Becoming a Singleton

A big black suitcase sits between the bunk bed my twin sister and I share and our bedroom door. Day by day it grows larger, my sister emptying in more clothes and supplies out of the drawers and shelves in our room. In less than three weeks, she will be hauling that suitcase through our door, leaving an empty bed above me.

When people ask me what it’s like being a twin, I describe my sister and I as “an old married couple.” We understand each other almost completely and finish each other’s sentences not because we have telepathic abilities, but because we’ve lived side by side our entire lives. My sister and I have never spent more than two weeks apart.

Saskia (left) and Me

In elementary school, when the summer heat became oppressive, I remember my sister and I secluding ourselves in the shade under the playground equipment. We would crouch side by side and draw designs in the gravel dust that collected on our connected knees. Now, at seventeen, our lives are still interwoven. The crack that separates our individualities is hard for me to distinguish. Yet, soon we will be 8,095 km apart, separated by land, sea, and country borders.

As the day of departure draws near, I keep waiting for some pang of emotion to overtake me: excitement, sadness, or fear. I remain as emotionally blank, though, as the exposed white base of my sister’s emptied drawers. I think this is because I just can’t imagine life as a singleton.

Soon, though, I will find out!

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Learning Languages

Sliding my laptop onto the kitchen counter, I open my gmail inbox even before fixing breakfast. I’m hoping for another message from Belgium. And there one is in bold. I can’t help but grin at the screen as I finish reading. My future host sister and I have now exchanged twenty-six emails since June 12.

Julie initiated the chain and writes me vivid descriptions in flowing letters, bringing to life her family within the lines. If Justin Bieber suffered any cavities, her little sister would know how many (it’s handy that he’s also Canadian, though I’m not sure I want to associate with The Biebs). Her younger brother hates school, studies by obligation and has an extraordinary memory for documentaries. Her father enjoys woodworking and her mother spends her spare time gardening.

By contrast, my replies are shorter and choppier. I struggle with wording and vocabulary as I attempt to apply my lacking French. I left the francophone school system at the end of elementary school. Ever since, I have longed for the fluency I gave up. Given that Canada is a bilingual country, knowing both official languages is useful for jobs within government. But my motivation for fluency is further reaching.

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Acceptance into Pearson

“It’s for you,” my mother explained as she passed me the phone. I lowered my dinner fork and reached for it tentatively. Usually, my relatives are the only people to call me specifically, and then only on my birthday.

“Hello, this is Heather Gross.” My muscles constricted in fear and anticipation as I realized that I was speaking to the Director of Admissions of Pearson United World College. The words she spoke determined my acceptance into the school and, by extension, the movement of the next two years of my life. “Would you like to accept a spot at Pearson College?” “Yes, of course” I answered, my body releasing into giddiness. I hung up the phone and clutched my mother tightly, finding support in her solid arms as I prepared to leave them.

Pearson College

In a month and a half, I will be crossing the Straight of Georgia, abandoning my family, friends, and the life I’m familiar with for two years of boarding school on Vancouver Island. Many of my friends don’t understand why I’m choosing to leave my local high school a year before I should graduate. Sitting back down around the circle of my family’s dinner table, I know the answer. I am comfortable here, safe within the arms of my surroundings. Yet, with my edges sanded securely into place, I cannot extend farther into the world, tumbling towards the cracks and corners that define the patterns of other places and ideas. Next year, crowded into the campus of Pearson College with 180 students from over 80 different countries, sharing a room with three other girls from three separate parts of the world, I know I won’t fit into my new life easily. That is the reason I’m leaving, though. During my next two years, I want to gain the knowledge of other peoples, cultures, and perspectives that will fill the gaps between me and my fellow students, between me and the wider world.

I am SO EXCITED!

Pearson College UWC…

• aims to “make education a force to unite people, nations and cultures for peace and a sustainable future”
• is a two year pre-university school
• brings together 160 students from over 80 countries
• provides every student a $68,000 full scholarship covering tuition, room and board (funded by governments, institutions, and individuals)
• selects students based on promise and potential, regardless of race, religion, politics or financial means
• requires all students to pursue the full International Baccalaureate Diploma
• is one of 13 United World Colleges worldwide

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In Transition

The characteristic Vancouver rain spatters against the warm pavement outside, releasing the scent of earth and dust. Music from a local Canada Day weekend celebration drifts across the inlet and through my screen door. In a month and a half, I will leave all of this – house, park, family, friends, language, country – behind for a full year.

For the most part, I am excited. Each day, my thoughts hover over the small details my future host sister has emailed me. Every time I have a conversation with anyone, I inevitably end up mentioning Belgium. I will be living in a 200-year-old farmhouse. I will be in a village of 300 people (hard to even imagine!). I will have a 15-year-old sister and an 11-year-old brother. August fourteenth can’t come soon enough.

Yet every once in a while, I instead stop and measure the moments I am abandoning. Here in my small suburb of Vancouver, I have a strong network of commitments and communities that give me a place and an identity. It is safe and predictable. Belgium, by contrast, is a question mark. It is saturated with the unknown of people and places. This can be nerve-racking.

Opening my laptop, I search Jacques Brel on youtube and find Le Plat Pays, a song about Belgium. I’m attempting to imagine myself there, to convince myself that this is really happening. The Canada Day music from outside and Jacques Brel’s low voice mingle. My two lives too are mixing in this in-between, in this odd and almost discordant period of transition: here but there, excited but unsure. I’m looking forward to stepping on the plane and moving completely into my new life.

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