Nostalgia and Renewal

I am often very nostalgic. When I get into a particular mood, I like to listen to music from my teenage and young adult years. I enjoy flipping through old photos, and certain scents and flavors can transport me back to specific memories in the past. I am often reticent to change, and maybe the two are related, though I have begun to clarify to myself and others that I am not resistant toward change as much as I am resistant toward unwanted—or forced—change. I can embrace change and renewal when I am the architect of change that I think is necessary.

Earlier in the summer, my family and I took a vacation to Michigan City. We settled on the location after scrapping earlier considerations of driving to Canada for my daughter's first international (though not intercontinental) trip. The uncertainty of current events and economics were too much for our multicultural family, so we chose to stay close to home. We rented an Air BnB with a Mid-Century Modern flair, which represents a type of nostalgia, I suppose, even though I was not born in that era. 

As we began to gather supplies for our trip while shopping at a local big box store, I spotted a relic from my youth: a 2-pack of Fujifilm disposable cameras! I grabbed the box, even as my husband rolled his eyes, and I told my 8-year-old daughter Aila that she would have fun snapping photos like I did when I was young. I explained that she would not have the instant gratification of seeing the photos like when we use our camera phones. Instead, she would have to take chances when snapping the pictures and wait for the film to be developed.

Our vacation arrived. We drove to Michigan City, dismayed at the still-chilly temperatures lingering through spring, but we settled into our Air BnB and began exploring the area. We stopped by Washington Park Beach, and I took a couple of photos with one of the cameras, muscle memory feeling the buttons as I looked through the viewfinder. The camera felt exactly like I remembered.

Then Aila took over the camera. She loved the ease with which she could point and click, although she was still confused by the whole process of taking pictures and not seeing the results immediately. As we progressed through our vacation, Aila had the camera with her on the commuter rail to Chicago, at the Shedd Aquarium, the Art Institute, and every other stop. She filled up the first disposable camera and started on the second. She finished up the second camera after we arrived home and went to an Aviators baseball game.

Then, we took the cameras to be developed. We waited.

After two weeks, our photos were ready. The feel of the photos did not match what I remembered because our current technology could not adequately reproduce the previous film development process. The feel of the photo paper was different, more matte, definitely printed instead of the glossy turnouts I remembered. We also did not get the negatives with our stack of photos, and we were given flash drives that presumably had digital copies. We did not look at them yet because our devices do not have USB ports. Our photos were replicas of sorts, and although the output was just as unpredictable as before, there were obvious differences that impacted my sense of nostalgia.

Aila was somewhat disappointed, and so was I, though we were disappointed for different reasons. I think Aila was expecting a full set of amazing or funny photos. I was expecting the photos to be exactly like the ones I used to take. Despite the disappointment, we found several good photos from our trip, and these will be happy reminders of our vacation, those moments before our entire summer changed.

As we were driving home from our vacation, I received notification that I had been laid off from my job because the university ended all programs in diversity, equity, and inclusion. The news, though not entirely surprising, was devastating. It was a significant change and not one I chose or could control in any way. I was stressed by the uncertainty of it all. I wasn't sure how I would get through this experience personally or professionally.

Nearly two months have passed since our vacation and my job ending, and I am still not sure what the future brings. However, I have a better sense of what I want and need. I spent the last six weeks volunteering for the Purdue CDF Freedom School at First Church, a literacy program in which my daughter has participated for the last two summers. I had been serving as a parent advocate but transitioned to chair of the newly emerging executive board. I reached out to contacts about serving on the board. I assisted in identifying some potential funding sources to make the Freedom School sustainable. I also made weekly trips to Food Finders Food Bank to find fruit, veggies, and other items to supplement the meals at the literacy program. Because the program serves a large number of low-income families, it provides breakfast, lunch, and snacks for free. The Freedom School encountered some challenges in providing meals this year because previous community partners could not assist due to statewide and national budget cuts. I was able to play a small part in fulfilling the program's mission and helping with logistics.

This summer was a moment of renewal for me. It was an opportunity to reset. After I got over the shock of being laid off, I began the process of grieving the loss of my professional identity, my career path, and the relationships I have built with students and colleagues, many of whom also lost their jobs. I also got to work. At first, it was because the Freedom School needed someone to help, and I had the time. But the Freedom School sustained me as much as it supported Aila. It gave me a much-needed community, and it gave me perspective as I sifted through job postings and wrote cover letters.

So what does all this have to do with nostalgia and Chapel of the Good Shepherd? This summer was a time of renewal for our congregation as Rev. Dr. Hilary Cooke, our chaplain, took a much-needed sabbatical. As she embarked on a journey to places that would ground her and provide perspectives on the next stage of her professional life, we as parishioners were invited to consider what the next stage of Good Shepherd could look like. It's easy to hold onto nostalgia because what we have may be convenient or comfortable. Change is never easy, especially when it happens against our will. Yet, however it happens, change can be an opportunity. The biggest lesson for me is the necessity of community and how community can help drive positive change or support individuals in the midst of change.

I am blessed to have both the Good Shepherd and Freedom School communities in my life, and I am grateful for this summer's time for personal renewal, though I would have preferred circumstances to have played out differently. But I know myself well enough to know that sometimes I need a push to move in a different direction. Nostalgia is great, and years from now, I will think fondly about the Freedom School and this summer. I hope that  these will be happy memories among more soon-to-come happy memories instead of the kind of nostalgia that is limiting and stifling.

-Tammy