When you go to a school like Grinnell, you have a completely different social experience than on a big campus. Within a week or two of getting to campus as a first year student, you’ve probably seen every person on campus at least once. You see everyone, and they see you. If there’s someone you don’t like, you can’t avoid them. Conversely, you are always around the people you love. The closeness of the community forces you to confront both your flaws and the flaws that other people have on a day to day basis.

That said, my friends and I have been through so much together within just one year. Off the top of my head, we have seen each other through the tough academics (more homework than any Ivy League school), rocky relationships, moments of utter despair, feelings of loneliness and homesickness, tornados, the 3rd worst snowstorm the state of Iowa has ever seen, sickness, loss, etc. We have also seen each other through some of the most fun moments of our lives thus far, like the amazing theme parties (80′s, disco, 90′s, frank, mary b. james, winter and spring waltz, 10/10), hours-long conversations that cover absolutely every topic under the sun, and general everyday hanging out. While I was homesick this year, I have realized that I have a family here, too.

Since I’ve been sick, my friends have taken care of me so well. Yesterday, one of them flipped out at me for napping without being fully covered by a blanket. They have been making me tea and oatmeal and anything else I ask for. My professors have also been very concerned about my wellbeing, and have been so understanding about the situation. As my first year here comes to a close, I have nothing but feelings of love and appreciation for my friends and professors. At Grinnell, you can never be just a number, or a body filling a seat in a classroom. People care about you here, whether or not you want them to.

Grinnell is a personification of a specific kind of synecdoche: each student represents the collective Grinnell student body. last Saturday, the Grinnell community was outraged to discover that antigay hate crimes were committed on campus. The next day, students had taken chalk and drawn all over every single available surface, writing messages of love and togetherness that were an inspiration to walk by. While chalk drawings don’t solve the problem, they are an example of the unified spirit of Grinnell College.

Another example of our unity is our response to tragedy. Two days ago, Grinnellians were shocked and saddened to hear about the loss of my friend and floormate Robert from injuries sustained in a pole vaulting accident. Our close knit community banded together to mourn his loss. Most everyone, because of the nature of this small campus, had a Rob connection. At Grinnell, you cannot be anonymous, and Rob’s passing reminded us all of the importance of our Grinnell family. Immediately after hearing the news, I walked across campus to notify some of my friends. Tears in my eyes, I noticed that as I walked, I could see the news traveling. People stood silently, or crying, but everyone was leaning on each other.

 After the first, more informal memorial service, I called my mom to tell her about what had happened. As I got off the phone, I was still crying, and I noticed a student had been watching me. He approached, and asked, “were you a friend of Robert?” I nodded and replied “He lived on my floor…” the student said to me, “I sit in the dhall by the vegan bar at breakfast. I always see you sitting there, too. I’m usually reading in a corner. but I see you there sometimes. Do you want to talk about any of this, or do you want a hug? I went through something similar last year.”

That is the kind of community we have at Grinnell. I might not have spoken to that student before, but regardless, we are both students at Grinnell, and that alone bonds us together. At Grinnell, there is nothing awkward or strange about going up and talking to someone you don’t know. Chances are, you know someone who knows them, dated them, got in a fight with them, had a class with them, or has facebook stalked them enough to give you their basic information. We take “tight-knit” to a whole new level. While that can be maddening sometimes, I am so glad we do.

Last night, I went to the formal memorial service for Rob with one of my best friends in the entire world. I remember looking down at her hand as I held it in my lap. Her darker skin contrasted with my olive skin against the background of my bright pink dress, and as my eyes rested on the image, I realized, THIS is what it’s about. THIS is what matters in life.

We sat beneath the old, wooden beams of Herrick Chapel, on the grounds of a school founded by abolitionists with a Utopian worldview. In that moment, I was so proud to be part of their legacy. In that moment, there was nowhere else in the world I wanted to be. Grinnell is a unified, progressive community of people–with a dash of hippie-ness and plaid to keep us interesting. I am so proud to go to school here.

To my friends, thank you for everything, and I can’t wait for the rest of college with you. I love you, je t’aime, volim te.

