October: Confessions of a Blog Actress
Hola, mis lectoras y lectores leales! It’s me, your favorite casual blog writer, Delia! I know what you’re all thinking: Delia, where have you been? You must have been super busy! Well—kind of—but it’s complicated. You see, I’ve actually had lots of free time, but over the past four weeks, I’ve tried to delegate it to various endeavors. Because while, of course, I could be using that time to write, I need actual content to write about. That, and I’ve gone on a few travel adventures the past few weekends—to Lehigh University and Baltimore.
Before diving right into it, I should mention the highlighted track under the title: the intro to Taylor Swift’s new song Eldest Daughter. In my humble opinion—as I guess somewhat of a Swifty, but not the type who makes it their entire personality (I definitely wasn’t at the Eras Tour, but I was listening to the new album the day it dropped)—I’m highlighting this track for three reasons.
One: the new TS album was fantastic and had perfect timing with midterm week. There’s nothing like grinding out papers or studying with twelve new songs on repeat.
Two: I quoted it in my sociology midterm essay, titled Confession of a Blog Actress, and it matches the title and theme of today’s piece.
Three: it’s just a great message that I think we should take some time to reflect on.
In honor of the new album, please enjoy these pictures from somewhere around age eleven or twelve—Delia in her awkward tween glory—when my best friend at the time did my makeup “in the style of Taylor Swift.” She was a big Swifty, the kind who went to the Reputation Tour and had the CD to prove it. I remember the exact moment that sealed the memory: we were sitting on a bus coming back from a ski trip up to Mt. Snow. The bus smelled faintly of damp mittens; outside, the snow was still falling in half-hearted clumps against the window, and the whole world felt wrapped in that quiet post-adventure haze only a long bus ride can hold.
Her mom had bought me my first-ever Sprite at the rest stop—because I wasn’t allowed to have soda at home—and I remember staring at the tiny silver bubbles fizzing like they were something magical. The bus had stopped at a Burger King, its fluorescent lights spilling onto the snow, and my friend turned to me with the seriousness of someone sharing a secret:
“Delia, you HAVE to try this.”
Later on the bus, she pulled out her flip phone—its scratched gray plastic glowing faintly in the dark—and handed me one of her cheap wired earbuds. The music was a little distorted, but there it was: Out of the Woods, followed by All You Had to Do Was Stay. The bus was dark except for the occasional flash of headlights streaking across our faces, and we sat there, half-asleep and sugar-high, pretending we were in a music video.
And while, sure, I kind of liked Taylor Swift before, it was there—somewhere between the hum of the highway and the hiss of carbonation—that I started to more seriously follow her work. Mostly for my friend, but also because it felt like growing up sounded like that: a little blurry, a little sad, but kind of electric.
So anyway, on one of our random makeover days that summer, we decided to “do Taylor Swift,” which to us at the time meant a bold red lip and a black cat eye. We had absolutely no idea what we were doing—but it didn’t matter. We were just two girls trying to paint ourselves into the kind of world Taylor sang about.
So, without further ado, please enjoy this multilayered, Easter-egg-filled blog.
“Look What You Made Me Do”
I wake to what Spotify calls 2010 Pop Hits, in my dark, humid dorm room. I switch on the lamp by my bed and roll—yes, quite literally roll—out of bed. I throw on a swimsuit, my University of Salamanca sweatshirt, and some old gym shorts, grab my pre-packed backpack and red folder (which hold the secrets of the next hour), and step out into the pitch black.
With only a few dorm windows glowing faintly in the distance, I walk the two minutes down the hill and open the door to bright—the kind of bright that quite literally burns your eyes. Still half-asleep, I make my way through the maze of the gym, admiring the girl who’s there every morning doing work on her computer while simultaneously walking on the treadmill, and the gym bros lifting weights that probably weigh more than my entire body.
Eventually, I find the stairwell, which reveals a lot about the “newly renovated” gym—the layers of history, the bones beneath the shiny surface. While the outside might have been redone, at its core it’s still the same old, confusing gym. I make my way down three flights and am greeted by the warmth—no, sauna-like heat—of the old pool, rivaling the temperature and humidity of my dorm room.
