Photo by Maia Foster
Cool, I graduated. Or so I thought.
I wasn’t so excited about my graduation ceremony. Yes, being chosen to senior class president and give the senior class response was fine and dandy. My grandparents were there, my mom was there, and some extended family had flown in, so that was great. This was to be a moment of celebration. It all happened so fast. Five years in college with a major, four minors, and I served in a few student leadership positions to boot. On paper, it’s the greatest resume one could ask for in college.
Everyone around me was excited about the future.
“We’re getting married.”
“I’m getting my paid internship.”
“We start working next week!”
I walked around the auditorium excitedly clasping hands with friends I’d acted with, hugging people I served under, and laughing with recent alumni. This was it. I was supposed to remember and enjoy these moments and proudly look back at the pictures. But then came the questions:
“Phil! The legend! What’s next for you dude?”
“Yoooo! Phil! You got a ring lined up for the First Lady? When’s the wedding? You know I gotta be there, right?”
“Where are you going next, bro?”
I decided to grin and bear it. It was hard to tell people who thought so highly of me that I just didn’t know yet. It was even harder to find out that I still needed intermediate foreign language credits to truly graduate. I mean, I knew this, but I expected to maybe hit up Spain in the summer, get my credits, and come back and head to graduate school. I kinda had a plan. Apply for an M.A. in Communications with an emphasis in Visual Arts, get my little credits in Spain, come back and start class.
Turns out, I was dead wrong.
As the early summer months went by, I grew more frantic and stressed. I stopped enjoying all of my hobbies and stopped taking care of myself. I was crazed with self-doubt and endless introspection. I sat in a dorm room and watched as several YouTubers, artists, filmmakers, and creatives lived out their dreams every week. All it took was a little hard work--okay, maybe, A LOT of hard work. But I could do it...right?
It felt like I woke up one day in May and received a nasty slap in the face--the bane of every teenager’s existence. One spot formed on my forehead, then another beside my eyebrow, and another on my cheek. Volcanoes, everywhere threatening to erupt. Who were these toxic invaders? What’s happening? This can’t be me. It was painful to look in the mirror and see my own reflection: a twenty-three year old college “graduate” with...acne!?
I felt like an embarrassment.
“Phil, you’re still here!?”
Yes, I’m still here. I’m living in a college dorm. I have acne now. It’s okay. I’ll figure it out.
“Phil! Thanks so much for coming to my wedding. Your presence means so much to me and---”
I could never let people finish without feeling self-conscious that they were seeing what had to be obvious changes to MY FACE. I went to a stream of weddings and didn’t feel myself. I always hoped whoever was manning Photoshop knew about that scar removal tool because…*Whew chileeee, I needed dat.*
I was told I was not eligible to go to Spain for the summer because I had not taken elementary Spanish. My friends told me it didn’t matter--I took Spanish 1-3 in high school, which was the requirement. I was told I would have to stay a year. But what about my plans? What about graduate school? How was I supposed to pay for that? I was told, “You can come back here and get a Spanish minor, too! Oh, Phillip, how grand! This is the Lord’s will for your life.” (Gee thanks, lady. One major and FIVE whole minors in SIX years? No thanks).
I left that office in distress. I felt like I was perpetually in limbo. How was I supposed to focus on learning a language when I didn’t even know what I wanted to do with my life anyway? The worst of it all? I realized I didn’t have any mentors. Just like Drake and Chris Brown… I had no guidance.
I shrugged my shoulders and decided I would start something--ANYTHING to get my creative juices going again. Aside from killing dudes in the dorm at Super Smash Bros. Ultimate, I needed a productive outlet and things to look forward to.
I bought a ticket to Albuquerque, New Mexico. Then another one to San Francisco, California. Then...I bought the ticket to Valencia, Spain.
Natalia finally left campus at the beginning of August. Now, it really was just me. All the students were coming back and there I was...still there.
I thought I was supposed to figure it out by now.
The podcast was helping me find my inspiration again and watching my best friend do pastoral ministry in El Paso, Texas was super encouraging. Having Natalia fly out to New Mexico for the first time was a massive blessing (can’t believe I didn’t get her to try some green chile). The Bay Area was cool (I missed my chance to do something vile to the Oracle Arena...like blow it up), and my uncle’s advice gave me a new plan: pursue a doctoral degree in history and documentary filmmaking on the side.
Boom. Summer ended. I was on a plane to Boston, Massachusetts from Philadelphia, Pennsylvania. It was my first connecting flight to Spain. Natalia met me at the airport and threw her arms around me. I needed one last hug from her and a chance to relax before getting on a plane and heading to Spain.