Within several minutes, (it was about 10 AM) my mom called me, and hearing her calm, matter-of-fact voice pulled me back to reality. I am five hours away, and having a great time in college. Sometimes, though, I would really like to be able to go home for dinner, or for a couple hours. I hate being completely removed from what goes on in the daily lives of my family members. Am I the only one here who still gets terribly homesick?

On the other hand, I don’t want to stop missing home. I will never be like the many American adults who only see their families on holidays and special occasions.

Lots of people I know feel very disconnected with their families, but I am on the opposite end of the spectrum. I have a heightened awareness of the fact that I have a place in a greater family legacy. I sometimes think about my ancestors, the hardy Swedish famers and farmers’ wives, Revolutionary War soldiers, Russian Jews, French nobles, eccentric Brits… I wonder what they would think of me. I also know that everything I am, I owe to them. I hope they aren’t too scandalized by their outspoken great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-granddaughter. Sometimes I think I can hear them telling me to keep moving, to keep trying harder, to take advantage of this wonderful life.

I am also constantly upstaged by my artistic siblings–my gorgeous sister, who will be a household name fashion designer one day, and my musically talented, guitar-playing, ladies’ man brother, are at times weird or irritating, but as they get older, they keep getting cooler and cooler…than me. It’s funny to me that my two relatively non-artistic parents produced a musician, artist and writer.

Speaking of my parents, my mother, a free-spirited California girl with classic fashion sense but a new-age, hippie soul, is completely beautiful and fiercely independent. She is an amazing cook (one of those itimidating, intuitive cooks who just “make up” every delicious thing they create), a great dresser, and has the best people skills of anyone I have ever met. She talks a lot, uses big hand gestures and finds a way to relate everything to a larger, universal meaning. and I will never live up to her.

My dad is, quite possibly, the sweetest guy in the whole world. He knows a lot, too. An avid reader and learner for the sake of learning, I have profited immensely from his extensive history book library. He also has an incredible, rare amount of faith in people, and loyalty to his family. I have had the privilege of growing up in a house with parents who have stayed together, and have created a stable, loving family environment, in which I always felt taken-care-of and safe. There is no better gift you can give someone.

When you think about it, parenting is kind of ridiculous. It also implies that family loyalty is something inherent to humans as a species. For instance, parents make a baby, and, without knowing anything about the individual (who could very well grow up to be the kind of kid who pulls legs off grasshoppers for fun, or becomes a serial killer) they (ideally) put the baby’s wellbeing above their own. I know I caused my parents many sleepless nights! 

While I’m not selfish, I am also not a give-the-piece-of-cake-with-the-biggest-frosting-rose-to-someone-else kind of person. I obviously have a lot to learn about love and life before I will be in the position to do what my parents did and continue to do. Don’t worry mama, I will meet a nice boy in law school and ONLY GET MARRIED AFTER I HAVE MY J.D. Like I promised.

My love for my family, ancestral and present, is what motivates everything I do. Being on my own for the first time is still scary, and on mornings like these, I wake up with that fear in my heart–that fear that everything moves too fast and I can’t keep up. It’s the same fear I had when I was little and my mom stepped away from the swingset, telling me to pump my legs and move the swing myself. I was reluctant, and nervous not to feel her reassuring hands, but gradually, I got used to it. My little twig legs, unsure of them though I was, led me skyward that day. I know I am mostly grown up, but I think there will always be that small part of me that misses being pushed on the swing.

Now, obviously there are no chefs back in the kitchen lovingly making from-scratch, nonna’s-secret-recipe, grass-fed, free range marinara sauce, but still. I really do not want to think of someone squeezing marinara sauce out of a plastic bag. Any other container type would suffice–tupperware, really big bowl, freeze-dried sauce cubes–anything. But with visions of plastic marinara bags going through my head, I couldn’t eat it, and went back to my room hungry.

Of course, later that night, my stomach was growling audibly enough for me to realize that I was starving, so I looked in my closet and my Food Drawer, and found a Healthy Choice brand microwaveable pasta dinner. Ravenously, I assembled the meal, and ate the entire thing…

…Even though the marinara sauce came in a plastic bag.

People are so often illogical. Why was the plastic-bag-marinara appetizing when I made it myself? I have no idea. Maybe my perception of other people’s weirdness is something that I have invented to make myself feel normal. I mean, plenty of other people are terrified of whales, get annoyed at waiters who incessantly fill water glasses, and judge people based on the question “if you had to get a tattoo, what would it be and were would you put it?”…..right?