I take out my papers from the red folder, give them a quick read, question why I was feeling so motivated on Monday when I wrote up the week’s plans, and attempt to greet the other athletes with a signature “good morning” that masks my level of tiredness. We grab the gear and knock out our swim workout—usually about an hour, if I’ve written the plan long enough.
The terrible thing is that after practice, I always feel so great. Like, wow, that was such a great idea, Delia. It really tricks me into coming back. Well, I mean, as the president I’m obligated to go to every practice, but at least I feel a little better about it afterward.
Being the president—and, as of right now, really the only person running admin—is an interesting position. I’ve played the captain role so many times at this point that I’m familiar with it; it’s not too challenging. Yet at the same time, I somehow feel like I’m doing a terrible job. One practice, nine people show up. The next, one person. Perhaps swimming at 6:30 a.m. has something to do with it, but according to my diligent survey/demographic study of the club, everyone was actually pro that time. It falls within the “free time slot.” Like, no one has anything else to do or any other clubs at 6:30 in the morning. It’s kind of like inventing more time for yourself if you just get up a little earlier—but it requires the discipline to actually do it… something my team lacks.
There really isn’t another option, at least for swimming, because I can’t rent out the pool. Technically, our club is illegally running because it’s not officially recognized… yet. Despite what the website says, the club approval board only accepts eight people every month to go to the special meeting and get approved. Somehow, I didn’t make it into the eight until November. So here we are: week five of practice. Shhh—don’t tell anyone. Though, with basically five people showing up, I wouldn’t even call it a “club” or “team.” Maybe “gathering” or “group” would be more appropriate.
I’m not even really sure what to do. I know people are busy, and I’ve actively tried to find the “perfect practice time” when most people are free—but just because someone’s free doesn’t mean they’re going to come. Still, I’ve enjoyed “coming out of retirement” and getting back in the (bike) saddle and in the water. Have I enjoyed going literally 10 mph on said bike? Maybe not. But at least it’s with other people. And the weather has been fantastic lately. I’m excited to finally see the leaves turn.
So who knows—maybe I’m doing a poor job leading my club. But honestly? I have no idea what else to do.
After hitting up the mandatory shower (because no one likes sitting next to the chlorine-scented kid in class), I walk back up to my dorm and instantly regret the sweatshirt I’m wearing. I immediately have to switch outfits. I’m hypothesizing—and somewhat testing—that my dorm has a heat problem. Like, the room is actually hotter than the hallway. The room has a window and a fan; the hallway does not.
What’s causing this? Well, my room lives right above the kitchen and laundry room, next to the men’s bathroom, and directly under the women’s bathroom. So, lots of heat-producing mediums—water, dryer air, stove heat—all surrounding my room. I even have hot spots on the floor and walls. Great for the winter (heated floors, yay!), but perhaps not so great when it’s 80 degrees outside in October and probably close to 100 in my room.
I’ve also been coexisting with a number of bugs, which I recently learned are silverfish. I should probably buy a trap for them, but I’ve kind of let them exist—as long as they stay away from me. They like to hang out near my box of dirty dishes, so as long as they stick to their corner and don’t invade my space, it’s fine. It’s kind of problematic, though, because as I wrote last time, I’m always napping—either by choice or just passing out on the floor on my fluffy rug. That was before I knew about the silverfish, but now I’m a little more careful about where I nap.
After shedding the sweatshirt and putting on something cooler, it’s coffee time! Aka the BEST part of the day. There’s nothing like a fresh espresso with milk and ice after a swim. It feels more deserved than a normal morning coffee. I love making my coffee in my fancy espresso machine that I’m literally always talking about. I feel like most of my sentences these days start with something along the lines of: “When I was in Spain…” or “I have an espresso machine in my dorm…”
In the spectrum of espresso machines, mine isn’t even that fancy. It just does everything it needs to do—and it grinds the beans. But for me, someone who used to buy coffee a few times a week, I’ve saved a lot of money. Especially considering that a coffee from Small World is basically six dollars—and it’s not even as good as the coffee I make.
