College is really hard, and it's a big deal to graduate with a degree. Not a master's, not a ph.d. A bachelor's degree. 4-5-6 years of 60 hour work weeks, constant self-evaluation, and swallowed pride.
I'm not sure how other colleges operate; I've heard a lot of rumors about hand-out degrees and "easy A's." Regardless of the means by which another student gains his or her degree, I will one day be able to say with honesty that I freaking earned this freaking degree by freaking working my freaking butt off. Freaking.
I don't work hard every day-- I believe in resting. I believe that it's good to have productive, focused, meaningful rest. I know that when I make myself write down everything in my mind before I go to bed, and that list exceeds 2 dozen items, it's time for rest. Today, I chose to skip my voice studio (which meets for 2 hours on Sunday afternoons) in order to rest, since it was to be followed by 5.5 hours of opera rehearsal. Later, I received a nasty, passive-aggressive email from my instructor who was, I quote, "rather annoyed" that I didn't show up, and do I need a personal reminder every time we have studio. Granted, I told him at the beginning of the semester that I want to be pushed towards excellence... so in a way I brought this criticism on myself. The point is, in this degree program there is no room for error. I could share stories for an hour about instances where singers missed one note and were screamed at by conductors in front of 50 other musicians. It's excellence, and it stings.
I'm thankful for my non-music-major roommates who remind me that their departments are similar in pace and vigor. We agree that this level of performance is good, but we hate when older adults smack us with half-sympathetic smiles and winkey eyes and assure us that "at least real life hasn't started yet."
No, maybe "real life" hasn't started yet, but in my opinion, college is much more stressful.
We rush around in who knows what kind of weather (the past week has housed a 60 degree temperature range), participate in 7 different classes (i.e. learn 7 x 48 lectures per semester's worth of information), slave away at low-paying jobs, bend over backwards to please 7 different professors, beg strangers for tuition money, and oh, I don't know, live in poverty and eat tortillas and mustard 5 times a week.
I do it because I can see the benefit of my labors. An undergraduate degree will open many proverbial doors. However, at 55% completion status, I'm merely having a difficult time seeing the end of the track. I've always known that this would be hard, so don't tell me that it isn't.

Tonight I went to Homeland in search of the bare necessities (toilet paper and chocolate). I was kind of cranky-- 10 hour days at Catlett are becoming more of a regularity than an exception. Everyone is tired, I know.
Anyway, as I turned into the aisle to pay, a little boy with a toy gun stood in front of me. Immediately, his eyes lit up and he began shooting me while clicking his tongue. I opened my eyes wide, as if shocked that anyone would commit such a travesty! A giggle emerged between clicks and bangs, but he kept at it. When I clutched my chest and pretended to keel over in pain, he burst into gleeful laughter and ran into his mother's waist.
It was exactly what I needed. Thank you, Lord.

I've been thinking a lot about culture lately. My roommates and I have had several discussions that have attempted to explore every facet of "culture," such as what it means, what ours is, and how it relates to others.
The topic was initially raised when Lindsey returned home from poetry class in a tizzy. The aforementioned class explores racial poetry. Each week, students write poetry based on his or her culture. Aside from the professor's extremely anti-white American racist views, her assignments have provided us with thought-provoking conversation.
"What is my culture?" Lindsey asked.
She asks a valid question. As a white American, I feel confused about the details of my culture. After all, my family's heritage looks a lot like the stew we made last week (English potatoes, German meat, Native American carrots, and a dash of Viking salt). I have had experienced no meaningful experiences, nor has my neighborhood been re-located or oppressed. I am a part of a religious group whose characteristics have been muddied and post-modernized until it seems a lot like every other bumper sticker statement.

This week, I am supposed to write a 2 page paper for my African music class that discusses my culture. Somehow, I am to choose a song with lyrics that accurately reflect Me and My People. The assignment sounds simple, but I am at a complete loss. Aside from the daunting task of choosing a song that embodies "my culture" (hang on while I browse through the thousands of songs on iTunes), I have to actually pinpoint what my culture is.
???

My African music class is currently studying West African dance. Today we watched several videos of various tribal dances; each displayed a type of mimetic* dance. Religious, educational, social, formal, informative, historical... these virtuosic performances of polyrhythmic beat and complicated body motions are both beautiful and practical. The performers today dance dances that have been danced for centuries. Each member of society knows how to dance and play all of their tribe's musical activities. [sidenote: in the Dan tribe, a man's intelligence is based off of his ability to dance and keep rhythm. I think this is BRILLIANT.] Their culture is rich, full, and beautiful.
My "culture" just introduced a new dance into society: "the Creep." My friends and I think it's hilarious and fun to dance to. In light of today's lecture, I almost feel ashamed. While cultures in Africa celebrate their history and society as a community through dance and song, my community wiggles around for 2 1/2 minutes to this. Oh, and don't forget the Cupid Shuffle.

I don't hate America; rather, I love living here and am extraordinarily privileged to be a citizen of this country. I'm just confused. I don't know how to write my paper, but more importantly I don't know about my culture. Do any white-middle class-female Americans have a clue?

*Mimetic: imitation or reflection of a specific idea. In this context, it refers to a dance that symbolizes a specific aspect of cultural life.