Or maybe I’m just a noodlehead.

My Psychology professor, in his attempt to create a harmonious classroom environment (that somehow sounded more like speed-dating), unknowingly put me in one of the scariest possible situations for a student. Picking a lab partner is terrifying–what if nobody wants to partner up with me? That getting-picked-last feeling is a memory that nobody likes to relive, especially when one is supposed to be an adult, is in college, and would really like to forget the awkward phase when friends were few and girls wearing Limited Too were resolutely at the top of the middle school social heirarchy.

I tried to look nonchalant, yet approachable, and fortunately, I spotted the Byronic-hero-hipster-guy I mentioned in my last blog post. He made his way over to me, and that’s all it took. He had “Best Lab Partner Ever” written all over him.

Over the cacophony of noise created by chairs scraping the tile floor and raised voices, he introduced himself to me as “Tad.”

Tad… like Abraham Lincoln’s son. I love Lincoln, as any self-respecting history buff slash Illinois resident should. His parents obviously loved Lincoln. He probably does, too, or would at least acknowledge the dorky reference. Perfect.

I wrote our names at the top of our worksheet. Is it just me, or is Tad admiring my handwriting?

The content of our lab brought another hurdle for me to overcome. We were supposed to go down a list of questions intended to elicit either a stress reaction or no reaction, while monitoring the other person’s heart rate. A higher heart rate would indicate a higher stress level. A stressful question was, for example, “does nudity embarrass you?” A non-stressful question was “is today Tuesday?”

Seems easy enough, right? WRONG. The problem was my lab partner’s physical attractiveness. As he asked me questions, my heart rate skyrocketed at inopportune moments–something he definitely noticed, although he didn’t understand why it was happening.

The results of this lab? Apparently, Tuesdays really freak me out.

At the end of class, my professor called my lab partner over. “Ted, did you turn in the response sheet?”

Ted. TED? What about Tad? Oh, no… I heard him wrong. I had gone through the entirety of lab calling Ted “Tad”–and he never corrected me! He wasn’t admiring my handwriting, he was reading “TAD” written boldly at the top of the page!

I left class quickly. Then I send Tad who is actually Ted an apologetic email about the mixup.

My next class was history. I sat down in my desk in the Corner of Shame (i.e. where the people who haven’t done a summer’s worth of scholarly work in renaissance history sit) next to a guy who seemed nice enough. We talked for a while, and I asked him his name.

“Tad,” he answered.

“Tad?!” I asked.

“Like Abraham Lincoln’s son,” he replied.

He must have thought I was crazy, because I exclaimed “NO way!” I proceeded to tell him about my mistake with my lab partner’s name.

Tad who is not Ted ended up being a really cool guy. He wrote a funny note to me in class, and I wrote “I HEART TAD” at the top of my notebook, so he could see. When someone made a highly hate-able comment, I looked over at Tad, who was ready with an expression that communicated our shared internal laughter.

We’re a match made in heaven (or the Land of Lincoln). And he always lets me borrow his pens.

“(yawns) What? Oh, no.”

“I just thought you should know.”

“Why are you up so early, Rachel? You don’t have class until nine.”

“I didn’t sleep very well, so I got up.”

“Oh…”

The appropriate response would have been “I’m sorry to hear that,” or even, “I have some NyQuil if you need it next time,” but in my groggy, sleepy-eyed state, the only response I could come up with was an unsympathetic “oh.”

                So began my first day of second semester.

I happened to wake up with both bed head and splotchy skin, a veritable perfect storm of inconvenience at 7:16 AM. My friend Aude walked in the bathroom, cheerfully holding a toothbrush and wishing me a good morning. I responded with a caveman-like grunt and began unpacking my arsenal of cosmetics and hair care supplies from my bag.

Leaving at 7:40, I had just enough time to run to the dining hall, grab a pecan roll, glass of soymilk and coffee to go, and run to class.

Just so y’all know, this was my first science class ever in college, because I’m really well-rounded. I had never before had to navigate Noyce’s myriad hallways that, interestingly enough, all look the same.