I was in for a shocking surprise when I went for my first Small World latte of the year a few weeks ago—it was disgusting. Like, IDK what they did to it, but it was a coffee hate crime. No joke. Not that my coffee is perfect—my machine has its good days and bad. Sometimes the coffee just isn’t that good; other days, it’s amazing. No idea why. But the art of espresso is complicated. Through my “in-depth research” (a few YouTube videos and reading the manual), I’ve learned that temperature, grind size, and a few other factors matter a lot. Basically, a bunch of things I can’t control.
But you know it’s going to be a good day after a swim—and a really good coffee.
“Welcome to (the humanities)”
My first class of the day (in this imaginary Tuesday I’m walking you through) starts at 9. So, post-swim, I have a good chunk of time to just enjoy my coffee and life. Sometimes that means reading a good journal article (or, let’s be honest, sometimes a bad one), flipping through part of my extremely large collection of books (bordering on library status), or—as I like to call it—my “warm welcome to the humanities.” More often than not, though, it’s catching up on the news or the so many emails waiting for me.
I call it my warm welcome to the humanities because it seems that these days, all I do is read. Okay, maybe that sentence didn’t make it sound that exciting—how can I word this? Let’s go with: I GET to read a lot these days. Usually something interesting, although occasionally something… odd or boring, like The Importance of Writing Thank You Notes or thirty pages of “cognitive empathy” that could be summarized in a single sentence. Those are the worst—the ones that go on and on when the main point is one line.
Yes, I hear the irony through the screen—I’m notorious for going on and on and on (sorry about that, by the way). But there’s a difference between a blog and a serious academic paper. And if you haven’t noticed, there is nothing academic about this. I don’t use words like “leveraging,” which—if you wander into the AskAcademia Reddit—you’ll find an extremely long rant of various professors expressing their disdain for that word. Good thing I’m not leveraging my writing abilities to write this blog… or am I?
It’s not that I’m anti–thank you notes or anti-empathy; in fact, I’d argue I’m the complete opposite. I’ve literally won awards for my level of thank you notes—which, by the way, are usually accompanied by tears. So if you’ve had the pleasure of receiving a Delia thank you note or letter, you’re very lucky.
That said, while I find it important to thank the people who have genuinely helped me, I have a problem with the overuse of thank you notes. It’s one thing if they’re sincere; it’s another if you’re sending out a hundred of them, or—as I often was in high school—mandated to write them for strangers.
For example, last year I was considering writing a thank you note to a professor, but I wasn’t sure if that was even a thing in the university world. One by one, my friends and family asked me, “Well, what are you trying to get out of it? Like, what do you want?” And I was just… genuinely confused. I guess that summarizes the status of thank you notes in 2025: there must always be some exchange.
My motive for thank yous has always been the same. I’m always the one doing the group projects and putting everyone else’s name on it, or doing all the behind-the-scenes work at my job and never being recognized for it. So I think if someone has genuinely helped you or done something for you, you should tell them—because it really means a lot. Though perhaps it means less these days, when people are both chronically over– and under–thanked. Because half-hearted thank yous are terrible. You can’t mandate people to be sincere.
“Out of the Woods (and Into the IRB Portal)”
But there have been a number of interesting readings I’ve done—like, a stack of them I’ve collected for my independent research project that I’m doing for absolutely no reason. I guess I could call it practice for my junior paper next year… or just something fun to fill my free time. Either way, I’m doing it—and I like it. Just in the past month, I’ve read (or skimmed, if we’re being honest) quite a few journals and books and have attempted to organize them using various methods.
It’s interesting, because over the past few weeks I’ve talked with different faculty members about research, and they all seem to have their own take on it. Some say, “You kind of just have to do it.” Others are like, “There could be a two-semester class on this.” (To which my follow-up question was, then why isn’t there a two-semester class on this?) Others fall somewhere in the middle, saying you have to find a system that works for you—and ask other people about theirs.
