Student Feature: Walking Over to a Better Me (by Emily Parra)

“How do you not know what a block is?” I am asked, disbelief overflowing in my
friends’ tones. They have just informed me that we are three blocks away from my lovely and
beautiful homestay, where it will be dry and enjoyable and decidedly not raining. Alas, their
words fall upon deaf ears, as I have absolutely no idea what those words are supposed to mean.
“I’ve never walked anywhere!” I exclaim, with a bit of frustration in my voice as I try not
to get whacked by the oncoming tree branches and simultaneously not slip on the wet pavement.
“You really don’t get out much,” is the consensus most people I meet give me whenever
the conversation winds its way over to experiences outside of the limited confines of “home.”
I can’t say they’re wrong. “Homebody” is not a term I can really say I’m the most fond
of, but at times I can see why it’s one I am assigned.

I like comfort. That in itself is not outstanding or outrageous - I don’t think there’s very
many people out there who will profess their love for suffering and misfortune. But sometimes I
let my love for what is comfortable and easy get in the way of experiences that are valuable.
If there is one thing I like more than comfort, though, it is being the best - or at least
giving the best of myself.

When I decided to step on the plane that would eventually take me to the beautiful land
of Merida, Yucatán, I shunned comfort in favor of what I hoped would be growth. Prioritizing
comfort at all times makes what we rely on become a crutch, and I want to be able to stand on
my own two feet alone. I’m about to become a senior, and that means that the Real World is
coming for me in the shape of University. University is even more foreboding than my newfound
entrance into hagdom, and University means I will be forcefully thwacked out of my cute little
domain where I am free to live as dependent on others as my heart desires.
There’s an unmistakable and wonderful thrill to doing something new, something you
didn’t think you were ready or capable of doing. Here I’ve gotten to experience that many times,
in ways both big and small.

The best example of a small way is “walking places“ - where I live, that is not a common
practice. At all. I am occasionally clumsy and get lost easily, so when my friends wanted to stop
for tacos and then walk back to my home my first instinct was to say “no, are you crazy.” But
that was not in the spirit of why I had come here in the first place.

That’s how I wound up at the taco place my host brother had told us “might make you
sick if you’re not Mexican.” I am regretful to inform you all I did not eat any, but I told myself
“baby steps” and I’m sure my digestive system thanks me. It’s also how I wound up taking a
decently long walk home in the rain with no umbrella.

All the friends I was with are apparently walking fiends. They walk places very often, or
at least that’s how it seems. To them this was probably the most boring and commonplace part of
the trip. But despite denouncing them for “making me walk in this abysmal rain,” a part of me
was proud of myself for doing it. Yes, I may have shrieked slightly as we had to try and not get
run over by cars (“CROSSY ROAD!” was what one of my dear companions yelled out, I recall vividly), but the important part was that I was one step closer to being ready for the Real World,
where you have to WALK PLACES.

I promise you that there are many, many more fun and exciting new things I did during
my time here. I did not spend my once-in-a-childhood adventure walking around and then
patting myself on the back for it. I went zip-lining for the first time ever, and I got to squeal in
excitement as the cool summer breeze gently caressed my face while I zoomed through the
beautiful blue sky. I got to swim in a cenote, and get a free spa treatment from these little fish. I
got to explore Chichén Itzá and marvel at how the Mayans created something so beautiful.
Just yesterday, I freehand painted for the first time. I’ve been an artist for years, but I’m a
bit of a perfectionist with it and I go through countless sketches before cautiously moving on
(and even then, I reserve the right to start over if I don’t like it or mess up. Many half-started
pieces have found themselves victims of an early death at my hand, with the trash can as their
new homes). This was on a hat, so there was no starting over. “I may have girlbossed too close to
the sun,” was what I told my friend sitting next to me as the panic of those first few bold strokes
settled in.

I kept going anyway, and to my surprise it turned out somewhat pleasing to look at.
Icarus and I may have a few things in common, but fortunately only one of us meets our fate in
the dark, twisted ocean of failure. Is the hat on par with the Mona Lisa? No. My little sunset hat
is not going to win me any prizes. I might not even ever actually wear it. But I get to look at it
and think “Hey, I thought I couldn’t do that. I said I was going to fail. But I didn’t.” To me, that’s
worth just as much as a blue ribbon (or, more realistically, almost worth as much).

Some of my little “new things!” adventures meant to prepare me for the Real World end
better than others, just as some are more exciting. The scar on my leg from an ambitious plan
that involved a hair-straightener is just healing over. The cute shirt I bought at my first time at a
market on my own definitely cost me more than I reasonably should have paid. My first time
killing a cockroach may have ended well, but it definitely left scars of the mental variety (that’s
the Mega Tropical Climate that manages to outdo my homeland of Florida for you). Despite
some semi-disastrous results, I still look back on those outcomes with a tinge of fondness. “If
you never bleed you’re never gonna grow,” is a line from one of my favorite songs, and I got to
live that truth myself.

I’m leaving Mexico in just a few days. There’s a saying my parents love, which roughly
translates to “Time runs by like water through your fingers,” and looking back on this trip I can
see how true that is more than ever. The day before I departed, I teared up a little bit as I said
farewell to my parents and my sisters. I couldn’t believe my dad when he told me “By the time
you have to come back home, you won’t even want to leave." Like he usually is, he was right. I
love this place more than I thought I could love anywhere that wasn’t my comfortable, beloved
home. I love the people I’ve met, the places I’ve been, the things I’ve done, the food I’ve eaten.
My host mom and I were having a conversation about this, during my last weekend in
Mexico. “Isn’t it wonderful, to be able to explore a world beyond your home?” she asked me.
“Yes,” I replied, “and it’s beautiful.”

“You’ll always remember this trip,” she said. I know, even before I’ve even left, that
she’s right. The Emily that landed here on that very first day is not the same as the Emily that
will be boarding the plane back to Florida. Change is scary and I’ve had a love-hate relationship
with it my whole life, but now I think I’ve rather warmed up to it. I’m happy with the me that
I’ve become on this trip, and I hope that the next time I walk somewhere I will be able to
confidently understand how many blocks we have left to the destination.