Without hesitation, our host opened his home, fed us and showed immense hospitality. It was with great ease we were welcomed into the local world, a dream of a place, by a person who trusted us to reciprocate the kind of spirit he was extending: the essence of an expanded heart, one that shows a departure from fear and a promise of embracing the idea of community and friendship without traditional boundaries.

As we departed from New Orleans I was hit with the retrospective allowance of just how many times I’d been welcomed into the galaxies of people who orbit in a rotation of love and the concept of an inclusive neighborhood. In every person’s residence, there is a probable miracle that can be ignited in the decision to make room for colossal and impactful generosity.

This past summer, I left the west coast to take a long road trip in the direction of Texas. I made my way by couchsurfing in the homes of several people I didn’t know and who had never met me. There was risk on both sides but in the best of scenarios, the option for vulnerability appeared and thus, connection. I was welcomed into the lives of strangers who showed me how they lived.

These people lived differently than I did and I could recognize that, but there were similarities as well, as the balance of life would have it. In Albuquerque, I had wonderful hosts who showed me their city and shared a certain kind of magic that exists beyond the boundary of fear. In our many chances to recognize people, small details will rise and show us how most people intend to live their lives: with grace and effort, in trust and in hope. Our world is complicated, but every person has a neighbor and every person is a neighbor. How can this idea impact our sense of place?

Generosity of the heart may seem rare in times of tumultuous political periods, but I would like to propose a different design: that generosity is never scarce because it can be created from the open-ended immortal of the heart. Generosity is plentiful and uninhibited in its sincerity. Most people are generous everyday, with their children, their neighbors and their friends. This is a good place to start. Our grace and compassion shouldn’t end at our front door; instead, it should spread from here. Kindness and inclusivity should be like Gatsby’s lawn: enormous, running out into the horizon and stretching beyond us the way the promise of a bright future does.

Countless homes have been open to me and I continue to learn acceptance, respect and understanding of the people who live there. I have questioned recently who my neighbors and fellow countrymen are, in light of immense trends of bigotry, racism and chauvinism. There is great grief and disgust in knowing the tremendous amount of work we could undo in the way of human rights and progress with such pervasive idiocy and prejudice in our nation. As we know, these attitudes and behaviors have been a historical presence and persist even still.

In a world that oftentimes makes no sense at all, a quick recollection of the humanity I have been gifted brings me back to the possibility of an original rejection of all that is ugly and unjust. There is no simple solution or answer, but it’s important to begin anew. We can begin as parents, as neighbors, as coworkers—whatever role we find ourselves in throughout the day, to outstretch our arms in decency and open the door to our homes. We are amidst a great chance to redefine what home means. There is a perpetual resilience in the revival of kindness. Let’s begin now, while there’s still time.

Get to know your neighbor, it may be a surprise just how far your zip code reaches.

Savanna is a graduate of Oregon State University with a degree in Social Science. She lives in Austin, Texas where she works at the Texas School for the Blind and Visually Impaired. She likes cactus plants, wiener dogs and seeing live music.

The post Everyone Is a Neighbor: Travel and Generosity appeared first on Newfound.

Once on the ground, the strap of my purse broke and all my valuables spilled on the floor of the airport. The airline temporarily lost my baggage—my flat iron! The only way to tame the hair I hated! My black dress, my dress shoes. All the talismans that were supposed to make me appear confident and capable and mature. Lost. (And then, shortly after, found.)

And then: conference sessions, information overload, connections with colleagues, so many resources to bring back home to the job I love. The day’s official schedule planned our time from 8 a.m. to about 5 p.m., then heavily suggested team-building excursions in the city.

At first, I went to all the tourist traps suggested. I did the things people told me to do. I got covered in powdered sugar from the beignets at Café Du Monde. I sipped a hurricane on Bourbon Street, and a daiquiri too. I hated them both; they were too sugary, but it wasn’t enough to cover the strong pour of alcohol. Overdone on the alcohol, overdone on the syrup to mask it, and nothing gets masked. My gums stung and I winced as I sipped.

