself.

Those dreams and images of myself are gone now, and as they burn and fly away, I realize that those expectations and societal norms that I put on myself are no longer something that I want. The rainbow color of the birds—something also unplanned—symbolizes my coming out as queer/bi that year. I like to think of the birds as me flying away into the wind as a bisexual and trans writer, which is what I really want for my life.

The details on the components of the dreamcatcher portion of the tattoo:

The dreamcatcher design on the bottom as a whole symbolizes both my commitment to Indigenous politics and writing about the injustices of settler colonialism and the nation-state system (in both Xinjiang and elsewhere), as well as a reminder and a symbol that Pittsburgh was built on top of the genocide, colonization, and displacement of Native Americans—that will always be a scar that we hold as a people and nation. 

The separate parts of the dream catcher symbolize more specific things:

• The design in the middle of the dream catcher is the Chinese character for “human” (人) to symbolize that all humans come across struggles in life, and in the end, can and will overcome them (i.e. the fire that cannot destroy the grass).
• The thorns on the rim of the dreamcatcher represent the suffering in life that we will encounter and must accept.
• The green buds growing from the thorns symbolize the re-birth that we experience after struggle, and the ways that even from thorns new life will spring.
• The feathers below the dream catcher symbolize my three main struggles this year: the death of my grandmother, my concussion, and living in Xinjiang during authoritarian oppression of Indigenous people. While at the time these three things seemed like huge burdens that could not be overcome, with time they floated away with the lightness of a single feather, and I now see each of them as a kind of scar, but also a gift, and not a burden (as they are as light as a feather now).  

I recognize that the dreamcatcher portion of my tattoo can be interpreted as an appropriation of Native American culture and for this I apologize if I have offended anyone. 

After the tattoo:

After I got the tattoo, I said goodbye to my friends and life in Xinjiang, and returned to the States in early October. That month, I had a dream:

I was riding on a hang-glider, enjoying the blue sky with the breeze on my face and wind in my ears, the sun on my face, and my heart beating in my chest. When I had landed, my mom and grandpa wanted to ride on the hang-glider too. “No!” I screamed. “We're late for our flight!” We rushed to the airport, but we missed our flight anyway. 

Reflecting on this dream, I wrote in my journal: 

“Remember that flight on the hang glider. Remember how you cut it short because of time; because of a deadline. Remember your pain and fear of the upcoming deadline. But remember how you missed the flight anyway? So what if you could recognize earlier that you were going to need more time? You could arrange to delay the flight one more day and spend the extra time enjoying the adventure, inviting others to come along with you on the hang glider, and they could share in your joyful presence. Then you would have time for self-care and relaxation and rest during most of that extra time. 

What if I could invite others to join me on the ride? Can I make room for them on my hang-glider? Can I share my joy with them? Can I go on journeys with them? Can I take them with me and let them take me with them? Can I accept their generosity without guilt? Can I share my laughter with them? 

How can we be mindful of what we are doing? Rather than using work and time and schedules as a strategy to avoid the pain and pleasure of life, how can we enjoy what we’re doing while inviting others into our life? 

It’s true that time is limited. So can we use our time in joyful presence rather than checklists and time cards and schedules?

Can you imagine a different world? Not one built around deadlines but built around flying free and present?” 

My tattoo is now a reminder to me of the dream I had and the way I would like to re-create that dream into a more beautiful and present life in companionship with others.

Pittsburgh

 This writing is from November 2017. 

I went back to Pittsburgh for Thanksgiving weekend for my 10-year high school reunion. I stayed with Sue and John Todhunter, two family friends from before I was born. Sue and John are like my aunt and uncle. Especially after my Mom and Dad moved away from Pittsburgh in 2007, they always graciously hosted me on my trips back home and I got to know them better as an adult. I can’t thank them enough for their hospitality and support, especially when it came to my career. Sue and I shared a special bond because she did the Fulbright in Tatarstan, which is a Turkic ethnic minority in Russia not unlike the Uyghurs. We always had fun things to talk about regarding academic life. I always felt at home there and they took care of me like their own. 

I also went back to my hometown, Swissvale, a borough right outside Pittsburgh. This was 10 years after my parents had moved out. I went to the house where I grew up, and walked around the perimeter. I rang the doorbell but nobody answered. I walked down the street to Memorial Park and down to the old basketball courts where Dad, Ruth and I used to play and throw the tennis ball for our dog Wyatt and where I learned to ride a bike. Here are my reflections from the visit. 

