Same Old New Year

It was only on seeing the gym packed way beyond its normal level on 2nd January, that I realised quite how seriously many people take the 'new year, new me' motto. 

The beginning of a new year definitely seems like the best opportunity for a fresh start; a chance to put past problems behind you, and a whole heap of time to achieve whatever you were dreaming of the year before. I sometimes wonder though whether or not we might be placing a small bit too much pressure and expectation on what is essentially only a calendar date. 

Although 2015 held a lot of milestones for me (and 2016 promises even more) I still find myself pretty much unchanged, and in many of the same situations as I have done before. For a while I was disappointed that I couldn't pinpoint any dramatic differences to separate the years, but realistically, those sorts of changes don't happen overnight. New Year's Resolutions and the like are all great ways of bringing ambitions and goals into focus, but it strikes me that they can also create pressure and a fear of failure if we expect them to start materialising on 1st January of any given year. We've all got aspects of our lives that we want to work on and improve, but for the most part that takes time and effort. Will 2016 be the year we see massive change, or will it be the year that lays the foundation for it? Do we even know what we want that change to be? I'm not sure I do.  

Either way, here's not just to this January, or even this year, but to the future; to growing and developing at our own paces, and (slowly but) surely becoming the people we want to be...

On risks, putting yourself out there, and Only Fools and Horses...

So, I like to think of myself as a brave person, someone who doesn't shy away from risks, and recently it feels like I've taken more plunges into the deep-end than I've had hot dinners.

In the famous words of Derek ‘Del Boy’ Trotter (Only Fools and Horses – if you don’t know, be ashamed of yourself, and then look it up) “who dares wins, Rodney”. Was he right though? Let's face it, he wasn't known for the accuracy of his pithy phrases, but I have to say I agree with him here. Take for example my latest risky endeavour stats (you know, if I had to make them up…) They would probably balance out 2:1 in terms of favourable to less favourable outcomes, but does that mean that the latter were complete losses?

With any risk, whatever it may be, you put yourself out there, making yourself vulnerable to someone or something else, and that's hard. It's uncomfortable and scary because suddenly what happens to you is no longer under your control. Even though you enter these situations with a desired outcome in mind, as soon as you hand yourself over to fate like that, you also hand over any influence you have on it. But does it imply failure if things don't turn out the way you had wanted? You've still been brave and ventured something have you not? You've still learnt something about yourself; in fact you've probably realised that taking risks isn't as terrible as you feared and that you could do it again in the future.

The Russian version of Del Boy's phrase is кто не рискует, не пьёт шампанского (he who doesn't dare, doesn't drink champagne), and I like that. I like it because it has nothing to do with winning, rather it suggests that anything you perceive to be a reward merits taking a risk for. It doesn't mention losing.  

Au contraire, Rodney, au contraire. 

pre-Adventure Adventuring

It doesn't take much searching online to find a post about how your twenties are supposed to be a time of adventure, new beginnings, travel and self-discovery. And so, in heed of this oft-repeated

creed, I’m about to embark on an adventure of my own.

As anyone who’s been on an adventure will tell you, at some point before you leave, a certain pre-adventure medley of thoughts and emotions begins to kick in. On the one hand, the knowledge that you’ll soon be leaving is incredibly liberating. It allows you to break ties, escape your routine, and leave behind anything you feel isn't working for you, in exchange for a new home, new friends and a new purpose.

Weirdly though, your pre-adventure state of mind can also leave you feeling tied down even further to that which you’ll be leaving behind. I can't be the only one who starts to feel homesick before they've even left? For some reason, the thought of moving away and starting anew has an uncanny knack of dredging up the past in all its glory, or not, as the case may be. Recently, I've spent a lot of time wanting to reconnect with those times, places and people; trying to find some familiarity in the face of the coming unknown. Sometimes that’s a good idea – you get back in touch with old friends and realise how much you'd missed them. Other times though, it’s a bad idea – you get back in touch with people you thought you’d missed, only to experience once again the painful reality of why you lost touch in the first place.  

Up until recently I definitely thought I had come to terms with the fact that we lose touch with people as we get older, but it turns out I hadn't. This confusing pre-adventure ride though has shown me three things: you can’t keep in touch with everyone, some relationships aren't made to last, and that both of those things are okay.

In fact, the person I'd most like to talk to again, is my grandma. I would love to be able to pick up the phone and tell her all about my plans, even if it meant being interrogated repetitively and repeatedly until my departure date and beyond. As difficult as it's been to accept this barrier, and to try to reconcile making a fresh start with a desire to go back in time and share another moment with somebody, all this has just highlighted for me that some relationships really are more special than others. If anything, it's shown me that in some cases there wasn't much love lost at all. It seems to me that rather than wasting time hurting over people who wouldn't hurt over you, it's far more important to focus on your genuine connections, and on building more of those special, enduring bonds. You can't go back to the past. All you can do is appreciate what you have now, and look forward to the future. 