Bourbon Street left me cold. Look, I don’t care if topless ladies stand on street corners wearing nothing but stilettos, all to entice visitors into strip clubs. Bodies are beautiful, however they come. Still, I tend not to give the reaction or outcome expected to strip club pageantry. I’m not titillated and I’m not offended or sanctimonious, no matter how many rhinestones are glued to how many nipples. I know I’m watching a performance, and I’m not that interested. It’s fake. And cheap.

Throughout the week I started skipping conference sessions and the suggested recreational activities. Mostly, I walked. Through the French Quarter, to the open market, to the post-industrial open space of Crescent Park.

I found an antique store on Magazine Street that had vintage-y looking pocketbooks, and forked over the cash for a new purse. The cashier noticed that the handbag I’d found had a tag that read Genuine Leather, and laughed. “Who put that on a pleather purse?” he wondered. I keep the tag on, even though the bag is a fake.

Rumors spread between my colleagues that I was going rogue, exploring the city on my own. Other first-timers to the city wanted me to show them how to get to convenience stores that sold souvenirs, or less spicy Cajun cuisine, or some free outdoor jazz shows. (I never claimed to know where any of that stuff was, and I wasn’t great at leading people to those things.)

My colleagues wanted to walk along the banks of the Mississippi River, free from docks or train tracks. There wasn’t any space like that in the city proper that we could reach on foot. They insisted that the dockyards were creepy and unsafe. And not real natural space. (Though there are many paths through this area filled with joggers, part of official city parks.)

The conference ended and I hopped a cab to meet up with a recently-relocated friend for some live music at a bar. This must be real, I thought, starting out at a sea of young, white, hip residents of the city who were likely not born there.

But what is the “real” side of a place? I stayed 36 hours after the conference dismissed to couch surf among friends. I looked hard for the real face of this city, but only found more and more elaborate Mardi Gras crowns, gowns and masks. The masks were beautiful, though.

What would even have satisfied me? What is the face of real not fake New Orleans?

Is it neighborhoods of houses bearing FEMA’s spray-painted markings for evacuations and inspections after the levies broke? Is it cockroaches scattering through bathroom cabinets in the 7^th Ward? Is it the faces of children whose families have a hard time navigating the city’s School Choice system?

New Orleans is a city that puts on masks for parades and carnivals. There’s a sizable market for colorful wigs and lipsticks. Social circles make and break because of what parade Krewe you’re on.

During my short stay, I talked to dozens of young people who live in New Orleans but didn’t grow up here, who were transplanted or relocated. Sometimes to work. Mostly to play.

I met do-gooders who moved to areas devastated by Katrina to help rebuild. They physically restored houses, or now try to fix unequal education systems or gaps in social services. Does gutting a house and repainting an exterior address the inequality of the way the city was evacuated or served after the hurricane? Of course not. People spoke openly to me about the unequal distribution of wealth, property, access to education and more before the storm. Their goal hasn’t been to rebuild to where NOLA was before Hurricane Katrina, but to re-envision the city, build it better, build it fairer, and to rebuild in collaboration with lifelong residents.

I think they’ll do it. The optimism and imagination of the Crescent City is contagious. I drooled over purple mermaid hair in the wig shops; I left with two new outfits from “free stores.” How easy to try on something new, to feel like a different version of myself. With so many opportunities for reinvention and play in New Orleans, it’s a shame to waste time worrying what version of myself is real and what is fake. Or to get too wrapped up in judging the same of others.

Laura Eppinger graduated from Marquette University in Milwaukee, Wisconsin, USA in 2008 with a degree in Journalism, and she’s been writing creatively ever since. She the blog editor here at Newfound Journal.

The post Fakes and Masquerades in New Orleans, LA appeared first on Newfound.

I’m going for a road trip on my own, to my new home. I cross the desert into Texas. My sense of self is shifting, as I leave my hometown and find a new environment many miles away. My sense of place is being shaken (at will, but that doesn’t make it less scary.)