This is kind of how the whole life advice thing goes at Princeton. Number one, everyone is terribly afraid to offer any—probably because it might end up in a blog contradicting someone else’s advice. And number two, the advice itself is often very contradictory. But to me, some advising is better than none, because I’ve definitely been on the other side of, “I’m just not going to offer any advice—do whatever you want.” Ummm, aren’t you my advisor?
So yeah, people of Princeton, you have my informed consent to offer your weirdest advice. Please do advise. I’m not promising I’ll take it—and it might end up on my blog, anonymized (I’m not that mean)—but I want to hear it, because it’s proof that there’s no single right way to do life. Or, as one high school physics teacher at a small northeastern boarding school once said, “There’s more than one way to pluck a chicken.” What? I said it would be anonymous.
And that’s genuinely something I miss about those days at my small northeastern boarding school—everyone gave advice. The students were mandated to through their chapel talks, and the staff were always open to it as well. Did I always take that advice? Well, I probably wouldn’t be at Princeton if I did—but that’s part of life: learning what to take and what to leave. Worst case, you get some funny quotes and stories to post on a blog two years later. Or you end up having a long chat with ChatGPT about your life ten years from now, which only then makes you realize the complexities of the next decade.
Because in ten years, when I’m almost two months away from 30, I’ll (theoretically) be two years out of a PhD. Would I be married? Have a house? Kids? What about my career? Where even am I in the world? Am I—as my dad imagines—living on the side of the road with no money? Or am I—as ChatGPT predicts—living in a Madrid apartment with a broken but beloved mug?
It just seems like the next ten years are so crucial to setting up a life, and I have absolutely no idea what they’ll look like. It’s even crazier when I think about people my age getting married, buying houses, having kids… and here I am just trying to figure out what I’m doing this summer, because apparently I should’ve already applied to six internships like my brother. We’ll circle back to this later, but I don’t want to stray too far from finishing the research update.
Delia: What does my life look like in 10 years?
Chat:
☀️ Morning
You wake up in a sunlit apartment in Madrid (yes, you finally did it—you got your Spain dream). There’s a stack of papers on your kitchen table, but not problem sets—your grad students’ drafts on sociolinguistics and inclusive language. You sip café con leche from your chipped but beloved mug, skimming an article while a notification pings: your blog post on “Why Grammar is Political, Not Pedantic” just got featured in El País.
📚 Midday
You bike to your university office (still rocking your triathlon legs). Your office is half books, half plants, and has a whiteboard full of research doodles connecting the RAE, TikTok slang, and feminist pedagogy. You meet with a group of undergrads who are buzzing about your seminar on “Language, Power, and Protest.” You throw them a curveball discussion question: “What happens when institutions say language is broken, but people use it anyway?” They love you for making them think.
🌍 Afternoon
Zoom call with a U.S. publisher—you’re editing your third book, blending academic research with your signature mix of humor and fire. After, you hop on another call, this time with an NGO in Latin America who wants your input on curriculum design that validates indigenous languages. You pinch yourself: this is the kind of stuff you dreamed about back in Princeton.
🏃 Evening
Quick run along the river with friends from your triathlon circle. No racing pressure now—just joy in moving. You all laugh about how the 20-year-olds think they discovered long-distance running.
🌙 Night
Dinner is tapas with friends, where the conversation swerves from politics to poetry to who has the best tortilla recipe. On your walk home through winding streets, you pause—this is exactly the mix of academia, activism, humor, and Spain that 2025-you was clawing toward.
Anyway, back to the research stuff: I’ve found myself using AudioNotes, an interestingly organized online web thingy, a fancy $25 notebook, and numerous photos of whiteboards. I think some combo of all of them is the right answer—but what exactly that ratio is, I have no idea. And I definitely know that my “organized” online web thingy is not, in fact, organized. At least not in the way I want it to be.
The good news is that I basically have all the information I need to write this essay/paper/article thingy. I just kind of haven’t done that yet. I mean, I have good reasoning:
- I have a few more books I need to skim through to nail down my methods section.
- I got busy with midterm week.
- I know the best version of this paper is in my head.
It comes down to the classic “are you walking the dog or is the dog walking you” argument. The second the words hit the page, it seems like the latter—the words are writing the paper instead of me. I have no idea if that makes any sense, but I guess what I’m trying to say is that sometimes the structure of writing dictates where it goes, and there are certain formalities that drive a paper rather than the ideas themselves.