Going back to Swissvale was such a mix of emotions. I felt sadness for the friends I’d lost touch with, nostalgia for my childhood and my family, and hope for my future.

Driving up Braddock Ave on my way there, a memory popped up of sharing a twin stroller with Hali on our way to First Friends. I was in the back, and she was in the front, and Sharon was pushing us down the sidewalk. I remember feeling safe and connected to Hali. 

I remember visiting Ruth at the Taco Bell when she was working. I remember going to Coral Garden for Chinese food with grandpa and going shopping at Giant Eagle. I remember going running in Frick Park. Walking there on the trails I could still feel the pressure and burn in my chest remembering pushing myself beyond my limits during races and practice. 

As I approached the house that I grew up in--7320 Church St (it seems like I’ll never forget that address for as long as I live)--it looked so much smaller than I remember. The stairs and the porch used to be so big in my memory, but they looked small now.

The sign in front of my own house--my old house--read, “No matter where you are from, we’re glad you’re our neighbor” in Spanish and Arabic. (This was November 2017; Trump had just been elected and these signs were a response to his xenophobia.) I was proud and hopeful of that sentiment, hoping that the people inside lived full and inclusive, not fearful and prejudiced, lives.

I walked to the front porch. There on the porch bricks I saw a series of numbers scrawled in white chalk: 271-1507. I remember writing that. It was our home phone number. I had written it there probably over 20 years ago. I was playing secretary and had written down the phone numbers that I knew on the wall as a game. I remember later people saying it was dangerous to write the number there, how a stalker or kidnapper could use it to rob us or kidnap me. It still hasn’t been washed off. 

The address was there unchanged in black numbers on a white tiled background—7320—a number that I felt would be burned into my memory forever. Seeing it again I felt, “This was me. This was my life at one point, this is where I grew up.” The bright red front door was the same as always. How many times had I knocked on that door to get back inside when I didn’t have my key? I had my first kiss in front of this door; our house had been egged on that screen door. I had my high school graduation party on the other side of that door, welcoming people into my house that I had not seen for a long time, like Hali and Sharon, to celebrate my entrance into adulthood that was really only the beginning in a long journey where I would always be a kid. I knocked on the door and rang the doorbell but nobody answered.

I walked to the backyard. I smiled at the thought of climbing the pine tree outback, its two wooden steps still nailed to the trunk. I remembered fondly gardening with my mom, growing tomatoes, strawberries and apricots in that tiny yard. 

 

The apricot tree that we planted is now so much taller and bigger, it’s amazing! And there were the red doors leading down to the basement that we always played on, using the slope as a slide! How many times I had lifted those doors from above and below in going in and out of the basement for reasons—so important at the time—reasons that I don’t remember now. Jumping up and down on the deck, and storming in and out of the back and front doors soaked in rain water from playing Tag and kickball in thunderstorms. And there was the back window I had climbed through so many times because the door was locked and I forgot my house key. 

A cat peeked out from one of the windows and looked down at me. There was life inside. I peeked in the kitchen window—seeing the same stove, dishwasher and refrigerator and floor from my youth, and there were large glass jars filled with pickled vegetables on the shelves. Someone else was now making their story there.

So much was still the same in ways that triggered my memories, I recalled taking out the garbage on Tuesday nights, cleaning the kitchen floor and loading the dishwasher after dinner.

 

Memories flooded back about Grandpa—him taking us to Wendy’s and Subway, building the deck on the back porch, eating cheerios with Orange Juice.

 

I thought of lots of random memories that made me want to cry because my grandpa is gone now and those days are gone. Living in that house was such a big part of my life that I tried to bury and hide from and forget for so long. There are so many people we have lost touch with and yet meant so much to me, it is sad to think that those are parts of myself that I thought I left behind, I thought I had forgotten, but will always be a part of me. Those experiences—while temporary—will always be a part of me and will always serve as a reminder of the person I am and what has made me the person I am. Those experiences are why I am the why I am today.

As I walked down Church St, I also had vivid memories come back of walking Wyatt around the neighborhood with my CD Walkman.

 

At Memorial Park, I remember climbing the dirt trail in the woods back up to the road and now it’s cement stairs! The tennis court where we used to play with Wyatt was now a parking lot. I remember eating free lunches of bologna and too hard sour apples in the summertime under the pavilion. 

 

I saw a rainbow flag in front of one house on the block, that gave me so much comfort and reflection on how much has changed since I’ve left.