And now I'm going, before I decide to get back in touch with anyone else…

Ode to Oxford

Oxford, it's been... weird.

After 5 years here, I think I can honestly say I've made the most of the 'Oxford Experience'. I've certainly struggled my way through countless essays, translations, tutorials and lectures over the years. Aside from all that, I've also managed to play a lot of croquet, to go punting, and to wake up in time for May Day (cheese hat?) at least once. I've been to balls and bops, I played for a university sports team and I've been a sports rep at my college. I've even seen them filming a few cheeky scenes of Lewis here and there. Most importantly though, I've really lived here. I've met some amazing people, learnt more than I ever thought I would, and have been pushed past every limit I once thought I had.

Oxford is not an easy place to live in sometimes. When you get here as a fresh-faced first year, you find yourself suddenly forced to be your absolute best, and to do it on a(n infinitesimal) time-scale. On top of that there are all these other things you want to be doing like having a social life, playing sports and joining clubs. Quite frankly, it's exhausting! I have never been so physically or mentally drained, as I am at the end of every single Oxford term, no matter how good I've become at balancing my time. But when I ask myself whether or not it was worth it? Absolutely.

I've grown comfortable here now, and that definitely calls for a change. That's not to say though, that I wouldn't do it all over again in a heartbeat. This university and its libraries, professors, classes, people and prestigious colleges have a way of leaving an indelible mark on you. Of course, no indelible mark is ever left from purely happy, care-free times, but I will be forever grateful for the years I've spent here. Pretty much everything that's happened since I came to Oxford has taught me something; whether it was immediately or a lesson for later, and I value every second of it.

For now though, that's it. Five years, and fifteen terms later, and it's all over. Leaving Oxford is legitimately terrifying, and I will miss it for so many reasons, but now it's time to go and see what kind of adventure is waiting for me next.

So thanks Oxford, and goodbye. Who knows when I'll be seeing you again...

Let it go...

Disclaimer: this is not Frozen-related. Sincerest apologies.

If, like me, you have always been told to do your best, try your hardest and never give up, what do you do when you're faced with a situation that you simply cannot change? 

I think it's fair to say that as children, we're all subjected to a near-constant drumming of ambitions into us by parents, grandparents, aunts, uncles and teachers alike. In my case, ambition was made particularly important when it came to finishing food, and going to bed on time. Whatever your parents' priorities for you were though, I expect you often heard them say things like "just do your best," or "if you put your mind to it, you can do anything". Something I didn't learn as a child however, was how to know when enough was enough; when it was best just to let it go.

But actually, when I think about it, learning to give up is something that only you can teach yourself. The problem is that the thought of conceding; of giving in to circumstance; of letting go, is absolutely opposed to all the lessons about diligence, perseverance and grit that I was taught when I was younger: it feels like the wrong thing to do. Especially, when you find yourself faced with the prospect of giving up on something of huge importance to you. Isn't that synonymous with failing? 

Slowly but surely, it has dawned on me that knowing when to call it a day is not a failure. Usually, its a healthy decision. With time I've learnt that if something is meant to be, it will. Of course you can exert influence over people and situations, but you can't force them. Sometimes, things will just turn out how they will, no matter how much it hurts, and no matter how much you might wish for it to be different. And at times like these, desperately fighting against circumstances, actually makes things worse.

The question I find myself asking is: is it really worth it? Is it a really a good idea to keep going? I often think back to a conversation I had once with a wonderfully thoughtful, and spiritual person, who told me that while the decision to give up your struggles to whatever higher power (or lack thereof) you believe in, may be the hardest, it will also be the wisest and most fruitful. Learning that balance and putting yourself first sometimes isn't a question of being weak, or selfish, it's a matter of allowing yourself peace. It's one thing to say that what doesn't kill you makes you stronger, but it's also true that these things are meant to challenge us, not to break us. What is even more important, is that it's up to you to choose exactly where you want to draw that line... 

Clever Music?

As is sometimes the case with facebook, I recently happened upon a post with which I was entirely unimpressed. It was entitled "Smart people listen to Radiohead and dumb people listen to Beyonce," and was based on a study which claimed that a person's taste in music is indicative of their intelligence. I have to admit that I jumped straight to a conclusion. My conclusion was that the contents of the article would be a load of rubbish, built on assumptions and stereotypes, and reflecting musical and cultural snobbery.