It was the longest flight of my life. It didn’t help that a rather large woman took up her seat and half of mine. I texted Natalia from the plane and she kept me going. I landed in Paris, France expecting to eat Auntie Anne’s or McDonald’s and rejuvenate. European mistake #1: There was no fast food to be found in that Parisian airport and everything else was alien to me. Plus, English was now the second language listed everywhere. I felt just a little bit afraid.
I made it to Valencia, Spain and into the car with relative strangers. I tried to keep my spirits up, but when I arrived in yet another dorm room in a foreign country, I almost lost it. I couldn’t communicate. The food was ...I guess you could call it food
I was left to contemplate my new life, goals, and pursuits...but first, The Fresh Prince of Bel-Air is on Netflix out here!? Say no more! I bought a GRE study prep program, bought my slot for the GRE test, bought my ticket to Madrid, and a nearby AirBnb. My life was set again. My plans were in motion! Now, I had to somehow focus enough to learn a bit of the language and get some passing grades (I mean, did it matter? Didn’t I graduate? I’m not even supposed to be here! Oh look...my skin’s getting worse--no pictures, please).
I won a talent show (Thank you Michael Jackson for being an international pop sensation).
Europe was cool. Morocco was “aight.” Watching the Mediterranean and the Atlantic Ocean meet perpetually was tranquil. I stayed silent and watched all of the students around me. It was easy to pick out the older ones from the younger ones. I was nearly 24, my roommate was 18...and then he was 19. He was dope though, dude. An awesome Filipino from SoCal, he and I laughed and joked hours into the night. He had big goals of his own and was content to possibly live in Spain forever, if he could. (I’m also so grateful for his patience with me and my anxious brain).
I quietly watched their journeys. Some of the students were trying to find themselves. Some were content to hit up class every now and then and trek to every country in the European Union. Others were budding lovebirds seeking that elusive relationship--I missed my person and she missed me, too.
Natalia came to visit and we toured Spain, Italy, and France together. She endured my busted haircut. The Mona Lisa and I would be the best of friends and I’m sure there are men who envy the Statue of David...if you get my drift. It was refreshing. Me and my favorite person. I felt pretty alive again. Then she had to leave, and the GRE was in two weeks. I studied hard. I never came out of my room for anything.
My brain needed answers. Not answers to the quantitative section of the GRE (though that would’ve been really, really nice), not answers to my Spanish homework (it was piling up). What was I supposed to do with my life? What if I got a really bad score? What if none of the universities let me in? What if I’m really doomed to work in a profession I don’t feel called to?
I thought I was supposed to figure it out by now.
I took the GRE. It was mediocre.
I finally stopped introverting and let some people in. They welcomed me. We hopped on a plane to Athens, Greece. I geeked out (Thanks Percy Jackson, Assassin’s Creed: Odyssey, and Disney’s Hercules).
Semester ended. I said a tearful farewell to my newfound friends. I’ll never forget our buffet Domino’s Pizza and The Good Burger burgers.
My plane touched down in Boston again in December. It sure was cold...and Christmas! I forgot about Christmas. She wrapped her arms around me again. Safe and sound. Never that long of a distance between us again.
It was also a joyous experience to wrap my arms around my usual order from Taco Bell.
Photo by Cole Young: Me and this owner of a Greek restaurant became best buds after he schooled me on some local history!
But...what now?
I sat in my room in Pennsylvania, horribly jetlagged. I contemplated while I bounced noob after noob in NBA 2K20. I finished graduate school applications. I spent over a thousand dollars. What’s next?
2020 brings a lot of excitement (and perfect eyesight for those who think they’re comedians). For me, there’s a lot of uncertainty about the future. All of this contemplating brings more days of anxiety than anything else--these daily migraines are a testament to that. There are actually hundreds of people listening to the content that I’ve created, and that’s really humbling. There’s still the endless questions: What if I don’t make it into those graduate programs? What if my family refuses to acknowledge, understand, and encourage my creative development? I’m not avoiding my calling, am I? What if I get left behind?
All that’s left for me these days is hope that a better future is coming, but it’s up to me to do it. I think I get it now. I spent over a decade working for everyone else’s expectations that I failed to see who I actually am, a creative. We all have our gifts, and I know I’ve been given special ones to use, and I think maybe I’ve figured it out. I think what I learned in Europe was that my calling wasn’t supposed to be figured out by now:
I’m supposed to enjoy my life and live my purpose.
What’s coming next? You might not expect it.