I find that outside of my existential fear of change, there is great anxiety in the logistics of being a woman in unfamiliar places, on the road, at rest stops and in the world.

Fear in a woman’s world is real. It is palpable and it can have a crippling effect on the ways we orient ourselves, how we conduct our business and where we go, especially in locations we are foreign.

I am encouraged by friends to be adventurous but to just be aware.

This is a woman’s trouble: to be aware of a world that requires fear before action or confidence, before dreaming, before leaving the house, before picking an outfit and certainly before drinking.

So I think: If I have fear, as a cisgender, heterosexual, able-bodied, white woman, who else is afraid?

I spoke to a gay friend of mine a few days ago, after the Orlando massacre, and he told me he has found himself unusually aware of his surroundings because he is afraid. The language he used was notably similar to what people have said to me about this upcoming road trip: awareness is key to safety. It’s worth pointing out that every time I’ve traveled, with girlfriends or solo, I am reminded each time, by all kinds of people, to be aware.

Be aware of my body, what time it is, where I am, where my money is, how I’m dressed, and more. I realize that basic awareness and common sense is vital to all people’s existence and modes of living. I also recognize a pattern of language that appears to be saved for certain people (read: those of us who are conditioned to be afraid for our own safety because we are visible targets for violence or assault or discrimination).

If awareness is meant to keep us safe, then it could explain why it’s popular to say she was drunk or wearing slutty clothes and this is why she was the target of  rape and sexual assault.

If just be aware means “don’t find yourself in the wrong place at the wrong time”, then I want to ask, who finds themselves in a wrong place, at a wrong time?

Women
Women of color
Queer and Transgender people
Disabled people
(and more, or any intersection of these)

Why are we telling those listed above to be aware instead of those who act out, perpetuate and condone violence, domination and abuse? Because I am aware, my gay friends are aware, my transgender friends are aware, my friends of color are aware.

Home is a safe place to me (and for this I am fortunate). As I leave this safe place and venture into places unknown, I am aware of myself, what I am wearing, where I will be, what to avoid, on and on and on.

When fear rules logistics, availability, location and more, it means those of us who have been conditioned to know and learn fear, feel unwelcome where we have every right to be. It is a privilege to feel safe everywhere and for those who enjoy this privilege, it is time to be aware that safety should be a right, a universal truth instead of a peace of mind, body and spirit shared only by a few lucky folks.

Possessing a sense of self without limitation is powerful. Embodying a sense of place without domination or oppression is revolutionary.

It is time to employ the idea and live the truth that being aware means we can live together, without violence, assault or abuse, and that whoever may desire to sleep in an open field, to travel west or walk freely at night is unabridged in their ability to do so with the knowledge that to just be aware is a beloved task the community upholds in the honor of all its travelers and residents.

Savanna is a recent graduate of Oregon State University in Social Science. She created the blog Sex, Politics & Social Justice as an in-process learning project to gain political insight through the lens of intersectional feminism. She is moving to Austin, Texas where she hopes to expand her experience in the world and continue writing.

The post Just Be Aware: The Politics of Traveling Alone appeared first on Newfound.

A quick Google search would have told me on the first hit: Pico-Union is a densely populated, low-income, youthful, 85.4% Latino, mostly immigrant neighborhood in Central Los Angeles, California.

Walking around the neighborhood I immediately noticed that I stood out. I felt like I was back in Cape Town, South Africa, where I lived on and off for a few years.

I was marked by so much more than skin tone in Cape Town, and then again in LA. My precious thrift store sun dresses, thick-rimmed nerd glasses, short hair, way of walking, the angle I carried my purse, and a million other factors I am not self-aware enough to name were arrows pointing the word OUTSIDER at me.

Perhaps less significant, I lived without many creature comforts on the road that week as well.

I slept on a mattress on the floor in an off-the-books hostel. After check-in I had doubts about staying there, but learned just how inept the AirBnB Help Desk is. So I stuck it out, and was uncomfortable. And aware of my surroundings. Every yap of the tiny dogs next door, the baby crying in the room next to mine, the drafty windows all made strong impressions on me.