Coffee Break with Brai: Moon Shots

By Brai Schwandt

On sheer coincidence, Saar started writing about their "30-day challenges" at the same time I started writing about mine. I love Saar, and the way they live their life is an inspiration to me. However, the way they do their “30-day challenges” would stress me out if I were to do it the same way.  

Even the fact that they call the goals "challenges" would stress me out. I prefer the word "focus." 

They mark off each day in their bullet journal when they are “successful” and write down every challenge that they do. They have a list of things they want to do for their future challenges. They often have 5 challenges going on at one time. Sometimes the challenges occur on different days for different challenges. They have different categories for their challenges.

This is absolutely not how I do it. 

Some time ago, I started trying to focus on some goal from full moon to full moon as a way of connecting me to my body/mind. I wanted to have another way of measuring time outside of the calendar, while focusing on something that gets me to live a little healthier and happier. I call these "moon shots."  

 

I got the name “moon shot” from the phrase "shoot for the moon" because it means trying to achieve something that is difficult to reach.  As I attempt a moon shot, it becomes easier and more habitual. I also have a lot of things that I want to do but are not necessarily difficult. I want to play guitar, sing, do voice lessons, run, do PT, do yoga, meditate, or do intermittent fasting. I have incorporated these into my moon shots as well. 

 

Since starting my moon shots, I've given up sugar, alcohol, caffeine, and weed a few times for different reasons. (Those are my 4 vices of choice.  My brother and I call them "the Big 4.") But if someone were to ask me when was the last time I gave up something?  I would just say, "Many moons ago."  

 

I don't have a history of my moon shot goals written down. I don’t need a good record of such things.  Ultimately, it doesn't really matter. I try to stay in the present and what matters to me is my current moon shot, not the previous ones.  

 

Going from full moon to full moon is a fun way for me to connect with the moon.  When I'm doing a moon shot and I look up into the sky and see a new moon, I know that I am halfway through a moon shot. I get excited as we approach the next full moon. It's beautiful to watch the moon change from day to day. Following the lunar cycles is a tangible yet inexact way to watch the time change.  I like looking up and seeing a waxing crescent of a moon in the sky and not knowing precisely how many days there are until the next full moon. It makes me feel like time isn't so definitive, and that I can go with the flow of how I feel. 

 

I find it to be much more enjoyable and natural than watching the days of a calendar count up toward 30 or 31 (or, for February, 28 or 29 depending on the year).

 

I intend for my moon shot goals to have a type of impermanence and non-exact nature to them. 

 

My goals are made when I look up at the moon and see a waxing crescent moon. I think, "Hmmm… what will I do for the next moon phase?  What do I need right now?"  Sometimes that changes 3 or 4 times before I find the one thing I want to focus on.  I often find that those other 3 or 4 things are on my mind as I go through the full moon phase and my life is healthier and happier. 

  

The last few months have been so chaotic that I disconnected with the moon and my goals. Over the last few months when moving from Denver to Phoenix and starting a new job, there were a few weeks where I didn't touch my guitar even once.  When this happens, it is one of the main ways that I know that I am stressed. My moon shots are a way for me to reconnect with the way I want to live my life and recognize when my life is deviating from what I want.  

 

I choose one thing that will help me reconnect with myself on a full moon and I focus on that until the next full moon. Then I do it again. I rarely ever write anything about it. In fact this may be the first time I've really ever written something about a moon shot goal that I had. 

 

My experiments with different “odd” things may be one of the reasons I am a bit of an eccentric person.  I like to try new things and experiment with my life.  These moon shots give me a chance to try something really “wild” like taking two naps a day or walking barefoot. 

 

I've done many different things to varying success.  It's a very personal experience and sometimes I'm embarrassed when I don't do something perfectly. 

 

Life gets overwhelming sometimes.  The weeks and months and years go by and life is dictated by what day of the week it is, what time it is, and how many months away we are from whatever deadline in X years. I understand that it is necessary in our world, but it is exhausting. 

So I enjoy connecting with the moon in a way that is less structured and less exact.  My goal is to be healthier and create my experience. These moon shot goals are intended to be something that I carry on into my life beyond the single lunar cycle...if I find that they help me be more true to myself. 

