Lists of Four

1. Four more days left in Champaign-Urbana.
   
2. Four exams. Three down, one to go.
   
3. Four short months here are over.
   
4. Four goodbye letters left to write.

Well, that's it, folks!

Forty minutes ago I walked out of the last class I'll ever take at the University of Illinois again.

I think the idea of it being my last class is much stranger than the actual fact that is. It's quite an anticlimactic moment, really. I simply walked out of Arabic, and as I left I realized that this was it. No more syllabi from UIUC professors, no more classes taught on the Quad, no more logging in to Compass to check my grades. I simply left, and that was that. Three exams to go, one final paper and my practical career here is over.

I'll be leaving campus in less than a week and it's crazy to think about how this journey really has been a blink. I type this as I sit in the lounge of the dorm where I lived for two years. My first impressions of college were formed in this dorm; my first friendships were forged here, my deepest connections.

Time feels squishy. It stretches and makes me believe that years and years have passed; an entire season is embroidered by the thread of time and at the same time it squishes, causing me to inhale sharply. Two and a half years seems much too short for all that has happened, and too long for the memories to be so vivid. Yet time dances and squishes and stretches, being both too long and too short simultaneously. It plays with my senses and I find myself wondering if I even experience time chronologically in the first place. Memory is such a present activity that ties together past events. Time bends and sometimes I wish I could fold it up, stick it in my pocket and take it with me.

Well, this is it, Illinois.

We're on to the final countdown: six days

On Poverty

I highly value education; I really do. I know that I'm one of the privileged few (about 6% of the world's adults, actually) who will ever have a bachelor's degree.

But sometimes I feel it simply distances me from the things I want to know more about.

For instance, I'm taking a class on international war. A friend commented, "Oh, that must be sad." Oddly enough, I was able to answer that it wasn't. I didn't even have to hesitate. We simply discussed theories about war in this political science class. We talked about why countries go to war and what leads to arms races and which alliances are dangerous ones... but no, its never sad. It's all knowledge... all brain knowledge.

And now, I'm taking a break from writing a paper on poverty alleviation. I had to pause before jumping in to the part on poverty statistics. Do we really need more? Is the problem really ignorance anymore? Do we need to tell anyone else that there are others who need that dollar more than we do? Will the numbers trigger a response this time?

It all feels so surreal. Me, sitting here, on my double bed, with my personal laptop, writing a paper on the poor in the world. Me, constructing academic arguments on the validity of poverty alleviation, while I have food in my stomach, clothes in my closet and a roof over my head. It is my privilege that even allows me to research and discuss and write about poverty.

 We don't need more information; we need more obedience. 

We don't need more empathy; we need more generosity. 

We don't need more statistics; we need sacrifice.