I Hate “Packing”
While I have lots of practice with traveling, especially since I’ve moved to college, it’s never gotten easier. Moving living spaces, time zones, and of course beds is tough, but manageable. But there’s one element that seems to always take years off my life. How many shirts do I need to bring? Mostly long pants or shorts? Do I even bother with a jacket? Will there be a hair dryer? Do I bring an underwear per day or two per day and what happens if god forbid I run out?
I hate packing, all of my little overthinking tendencies packaged into a little activity.
I hate the surprising physicality of it, bending my back for hours on end looking through my drawers and under my bed. I hate having to juggle a million and one different considerations, and still managing to forget something critically important. So why on earth would I uproot for an entire month and live in a hot, foreign swamp, subjecting myself to a Maymester called book-PACKing?
The reason starts with me. I love to pour love into specific places, curating a space for myself by myself. I love cultivating an environment filled with routine and familiarity.
A week in, I now understand that the reason we bookpack is to discover, in others, all of these reasons I love NOT to pack.
Upon my arrival in both present-day Louisiana as well as Chopin’s 1899 Louisiana, I instantly investigated these elements of routine and familiarity.
What is a day to day routine on the island of Grand Isle, where most of the events of Kate Chopin’s The Awakening unfold? Perhaps it involves an early morning jambalaya at the gas station, enjoyed only after petting the monarch of the island, Jo-Bob the cat. Or maybe it’s an afternoon treat from the teal little “Snowball” hut which serves shaved-ice stuffed with Ice-cream. But could I ever fit into this swamp filled with crosses and dune buggies and mullets? I didn’t know, so I turn to bookpacking and my new friend, Edna Pontellier.
“In short, Mrs. Pontellier was not a mother-woman. The mother-women seemed to prevail that summer at Grand Isle. It was easy to know them, fluttering about with extended, protecting wings when any harm, real or imaginary, threatened their precious brood.
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What does routine mean for the inhabitants of Grand Isle from a century ago in The Awakening? Would I have any place in such a society, filled with naps and music and privilege? How did someone like Edna feel out of place with her mother-ness and her woman-ness in a place which seemingly celebrated it? The more we read, the more of a prison routine became, as Edna increasingly clashed with her surroundings. Edna’s growing aversion to her routines can perhaps help explain how I felt so out of place in Grand Isle, despite once upon a time living in the South. The more we grow into a certain way of living, the more we grow out of another. And while my personal transformation might not be a progressive feminist metaphor of any kind, I can still find pieces of myself in the friction Edna feels in a place she once thrived.
On the final day, it all began to click. Our day off, I elected to spend the majority of the day on our porch and take in the beach of Grand Isle. From here, I witnessed the air alternate from mighty winds to bolts of lightning to stagnant calm. Between it all, here I was. I breathed in the same breeze as Kate Chopin, Jo-Bob the cat, and a cashier with the world’s fluffiest mullet. I had come to peace with the fact I could never fully live here and assimilate; these same reasons I felt so other-ized are easily the reasons others feel at home.
Bookpacking is how will get over my fear of packing, by intimately exploring the reasons why others DON'T pack, and choose to stay.
On Birthdays
2 days into the Maymester, I turned 21. All things considered, this was a great birthday. My new friends and I made a lovely assortment of drinks, food, and dessert. We ate and talked, telling stories about our once mysterious and unknown lives. However, I am far from original when I say that birthdays are strange days for me. I love being celebrated and appreciated, but I can never seem to shake off the existential dread which comes with this number increasing by one, forever.
““In short, Mrs. Pontellier was beginning to realize her position in the universe as a human being, and to recognize her relations as an individual to the world within and about her.””
I couldn’t help but lean towards the side of existentialism on this day. Especially in this country where 21sts are seen as something especially monumental. 18’s seem to be mere trial periods to adulthood, but things get “real” at 21. But what happened between May 14th at 11:59PM and May 15th at 12:00AM which was so groundbreaking? Did I miss some kind of memo where the first time I purchase a 6 pack of Coors Light from the corner store, things would become okay? I still feel young and unbelievably afraid of the expanse of life that follows university.
Edna spends much of The Awakening pondering her existence, feeling increasingly trapped by the roles she’s bound to. The more the novel progresses, the more she discovers means of liberation from her “old” life. However, the more she grows and finds such freedom, the more overwhelming it all becomes. As I progress through stages of my life, such as this new “21” milestone, I indeed feel the excitement for all the new horizons I have available to me. However, I can’t help but feel increasingly terrified for all of the mistakes I am going to make and the times I will feel lost. I don’t know if there are any true cures to how small I feel against the sheer size of the rest of my existence. But great food, drinks, and company are a good start.