30-Day Challenges: Yoga Part 4

Reflections on my 30-day yoga challenge, COVID and how structures allow freedom:

Later, I wrote some notes in my journal reflecting on the April 2020 30-day yoga challenge. This is verbatim what I wrote on May 1, 2020:

"COVID has been a re-birth for me, for slowing down is the hardest thing I’ve ever done. So funny to think about how I’ve done all these hard things in my life--like getting a PhD and learning Chinese and living abroad--and it’s actually the doing of nothing that is the most difficult of all. For in the doing of nothing that is where we cannot find the value in the external, but we can only look inside. When we spend this time doing nothing, we realize there is indeed value in just being, value that was there all along, value in our humanity. I was always looking for home--belonging and love--in the external but it’s been inside me all along. Like tapping a maple tree for syrup, once you can tap into the infinite love inside you, love flows freely to feed and nourish the people around you.

There is value in writing, value in lists, value in planning and agendas. There is value in these 30-day challenges for me—allowing me to try new things and trying new and consistent habits in a routinized and systematic way gives me a lot of joy. AND there is value in presence and allowing and flexibility. It’s not one or the other, it’s both. I needed the vocabulary and some of the grammar before I could start having conversations, just like I needed some yoga moves before I could do it on my own. But from there it was a creative conversation with my body. 

You can use structures to create freedom. You get to create your experience."

Ultimately using structures to create freedom is what these 30-day challenges are all about for me: using the structure of the month and a daily routine to create a sense of freedom around the life that I want to live. My intention is to use the vocabulary of the challenges to ultimately create a conversation with my body and my life that builds a co-created experience. Eventually, I want to build trust in myself to create my experience without rules...but structure will always be a part of my life and I'm okay with that. For me, structure and discipline brings freedom. 

It's an infinite journey and a never-ending conversation. But it's a start. 

Now, over a year later, I know I’ve only just scratched the surface. I am on a lifelong journey of creating conversations--conversations with my body, my spirit and other spirits. I am truly a newbie and still learning everyday more about my body and more about what it means to do yoga in a spiritual, mindful, and challenging yet nurturing way for my body.

How yoga shows up in my life these days:

In the months that followed the 30-day yoga challenge in April 2020, I continued doing Yoga with Adriene videos, but I also had the confidence to start doing yoga on my own. This was especially helpful on camping trips when I didn’t have access to the internet. 

Eventually, I completed three more of her 30-day challenges (she has several different ones, I have done Yoga Camp, Revolution, and Breath over the past year). But the next time, I didn't hold myself to doing it every day. It usually took me three months to finish one 30-day yoga journey since I would only do it every few days or so. 

When I moved to Prague in February 2021, I didn’t have internet at home for four weeks. Perfect way for me to start transitioning into doing my own yoga with the training wheels of the video. Sure enough, by April of 2021, one year after starting yoga, I was doing it almost entirely on my own. Now, in June 2021, I am doing yoga for at least 30 minutes a day but up to 2 hours on some days. Entirely on my own. I almost never watch Yoga with Adriene anymore—she is awesome, but these days I’m getting a deeper and better stretch and overall experience if I listen to my body. Currently I am enjoying my “hot yoga” sessions in my humid, stuffy apartment during my Prague summer as sweat drips down my face and torso like I've just showered.

Conversations with my body:

Of course, yoga has helped me listen to my body and communicate with my body. But it’s not as though my disassociations with my body have suddenly been cured and I now have full access to my intuition. Far from it. More than ever, I realize how hard it is to really listen to my body and how often I don’t do that. 

When I do stop and ask my body what it needs, it usually responds: "Slow down. Be gentle with me. I'm here for you in whatever you want to do. I'm here to be the temple for your spirit and help you serve the universe. I'll take you wherever you want to go and whatever you want to accomplish. But you have to be patient and nice to me."

The other thing it tells me? "I want you to move around and be creative and not sit at the computer." 

I have learned that a relationship with your body is not a given, but it is a practice. It’s a conversation, not a dictatorship. This journey is not like you are driving the bus and the body is along for the ride. Your body wants to drive too. If you don’t listen to its requests to have a chance to drive for long enough, it will take over the steering wheel using tactics like fatigue, pain and illness to let you know that it’s driving now. It will take over because you ignored it for long enough.

There is a feeling of infinity to the road trip with your body; the practice of the relationship with the body; there is no no end point nor an end goal. There will always be layers of the onion to peel off forever. 

I never thought I would become one of those spiritual yuppies doing yoga and whispering Namaste.

Now I want to tattoo “Namaste” and “OM” on my foot.

What will happen in my future that I had previously thought was “impossible” or “just wasn’t for me”?

What do you want to do today to start creating the life that you want to live? 

How can you find freedom in the chaos? How can you find freedom in the structures?