Once I made it to class (one minute early, no less!) I realized that I stuck out like…well… me in a science class. Harsh white florescent lighting made me squint, and as I sat down in the front row (thought I’d get a head start on overachieving), I realized that I clearly did not come across as hardcore. My Disney Princess folder shouted that loud and clear, if my unabashedly fashion-conscious outfit and styled hair didn’t.

My professor, who seems like a stand-up guy, asked us all to introduce ourselves, and so we went around the large classroom, sleepy people giving sleepy answers to basic get-to-know-you questions. As I listened intently to each and every response and stored it in my memory in alphabetized memory file cabinets, I also looked around at my classmates. One in particular caught my eye—a lanky, bored-looking hipster with dark eyebrows. He seemed the brooding, Byronic hero type. Excellent.

He seemed particularly averse to making eye contact, so I was about to give up, however, fate stepped in. He looked my way for half a second!

And then he saw the Disney Princess folder. He gave me a look that said, “Are you serious?” I gave him a look that said, “Apparently.”

After that character-building failure, class ended, and I escaped.

My next class was a bit livelier, probably due to people having had more sleep or caffeine, but probably the caffeine. I walked in the classroom, the tiny, tiny classroom. I don’t think there is a smaller classroom in all of ARH. There were only about 13 people in the pint-sized room, which made the whole thing feel like a dollhouse…because I know what being inside dollhouses feels like. There was the girl who loves Harry Potter (with whom I discussed the pro’s and con’s of each House at Hogwarts), and a Michael Cera lookalike. Interesting. So my second class is in a dollhouse with a Hogwarts transfer student and Michael Cera.

I think one can tell an awful lot about people from how they act on the first day of class. We had a good array of people in my second class: the overachieving people who sound like thesauri when they speak, the quiet people, the falling-asleep person, and then the people who, like overexcited golden retrievers, try to befriend everyone sitting around them by making self deprecating jokes involving getting lost in Noyce—like me.

My first impression probably gave away my people-pleasing nature, which is fine. I think people don’t understand that when they try too hard to sound like mini-professors, it comes off as pretentious, and hints that they are rather insecure people. And if you’re falling asleep in class, then that means you’re a little too comfortable with your self-image. There’s such a thing as a happy medium, children.

All in all, my first day of classes reminded me of my younger days, when I laid out my clothes the night before, labeled my notebooks, and went to bed early. Little did I know that my night-before-school ritual was a futile effort to control what would be, as always, an unpredictable day. Apparently, not much has changed since then—not even my choice of folders.

But I relented. She drew a bath chock full of assorted pinkish, scented bath products, and created a very nice little experience for me. I climbed in, and was immediately shocked at how hot the water was, which was shocking in itself because in showers, I’m a crank-it-up-to-the-hottest-temperature-possible kind of girl.

My first impression was that it would be a mind-over-matter sort of thing, in order to get used to the heat. Submerged in the water, I wondered if the water was poaching me, and if it was possible to cook a human in bathwater. I pictured my mother featured on tomorrow night’s news saying “I swear I didn’t know you could poach someone in bathwater!” with a grim newscaster responding, “Well, I suppose we all learned something tonight. Back to you, Lester.”

But wait—plenty of people go to hot springs and have hot tubs in which they soak themselves all the time for medicinal purposes.

Medicinal purposes! Yes! So I WOULDN’T be poached in bathwater. Excellent.

I continued to sit there, hoping to feel calm and centered. I considered reading my book, but didn’t want to get it wet, but then I needed something to do, so I gave up at relaxing and tried to get it, and after several attempts to reach it from the inconveniently-placed side table, I gave up trying to reach it. So, again, I tried to relax.

Now, at times I can be very relaxed. I am good at being inert.

But the bath is an entirely different matter. It made me restless. Instead of relaxing with my eyes closed, I played with the bubbles. I made a bubble bra. Then I made bubble snowmen floating on bubble clouds. Then I pretended to be a vengeful deity and smashed the bubble snow people. One survived my killing spree, but he was crippled. Then I smote him too. By the way, is the past tense of the verb “to smite” “smote” or “smitten”? Because that bubble snowperson was certainly not smitten with me when he was on the receiving end of my wrath.

Then it occurred to me: What am I doing? This is a bath! People do this to relax!

