My brat summer turned out to be very demure, very mindful
Settling in as an international student
My Instagram DMs witnessed an overwhelming inpour of the ‘Go Kylie Go’ reels from well-meaning friends. I’d bombarded their WhatsApp chats with the horror stories of being unable to add my Forex card to Uber, almost missing my flight, forgetting to pack my toothpaste, and trying to make friends while jet-lagged in a new country. Moving from India to the US for higher studies, the road taken by so many, proved to be a lot more humbling than I’d anticipated.
Before flying out, I’d made my bucket list outlining friends to meet, places to visit, foods to try, and concerts to attend. (Yes, I explored my MIT coursework too). I prepared endless lists of my luggage contents and sent them to family in the US to iterate upon. And finally, when I landed in Boston in Bollywood style with my bags, a Forex card, and lots of hope, I had forgotten to account for one minor fact — things here would not be on auto-pilot.
In my head, I had accounted for all the daily chores. A thorough review of obscure blogs and mainstream advice equipped me with all the needed knowledge. I was ready to usher in the new season of life with themes of the strong, independent girl in the new country. This was my main character moment.
To no one’s surprise but my own, that was not the case. Each tiny molehill felt inexplicably like a giant mountain. Forgetting to carry toothpaste to a hotel room on a trip with my new classmates shouldn’t make my heart beat as if I’m logged onto Ticketmaster for tickets to the Eras Tour (or as if the Celtics are playing the winning shot?). But being in an alien land amplifies the anxiety. My brain ran a query for the worst-case scenario and my algorithm didn’t disappoint. The voices in my head asked, “Can I call for toothpaste? Is it paid? Will my card work here? How much would it cost? Do they accept cash? Can I afford hotel toothpaste if it isn’t free? Will the hotel staff think all Indians are forgetful? Will my new classmates think I’m irresponsible? Am I embodying some negative stereotype? Am I potentially creating a new one?” Back home, a forgotten toothpaste meant just that, and not a metaphor for turbulent times ahead.
Of course, when I called the reception, the toothpaste was, in fact, free. Of course, none of the new people I was with cared about it. Of course, the trip was amazing. Of course, I didn’t learn anything from this experience.
Back home, asking a friend to order something for me while they were placing their order was only as burdensome as making a Splitwise entry, which would not be cleared for 3 months. Here, asking a friend to help me order milk using their Costco membership (which I don’t have) and add it to Splitwise knowing I won’t be able to Zelle it to them for another 4 days (as I did not have a US bank account) felt equivalent to asking the class valedictorian for their assignment. Back home, a grocery run was a fun experience. Here, well okay, Trader Joe’s was a pretty fun experience too. However, I had to rely on friends and family to help me pick the right variety of fruits and vegetables.
Back home, I was independent. Here, I wasn’t.
Everyone wanted to help. I hated accepting it, but I also felt like a child, dependent on her adults – those experienced in the land of opportunity. I wondered why it felt so hard. So many of my friends had done this before me. Was I just being a baby? Lorde’s “Liability” became my most streamed Spotify song that week.
I decided to read a farewell book from a friend for some comfort. “The Boy, the Mole, the Fox and the Horse” by Charlie Mackesy did not disappoint.
Source: “The Boy, the Mole, the Fox and the Horse” by Charlie Mackesy
The next day, I hesitantly called a friend to ask for her credit card details to book my Uber. “Oh yes, I’d forgotten. You’ll need a credit card. Use mine. I’d used my brother’s when I had landed. Everyone just uses someone’s till they get their own.”
I felt as though a weight had been lifted off my shoulders. It changed my perspective. It was reassuring to know that I wasn’t the first person on the planet to ask for help, and I certainly wouldn’t be the last. The next week was significantly easier. When a friend invited me to dinner, I accepted it graciously and gratefully, without indulging in the unnecessary mental gymnastics of trying to calculate when my inadequacies would get too much.
I am still practicing the art of asking for help. To ease my guilt of accepting help, I’ve promised myself to pay it forward someday, when I am in a position to. Maybe that was the main character arc all along. Till the time things here are not on auto-pilot, this Kylie will complain, ask for help and keep going.
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