How it Began.

"If you don't know where you're going, any road will take you there." - Lewis Carroll

Channeling this quote, after moving to the great unknown of New York City (and finding myself spending way too much time wearing a path between my apartment and the Barnes and Noble cafe I call "the office"), I decided to use the most reputable and reliable source I knew to find a job: Google search. Using my college research skills, I typed in "volunteer opportunities New York City." The second result was for a place called The Door. After harassing them via voicemail, I was told to come in for an orientation session.

The Door is located in downtown Manhattan on the fringes of Chinatown off of (ironically enough) 6th Avenue aka Avenue of the Americas. When I walk in it is immediately clear to me that I have never been somewhere like this before. Metal detectors and door guards are the first sign that we're not in Safetyville (i.e. Sitka, Alaska) though I was pleased to see that I would have no trouble abiding by the Rules of Conduct as I wouldn't recognize a gang sign if it bit me. As I loitered by the desk waiting to be escorted to my meeting, a group of absolutely gigantic boys who - let me say looked as though they could do quite a bit of damage - came in and started at me until one of them asked perhaps a pretty legitimate question: "What the hell are you doing here?" In fact everyone I encountered seemed to have a similar reaction though less blatant. The man who gave the orientation session seemed genuinely concerned that I had somehow mistaken The Door for my weekly book club meeting and was waiting for hors d'oeuvres to be served. Actually, I was the only person at the orientation session who had any experience working with kids, but how were they supposed to know that? No one who works at The Door quite looks like me.

The First.

Just as I wrote emails while abroad, I've found that my experiences with life as it continues (albeit within the United States thus far) are also bizarre enough to warrant writing about them. I've chosen the format of a blog instead of forced emails because when it comes to reading about other people's lives I'm pro-choice.

First to address the title of the blog: "Inasmuch as Which"
Inasmuch (conjunction):
1. in the degree that
2. in view of the fact that (http://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/inasmuch)

Though actually the significance for me comes from the following Winnie the Pooh quote:

"The old grey donkey, Eeyore stood by himself in a thistly corner of the Forest, his front feet well apart, his head on one side, and thought about things: Sometimes he thought sadly to himself "Why?" and sometimes he thought "Whererfore?" and sometimes he thought "Inasmuch as Which?" and sometimes he didn't quite know what he was thinking about."

Which is, essentially, what I feel I have been doing as my time in the "real world" toils on. Though perhaps without the depressing undertones.

Secondly, to address the content: For the past few weeks I have been keeping journal entries of my experience (read: fumbling attempt at) teaching English as a Second Language to immigrant/refugee youth in New York City, but I find that my writing is unarguably better when writing for an audience (however imaginary it may be) and so, the blog. Also my parents' insistence to "write it down!" can no longer be ignored without severe consequences. Although it is true I am beginning the internet publishing of these entries rather late, the posts will follow the chronological order of how I fell head-first and sans-cushion into this "job" and what happened thereafter.