Letter from the editor

The last time I went to Alaska, four years ago, I came back stacked with epiphanies and self-revelations. I won't bore anyone with any self-aggrandizing speeches, but among the multitudes of things I learned about myself, I came to understand the gravity of my life as a modern nomad.

I returned to Austin obsessed with who the modern nomads of today were. What were they like? Were any of their experiences like mine? Did any of them have similar social reservations? Did they ever experience fear, uncertainty, apprehension?

Many of my friends have this misperception of me, that because I've traveled extensively, I am a fearless world traveler. On the contrary, I travel because it is in my blood. I was born this way. I have moved almost every year of my life since I was conceived. I do not know how to sit still in one place for a long time and be content. I am addicted to adventure and constant movement. Every person is a new experience, every place, every bite, every sunrise and night sky.

But the irony is that I fear it all. I fear taking initiative. I fear jumping into black holes. I fear strangers. I fear familiarity. I fear solitude. My fears do not hold me back. They are merely a part of me.

Author Eva Hoffman eloquently illustrates in her novel, "Letters of Transit," the seduction and the misconceptions of being nomadic. "Real dislocation, the loss of all familiar external and internal parameters is not glamorous or cool," writes Hoffman. "It is an upheaval in the deep material of the self... [but it] gives perspective...biculturalism has its pleasures and can become addictive. [Yet] these virtues have serious defects."

Like survivors of abuse, I wear a coat of armor. I keep myself guarded and aware. Nomadism has taught me to be analytical, contemplative, quick-witted and empathic. For survival's sake, I must be aware of others, their intentions and agendas at all times. I must stay collected and clear-headed in moments of crisis. When I am constantly a foreigner in my surroundings, I learn fast that it does not pay to always do as the locals do. When they get drunk, I stay sober.

Four years ago, I returned to Austin after being in Alaska for seven months and decided it was time to experiment with stability and enrolled myself in several classes at Austin Community College. Three and a half years later, I am graduating with an associate's degree in journalism.

I have learned many invaluable lessons as a student. I have learned to not only observe my surroundings, but also to participate in them. I have gained knowledge and self-esteem. I have garnered lasting friendships and a dogged passion for my craft.

I have now lived in Austin for the better part of six years. I have, through many trials and errors, created a home for myself. It is not a two-story house with a two-car garage and a white picket fence (I would rather die), but it is the kind of home that I have never had before. Familiarity. I know where to find everything I need. I know who my friends are. I know all the shortcuts home. I know which market to go to get the best deal on produce and miso, and which bus line gets me from point A to point B directly. I know the name of my favorite bank teller, my favorite bartender, my favorite barista. And they know my name, too.

I am leaving again. I have been accepted to the University of Alaska Anchorage School of Journalism. I am going someplace where I don't intend to stay for too long. But as the map is being charted, I am realizing that it will be even longer before I can regain a sense of home again. It has been truly wonderful having one. And it grieves me to no end to leave it.

I am honored to have been the editor of Accent, the student voice of ACC, for the past year I sincerely thank all my professors, my advisors, faculty, staff and students of ACC for being such an integral part of my life in Austin. You will be sorely missed.