I pass by this stand on the way to the gym.

For this, and many other things, I am thankful.

Laugh at the lemons

Ok, I confess: I cried today as I rolled up my winter clothes and packed them tightly into the suitcase, anticipating my departure in a little over a month. This year has been amazing, intense, difficult, and beautiful—all at once. Each aspect overwhelmed me, in the span of an instant, as I packed up the pieces of my Uruguayan life.

I’d like to think I’m beyond clichés, and that years of academic training have taught me to avoid them. However, my only consolation in that moment was the saying: when life gives you lemons, make lemonade.

They are words to live by.

Take my middle name, for example. It’s Millington. Yes, Millington. As you can imagine, having a name associated with a 1960s British porn star has made life a little more, well, interesting. And my pre-teen years? Call it Murphy’s Law or just bad luck, but I always seemed to find myself among bubbly girls with cute middle names like Mary and Michelle, Sarah and Clara. Occasionally there was an Elizabeth. From time to time, there was a Yvonne. I, on the other hand, was no more and no less than Rebbecca MILLINGTON Pittenger. Count ‘em up—that’s a nine-syllable name. It seemed to belong to someone older, stronger and more convicted, which I guess could be true now. At the time, though, it felt like dead weight—worse than baby fat, glasses, and getting hit by a car combined—and only made heavier the pre-adolescent tonnage that was seventh grade.

But, with time, Millington became Millie, and with her, my fabulous alter-ego. Millington, who was once shy and awkward, became a sharp-tongued, Chanel suit-wearing force of a woman. Suddenly, life made designer lemonade.

Plus, if it weren´t for Millington, there would be less of Rebbecca (fewer letters anyway).

And since I’m in the mood to confess and this has been a year that, in many ways, has brought me full circle in life, I think it’s only appropriate to admit that, for me, multiple sclerosis is also shaped like a lemon. I found out ten years ago—the day I returned from Spain—that my mother has it. I didn’t tell anyone at first, and then when I did, only one of my closest friends. It was a secret, another Millington.

Eventually, though, just like my name, I got used to the idea and lightened up about my family’s new reality. We now poke fun at my mom’s occasional lapse in memory—her “blueberry” moments—and the thing that scares us most actually brings us closer together.

So, as I pack up my life, bringing this journey to its natural conclusion, I’m reminded that this decision represents more than just leaving or staying in Uruguay. It’s about an unspoken commitment I made to be an active member of my family, the challenge I accepted years ago to start living up to my name--and, whenenver I can, to laugh as I make lemonade.

Today was one of those days when the Rio de la Plata better resembles an ocean than a river.

Conscientious observer

I become more convinced every single day that one of my roles in life—at least thus far—has been to observe the American zeitgeist from abroad.

No, really.

Exactly ten years ago I was a wide-eyed exchange student to Spain, where I used my limited, poorly-pronounced Spanish to explain concepts I was barely familiar with in English: impeachment, perjury, and dare I say, fellatio. I was in Chile in 2003, when the War in Iraq began. My Spanish was far better by that point, but since my outlook differed so radically from my hosts’, I became uncharacteristically tight-lipped. Now, for the third time in my life, I watched from distant shores as America redefined itself yet again.

I would be lying if I said I wasn’t nervous last Tuesday. But as the BBC commentators relaxed and announced Obama the winner early in the night, all I could do was smile and follow suit. As Virginia came out blue and then North Carolina, Hawaii and then California, I knew I could sleep well and wake to a new day in American politics.

And that’s exactly what I did. I got up early last Wednesday, breathing a little bit deeper—head held just a little bit higher. When I went to the store for some croissants and milk, the owner asked me what I thought: victory or tragedy? I just smiled and told him I was “Contenta. Más que contenta, de hecho: contentísima.”

I don’t know if all Uruguayans are as excited as I am about Obama’s victory. People are generally distrustful of politicians here, and some, like journalist Edwardo Galeano, are skeptical a single leader will be capable of dismantling and reassembling our malfunctioning political system. He writes: “¿Podrá cambiar el rumbo asesino de un modo de vida de pocos que se rifan el destino de todos? Me temo que no, pero ojalá que sí.”

What does seem to have people abuzz in Uruguay, where voting is compulsory and everyone seems to have an opinion regarding politics, is that Americans from all walks of life came out en masse (and with so much passion!) for this election. Like most people here and the world over, we were patient and determined as we stood in line for hours and mailed in absentee ballots, just to have our voice heard. Here they seem less concerned about race than the fact that Americans finally motioned for other important changes—in ideology, rhetoric, perspective—and defended the nation’s founding principles. In fact, one friend even told me that, although he resents “Yankee imperialism,” he finds his respect for democracy in America renewed.

I have to say I agree with him. I’m proud that people my age overcame their disenchantment with the voting process, and I’m proud that people my brother’s age made their first experience so meaningful. And as long as I’m away from home and far from the people I love the most—and all things familiar—I’m proud just to be a conscientious observer.

I hear America singing, the varied carols I hear: yes we can, yes we did, yes we will.

Standing on the shores of the Río de la Plata
I hear America singing.

I hear America singing from the edge of Grant Park to the hollers of Appalachia, from the low country delta to the peak of Katahdin.

I hear America singing the old hymns of democracy to updated melodies, renewing faith in the poetry of today, the possibility of tomorrow.

I hear America singing and the grassroots rustling under winds of change.

I hear America singing in the voice of the voiceless and tears of joy captured in song.

I hear America singing.

I hear America.