The Butterfly Effect
I can still remember the overwhelming uncertainty of that final semester in my senior year of college. The multitude of options were paralyzing.
Like most every college senior, I didn’t do well with my lack of ability to forecast the future.
What should I do? What should I…be?
My approach to undergraduate studies had been somewhat unconventional, almost tourist-like. I migrated through a variety of majors from international studies to education to applied linguistics and finally settled on counseling after working with a group of Bosnian refugee kids. One was a survivor of Srebrenica. His father wasn’t so fortunate.
I may have learned more from that young boy than I did from any of the programs I explored.
One day in February 2005, I was particularly preoccupied with questions of where I was headed, ever mindful of my rapidly approaching graduation with no idea what to do. Strolling down the hallway, I mulled over options, none seeming particularly appealing.
A flyer in the hallway caught my attention. I scanned it quickly and passed by.
Hold on. Back up.
Teach English in Northern Iraq.
Ha, yeah right. I kept walking. Iraq…with its flourishing insurgency. Sounds like a blast.
Stop…Not so fast.
I went back and reread the flyer. I don’t know how long I stood there–maybe two minutes– maybe ten minutes. I do know that eventually I took the number.
In the days that followed, I did a bit of research, sought guidance, and consulted people I trusted. The job was in the Kurdish region of the country, which was generally much safer than other hot spots as a semiautonomous region with its own parliament and military. About a week later, I made a phone call that changed my life.
Just a few months after that providential encounter with a piece of paper in the hallway, I began an adventure that took me to Erbil, a city also known by its Kurdish name, Hewler, in northern Iraq.
In that first year, I discovered something I may never have realized any other way. Teaching for me was like swimming; it was fun, it was rewarding, and it challenged me in ways I found invigorating. In Kurdistan, I found part of who I am: a teacher.
One year turned to two, and then three and more. I got a job at the University of Kurdistan-Hewler, where I met wonderful colleagues, and encountered students who were always also my teachers. I was living a life that, ironically, made use of all the majors I had toured as an undergrad.
My job also allowed me to complete a graduate degree in humanities in 2013, and after that I was invited to design and teach courses in composition and literature. I look back on that year now as one of the highlights of my professional life.
Little did I know how dramatically it was all about to change.
The term “butterfly effect” was coined by Edward Lorenz as a metaphor to describe how little causes can result in profound consequences.
Perhaps no one can trace the minuscule chain of little causes that eventually led to the emboldening of Abu Bakr Al Baghdadi and his forces to seize Mosul and Tikrit in June 2014, a move that unleashed a raging storm of hellish atrocity.
The winds of that storm uprooted millions and stirred a migration of people unlike anything seen since World War II.
It also led to a very difficult decision for me to return home.
To start over.
This is a little window into part of the journey that led me to Penn State, the Program in Writing and Rhetoric, and to 202D. It is the story of a moment as inconsequential as the flutter of butterfly wings, and the storm that has led me to meet you, and you to meet me.
I often think about what advice I might give if I could go back and speak to my senior-in-college self. If I could, I would want to give a bit of comfort and say, "Hey, chill out. Stop worrying so much. Everything will work out fine."
A neighbor recently reminded me that part of growing into adulthood is learning to come to terms with uncertainty. Either we learn to do that in the transitions, or we don't learn it at all.
I hope this story would give a little hope to those of you who may be in that last semester of the grand college experience. If you're feeling paralyzed by the great unknown coming in May, welcome to Uncertainty 401. It's a hard course to pass, and it's also one of the most important.
From an uncertainty alum: chill out and stop worrying so much. But also, stay steady and alert. Be prepared to encounter all manner of opportunities, even in moments as seemingly insignificant as the flutter of butterfly wings.