Throughout the week, I exhaled moisture and breathed in smog. The flop house AirBnB had no hot running water.

It was worth it, so worth it, to be able to attend AWP 2016.

In a panel called “There and Back Again: Writing from the Road,” Kai Carlson-Wee spoke about the way traveling makes us pay attention, or makes us confront how strange and unfamiliar the world can be.

I felt this very strongly in LA, and would add that discomfort forces us to focus and look alive.

Every little detail of that week seemed so vivid at the time, and I was inspired to write it all down.

I left with the impression that every tenant in LA shares a poorly ventilated apartment with a lover who isn’t on the lease, at least one small dog, and a colony of fruit flies.

I savored some surprisingly great European pastries throughout my time in LA, paired with crappy coffee. It’s the Los Angeles water supply, I tell you. (Feel free to leave your jibes about my New Jersey residency in the comments; as long as I never have to drink LA water again, nothing can upset me!) I drank gallons of the stuff—this was a writers conference, after all.

I will remember my first AWP as a jittery, overstimulated newbie. Fascinated by everything, attending four panels in a row, wanting to ask every Book Fair attendee what they are reading right now. Constantly looking over my shoulder, staying alone in an area where I stood out. On edge, but paying attention.

Laura Eppinger graduated from Marquette University in Milwaukee, Wisconsin, USA in 2008 with a degree in Journalism, and she’s been writing creatively ever since. She the blog editor here at Newfound Journal.

The post Travel makes me pay attention. Discomfort helps, too. appeared first on Newfound.

“There was a wall. It did not look important. It was built of uncut rocks roughly mortared. An adult could look right over it, and even a child could climb it.”  -The Dispossessed, Ursula K. LeGuin

We make assumptions. For example, as a writer, I make assumptions about my audience, about you. One of those assumptions is that you read, most of you widely, and many of you deeply. Since this blog is attached to a literary journal, it is very possible that some of you write. At the same time, I could be completely wrong. That is the nature of assumption after all.

Last week, my wife and I were driving through a small town in the Utah desert. The evening was approaching and I was hungry. The next town was probably an hour off. The problem was that we only passed two restaurants on the highway, China Star and Pizzaria. Take a moment to look at the pictures and you might make some assumptions of your own.

Chinese, American, Mexican Drive-In…

And Italian-American Mexican Food, which happens to include Freezies and Chili Dogs.

I’m a food snob. I made assumptions. I did not stop.

When we got to the next town, there were many familiar eating establishments: Subway, Arby’s, McDonald’s. But after waiting so long to eat, I wasn’t going to eat fast food. I wanted to get out of the car, sit down and enjoy a nice meal. So we did the only thing I could think of, which was to ask a local where to eat. The recommendation we were given was an Italian restaurant called Red Gravy.

When we went inside, I couldn’t help but notice that the vibe of the restaurant wasn’t quite Italian. The décor was eclectic, as though someone’s grandma had taken all of her knickknacks and put them into a barn she decided to convert into a restaurant.

The entire back wall of the dining area was a chalkboard with an excellent drawing that I couldn’t help but photograph. It reminded me of New Orleans where I once lived, or what I imagine Venice might look like.

Then the food came, probably the second- or third-best Italian food I’ve ever had — which is saying something. Our waiter was professional and efficient. Overall, it was an enjoyable experience, perhaps made even more so by being unexpected.

But this post isn’t a travelogue of a trip into the desert. The point of all this rambling is the places.

The places I mentioned allowed you to make judgments. Even with limited details, my wife and I made assumptions. The roadside diners and the Italian eatery are the setting of the story; they allowed immersion in the tale. They don’t just give the story a place to happen. They give it flavor. And, in cases like this one, if it weren’t for the places, there wouldn’t be a story at all.

Reggie Carlisle finished his BA in Creative Writing at Weber State University in 2014. His first published story was in the Fall 2013 Mixitini Matrix. He currently resides in Utah with his wife and five daughters.

The post Assumptions in the Desert appeared first on Newfound.