In my defense, I am a hardcore Pitta, which is a physical “type” (called a “Dosha”) of sorts in Ayurvedic medicine, an Indian medicinal tradition dating back 5,000 years. Pittas tend to be type-A, competitive, restless energizer bunnies. This bath, when I considered it, was a challenge for me (and 5,000 years of Ayurveda) to overcome.

When I thought more about baths in general, I resolved that baths unite people across history. How did medieval peasants wash? They didn’t, except for one day in early May, after which they would get married and make babies while they weren’t totally nasty and covered in grime. How did ancient kings and queens and priests and commoners cleanse themselves? They took a bath. And there I was, living at the beginning of an unfathomable new millenium, the present form of what will be an echo in history, taking a bath.

As I turned this idea over in my mind, I used a Lush brand bath bomb (scent/flavor/what have you: “Sex Bomb”). It is pink and purple with a rose in the middle. As it fizzes and colors the bathwater pink, the flower opens and blooms. Innuendo aside, it is a great product, and just plain fun.

And then I relaxed. Yes, I finally did it. My chaotic musings left my mind with the bathwater… 

www.lushUSA.com

Some of these bath bombs from Lush look good enough to eat!

Also, in my search today, I found that Cargo PlantLove lipstick is relatively safe AND 50% off at Sephora right now. Sephora will no longer be carrying Cargo brand, so take advantage of the sale and stock up! My favorite lipstick shade, Cece (Courtney Cox’s favorite shade) is a deep merlot color. What’s more, Cargo is committed to making paraben free, eco friendly products. Even the package demonstrates this “return to the earth” mentality: It has flower seeds embedded in the biodegradable packaging. Although my lipstick scores a 5 on the 1-10 toxicity scale, compared to most Revlon lipsticks that score a 9, I’m ok with it.

I also bought a Zuzu concealer and powder (concealer in the shade C-10 and powder in D-14) at Whole Foods, where there are several safe makeup brands including Dr. Hauschka. My sister picked up two beautiful eye shadows, Absynthe (a gold-flecked moss green) and Sahara (deep shimmery copper). The Zuzu concealer has a wonderful creamy texture and the powder is not too cake-y. I highly recommend all these products! If anyone knows where you can find Cargo other than Sephora, let me know and I’ll update the post.

Disclaimer: www.cosmeticsdatabase.com doesn’t cover all brands. My former foundation, Too Faced “Magic Wand” Illuminating Foundation in Paris Light-Medium was not on the database. It’s pretty easy to determine if a cosmetic is safe or not, though, if you know the ingredients to look for. See my previous post, “Because You’re (NOT) Worth It: The Dirty Little Secret Cosmetics Companies are Hiding.” If any of you find any other good resources for safe cosmetics, let me know!

Also, the Burt’s Bees lipgloss I bought the other day (in Zesty Red) and the Alba lip balm (in Pineapple Quench) are both “low hazard” products according to the cosmetics database. But not all Burt’s Bees or Alba products are the safest, so double check the exact product. However, they are generally safe product lines compared to brands like Revlon or CoverGirl. Speaking of which, my old CG ”Clean Makeup” (Classic Ivory) scored an 8. eeeek! Not so “clean,” huh?

Hiding in Plain Sight- Every cosmetic I own contained either a known carcinogen or ingredient harmful to the reproductive system.

It all started with watching the documentary America the Beautiful. Expecting to see a true, though predictable portrait of America as the land of unrealistic body images and eating disorders, I found myself instead struck by the utter insanity that is the American cosmetics industry. In a nutshell: The European Union has banned 450 commonly used cosmetics ingredients because of health risks. The US has only banned six. There has GOT to be something wrong here, I thought, with a discrepancy that enormous.

The word “incorrigible” is French in origin- it comes from the verb “corriger” which means, “to correct.” “Incorrigible” literally means, incorrectable. Which fits my dog perfectly.

Allow me to tell the story of la petite Zuzu:

Zuzu is incredibly deceptive; a study in contradictions, really. When we got her, she was a three-month-old puppy chihuahua who never barked. She was also quite skinny at the time. After athe initial 6 months, my family and I realized that we had adopted one of nature’s anomalies: the obese, barking chihuahua (she has since lost the extra poundage). Unlike most chihuahuas, Zuzu’s ears do not stand up, she doesn’t have the usual bulbous forehead, and she has a long, aristocratic-looking nose. She is a purebred chihuahua, but a defective one. Incorrigible. And I love her.