Not wanting to judge a book by its cover, so to speak, I read the article, but my conclusion remained the same. The premise of the study is that more intelligent people listen either to classical music or indie, whereas less intelligent people listen to things like rap, jazz and pop, to name a few. As someone who grew up in a house where different music was always playing, and still has great significance in my life, I was deeply offended by this suggestion.

It's one thing to argue that certain types of music are more technically complicated than others, but it's something else altogether to make sweeping generalisations about the listening public. I mean, what is intelligence anyway? Is it purely academic, or can it also be common-sense and practicality? and does the study take cultural intelligence into account at all? Given that the results were collected from students with the highest SAT scores at one particular US university, it would seem to be based purely on academic intelligence.

As a masters student, I would probably describe myself as being book-smart to a degree, yet most of the music I listen to is to be found at the "dumb" end of the spectrum. However, there are so many factors that this study excludes, that it makes me wonder how it was even published in the first place. It completely fails to take into account, for example, that a person might be listening to music in a foreign language; thereby learning a great deal. It also fails to mention the breadth of factors which contribute to the building of tastes and preferences, many of which are inspired precisely by a desire to gain knowledge.

Aside from the study's many flaws, it is the principle that someone felt they were in a position to judge the general population according to something so personal and variable, which grates on me the most. Publishing and publicising a piece like this, promotes the idea that it's okay to make assumptions about people and judge them for their choices. Would we not be better off using our investigative powers to discover how music might be helpful for different people in different ways? Surely, being less judgmental and more inclusive is a more positive step to take in any case? Maybe we should all listen to the star of Colombian reggaeton, Reykon, when he says no molestes más... 

On Home-Sickness and the Wonders of Ladbroke Grove

Don't get me wrong, Oxford is a beautiful city, but sometimes I feel like dropping everything here and going back home. 

The word "home" has different meanings for everyone. It brings up different associations, different images, and different memories. For some home is a physical entity; maybe a house, or a flat. For others home is certain people; family or friends. It might not even be the place you were born, or the place you grew up. Maybe it's the place you feel happiest, safest or most comfortable.

For me, home has come to mean all of those things. I grew up in Ladbroke Grove, and although it's been through some changes recently - yuppification is the word that comes to mind - for me it has and will always be, home. Despite brief stints abroad as a child, and as part of my degree, I've spent my entire life returning to my family and friends in West London.

My relationship with home hasn't always been rosy though. As a child, and at secondary school, family situations meant that home as a 'physical entity,' wasn't always my favourite place to be. Added to that was the fact that for a significant period during my teenage years, I felt unsafe going out in my local area. Of course I had places and people that I loved and felt happy around, but I spent a long time wishing I could be anywhere else.

Then I came to Oxford. At first I absolutely loved it. I felt safe and thought I had found a great group of people to surround myself with. I wasn't worried about missing home. After a while though, I started to realise that actually although I didn't feel physically threatened anymore, I felt emotionally threatened by the people and the environment that is sometimes synonymous with being here. I found that a lot of people made fun of my accent and the reputation of my home, making assumptions about me, which they often didn't restrain from sharing, based on that. A number of people announced that they were scared of me (which always struck me as odd, I mean, if you're scared of someone, surely you wouldn't say it to their face?) Perhaps my favourite comment was "I would feel safe walking down a dark alley at night with you". 

Whenever I go back to the dark alleys of London, I realise that actually, I feel so much more comfortable there than I ever have at university. I have certainly made friends in Oxford from similar backgrounds, who I love dearly and feel I can honestly be myself around, but I have also met people who have lived very comfortable, sheltered lives, that I just can't empathise with. There's absolutely nothing wrong with having that kind of life, of course, but I must admit that to begin with, I didn't feel like I could be myself around those people. 

I realised very quickly that the environment I grew up in had pushed me, in a way that other people's simply hadn't, all the way out of my comfort zone, and into achieving my goals. I also realised that instead of trying to escape that, I should be grateful and honest about it. Now I have a whole new appreciation for the places and people of my childhood, because without them, I wouldn't be half the person I am today. From the moment I understood this, I've never tried to modify my accent, or dilute myself or my background in any way. That's because I'm proud of who I am and where I'm from.   

As I sit here now, writing just before the final push at the very end of term, I miss home so much it physically hurts. I miss the familiar streets; the faces that I grew up around, and that I can't go anywhere without seeing; the sounds and smells; the atmosphere; even my home basketball court, and the state of its rims. What I'm saying is, that although I can totally understand the need for growth away from home, and the occasional change of scene, I also value, beyond expression, the memories, stories, and the way my home has developed me as a person. I hope that whatever homes means to you, you've found the same strength and potential from it as I have.