I have, however, learned a number of interesting—I guess I’ll call them “activities”—to combat this. One of my classes this semester requires us to do all our writing on paper, along with a pre-writing exercise session involving weird hand stretches. I can’t say I’ll ever be doing a pre-writing exercise session (I find a walk to be much more useful), but the idea of writing on paper has been helpful. There are no red or blue squiggly lines to distract you. You don’t need to find the bullet-point button when you want bullets, and you can draw arrows and write in the margins. There’s a level of naturalness to it—it feels more authentic, like what’s actually in your brain rather than what the computer wants to organize for you.
There is a danger, however: the whiteboard problem. If you get too creative with the format, you’ll go way off-topic and end up with a mess. Or a bunch of audio files you can’t seem to organize that are way too long and make zero sense. Or a list of notes for your blog that are catchy titles—but sometimes make zero sense as well.
All of this is to say that reading is the easiest part. It’s what you do with that reading, and how you organize it, that makes or breaks your paper. So—might as well just never write it, right? No.
It’s a balancing act where I want to fail fast and get a draft done. One that’s terrible, but not absolutely terrible. It needs to be a workable draft where I can fix things, add stuff, take stuff out, while keeping the main ideas intact. Because if it were up to me, I’d never write the paper—or ever turn it in.
I remember when I first took a stab at writing this paper last spring, I never wanted to turn it in because I knew it wasn’t ready yet. But at the same time, I had three other finals to work on, and the small changes I was going to make weren’t going to help me much. It was more of a “giving up” than an “I’m done” moment. But I think that’s how all papers go. Sure, I have some good moments, but they can always be improved.
Take my book—if I’d never published it, it never would have been published, because looking at the writing now, it’s so cringy I don’t even know.
And that’s my research summary. By the next time you hear from me, I will have a draft done. Or at least, I’m writing and publishing this to try and keep myself accountable—to have a draft done, or at least make some significant writing headway.
You would think that a research seminar would teach me how to navigate these complicated waters, yet my first class on this imaginary Tuesday does not do that. What it has shown me, however, is something I’ve titled in my Notes app: Professors After Dark: The New Hit Netflix Series.
Yes, there are secrets behind the ivy curtains—bureaucracy, stolen work by doctoral thesis advisors (ask me how I know about that one), heated venting after 7 p.m. with chicken sandwiches—and don’t even get me started on the IRB. Or as titled in my Notes app:
Six Hours of IRB, OHRPO, AE, COI, FWA, SAE, PHI, DoED! HAISTRT (How Am I Supposed To Remember This?)
Yeah, there was a six-hour training that I may or may not have also crocheted a hat during. Yay multitasking!
But seriously, the whole bureaucracy of research is such a big drawback. Like, do we really need to be worrying about my tiny little practice study interviewing six people? Nope, probably not. Am I one hundred percent sure the review board will send my application back? Yes! And that’s after completely changing the scope of my proposal because my PI told me kids are too complicated.
Because somehow, in the world of government and bureaucracy, there’s a major difference between a 17-year-old and an 18-year-old. Don’t ask me what it is—I don’t know.
That and the number of times I’ve had to write “THIS PROJECT POSES MINIMAL RISK TO THE SUBJECTS.” Not my choice of words—we had very explicit instructions on what to write. But wouldn’t everyone write that on their application? So how exactly does one deem something poses minimal risk?
Is there really a difference between having a normal conversation with a 17-year-old as a regular person vs. making that conversation part of a study? Arguably, if I’m doing it right (with all my fun readings about cognitive empathy and how to interview someone), no—it would be pretty normal. It’s not like I’m asking a bunch of 17-year-olds to jump out of a moving plane. It’s literally just stuff about their day-to-day.
Mastermind-So what are you actually researching?
Well, I’m kind of keeping it top secret. Okay, not really—but in case I ever need to do something with the results and anonymize everything, I ethically can’t get into too many details on here. (Though somehow it’s perfectly fine to get into the details in class and in private conversations.) So if you really want to know, just ask.