Continuing her list of flaws, she is impossible to walk. No matter how hard my family tried to train her, she insists upon scrabbling around on the pavement and barking at passers-by. It’s embarrassing. She’s also a complete diva, and by that, I mean she refuses to get her own toys. She has created a system so that when she walks to her chihuahua-height toy basket, she barks until someone comes and picks out a toy for her. But that’s not all: The person then has to present her with a range of possible toys, from which she selects her favorite. I’m not kidding. She also hates mismatched socks, and will bark at the unsuspecting feet until a matching pair is found.

Despite the inconveniences of raising this particular chihuahua, her bad personality has some perks. Most dogs are happy-go-lucky, people-pleasing animals. Zuzu has her own mind, however puny, and does what she wants to do. I respect that.

This is not to say, however, that Zuzu isn’t a loving creature. She definitely is. As a matter of fact, she is curled up next to me right now as I write about her. I missed her so much while I was away at school! Crazy barking chihuahuas make life more interesting, and far cuter.

Zuzu has her good days, too. She either “turns on the adorable” and is impossible to refuse, or, because she’s clumsy, does something stupid. Like that time she tried to eat the floor.

All of her contradictions were forgotten last night when I came home, though. I couldn’t wait to see my favorite little tyrant!

Zuzu is less Napoleonic when one of her family comes home. I walked in the door and waited to hear the pitter-patter of tiny chihuahua feet. Suddenly, she raced over to me, squealing and wiggling around with excitement. Nothing is cuter than Zuzu when she is happy to see you. She actually smiles! Je ne veux point “corriger” cette chienne. I don’t want to ‘correct’ this dog at all

sleeping...

Monet's gardens at Giverny, one of the most enchanting places in the world.

Bonjour, everyone! Several of my friends have asked me to teach them basic French. Unfortunately, my schedule is really packed, but I still want to be able to teach. So, I will soon post audio and written parts of basic French lessons that I am currently creating. I’d like, first, to introduce my “lesson plan” and teaching philosophy.

I want to begin by saying that learning a foreign language is much easier if you associate each new word with an image or idea; just like you would when you learn a new English word. So even though I will include English translations here, try to put each new word with an image in your mind instead. Associating French words with images will keep you from having to translate in your head as you speak, and thus, you will be able to speak more fluently.

A word about French pronunciation: In French, we use a completely different part of the mouth than we do in English. The French also reverberate a lot of sounds through the nose, and the back of the throat. I can only explain this through giving you some examples myself. Spanish is a much more “phonetic” language; that is, there is one way to pronounce each letter. In French, there are multiple ways to pronounce each letter, given the context. But don’t be afraid! French is a beautiful language, and beautiful things are sometimes complicated. Because French is so context-dependent, it also has a greater potential for subtlety and nuance than English or Spanish. It is absolutely worth the effort to learn.

I will teach survival French, as well as vocabulary words by category. My first lesson will include basic greetings, and then, something like days of the week, months of the year, food, clothing, colors, animals, etc.

I am so excited about doing this. I will soon be on winter break, so I can work on this project, and hopefully inspire someone to study French. I will include anecdotes from my time in France, as well as stories about my various French teachers (including the illustrious M. Guiard, a native speaker from Picardy, France). The French language is nothing without the culture that created it, and so I believe learning French culture is an integral part of the experience.

Ladies and gentlemen, the French language is the love of my life. French has the ability to communicate complex emotion more than any language I am familiar with, and there is something beautiful about how it sounds once you get the accent down. I am not the first American to be completely enamored with the language, nor will I be the last, but I hope my enthusiasm comes across in this brief language tutorial, and that you retain some of it. What I can promise you, if you decide to study French, or are seriously studying it already, is that it will bring passion to your life. By that, I mean that the language requires passion to be able to speak it well. You will find yourself using increasingly big hand gestures, using your shoulders to express emotion, and finding that the vocal acrobatics of the French accent are at once challenging and beautiful (although bungling first attempts is all part of the process). I, too, am still learning. I hope you find my mini-lessons to be enjoyable.