And in case the IRB is reading this—yes, this would be an IRB-approved answer, complete with all the confidentiality clauses in my application.
Remind me to never do a project with real humans ever again.
Though… I’ve already been contemplating the next one.
You see, the main issue was that for this research seminar, I needed to have easy access to the population I wanted to study. And the population I wanted to study was not exactly accessible—at least not for me, unlike one of the other students in my class who’s working with some professor and institute, complete with a translator and special approval for international work.
So there went my super cool project idea, because I am not Spanish, I don’t know enough people to network my way through Spain, my Spanish would not be considered good enough to serve as a translator, and—shocker—I do not have a translator. So let’s just say my current research population is a lot closer to home.
The main frustrating part of all this is that I can’t study a population too different from me, because I actually need participants and need to speak their language. But there are also a lot of ethical considerations if you study a group you’re part of. Which I’m now running into, since my research professor suggested this be an autoethnographic project—something I’m also not looking to do.
So, to answer the question my class title asks: Is talk cheap?
Right now, it’s kind of feeling like it.
Maybe not the actual talking itself—I’ve definitely had some great conversations, especially in Spain, that helped contextualize cultural stuff and whatnot—but when it comes to working within the leash of the IRB and all its regulations, perhaps the talk does become cheap. Or at least, very different from a genuine conversation.
But don’t worry—you’re not “manipulating your subjects,” or the more correct term, conversation partners. You’re just being… strategic.
I mean, I’ve thought about actually pursuing this other project idea, but doing it in Spain. Because while I thought I was done with Spain after this past summer, I’ve kind of realized over the past few weeks that I want to go back. I think it would be useful to return—maybe this time for JP research, or a personal project, or an internship. Though I definitely don’t want to be back in Barcelona hearing about art again.
My issues come down to the following:
- All the interesting internships are in Barcelona, and I kind of don’t want to live there again.
- If I were to pursue a project in Spain, I don’t think I could do it alone. I don’t have the connections—or, quite frankly, the personal willpower—to just walk up to people on the street.
- Fingers crossed, I’m headed to Oxford next fall, and I need money to do so. Because of course, while I’m there, I’ll want to travel to London, drink tea, etc. So I kind of need to make some income, which means going to Spain in the summer probably isn’t the best option.
But at the same time, my only free housing opportunities are in rural, boring Connecticut—where there are no internships or jobs besides lifeguarding or swim instructing. And I made a promise to myself that once I started at Princeton, I was done with the hot sun, lifeguarding, and corralling kids to water. Emphasis on the “boring,” because there is actually nothing to do there. Same goes for back at Princeton.
So here I am, mid-October, with no prospects and no good solution.
Perhaps I need some advising.
“Speak Now (or Forever Lose Your Spanish)”
After my research seminar—which is about as organized as this blog, no joke, you never know what you’re walking into (and I mean that in a good way)—I walk up the hill to my Spanish class. It’s interesting. Perhaps a little less interesting lately because it feels repetitive, mostly due to some of my other research that centers around, ironically, the repetitive nature of the class. But occasionally, I get some good primary documents or helpful contextualization.
One aspect I’m not enjoying, however, is that somehow I’ve become the spokesperson for Spain. Which I sort of understand, because everyone else in the class is either from Latin America, a non-native speaker who sounds like they’re from Latin America, or the instructor—who is also from Latin America. But I am not from Spain. Yes, I know a lot about it, and yes, you’ll usually catch me saying vosotros this, vosotros that, though I try to avoid it in this class because I feel VERY judged.
Por ejemplo, we were talking about accents and the variation across Latin America and Spain, and everyone looked at me as my professor asked (in Spanish, obviously) how I would describe my accent. But once again, I’m not a native speaker, and my accent usually depends on who I’m talking to—or what word it is. Initially, I learned Spanish from teachers who, if we’re simplifying to Spain vs. Latin America, leaned more Latin American. Though all my teachers were adamant we needed to know vosotros. Yet, my last two years of high school and first year of college—arguably when I learned and heard the most Spanish—were rooted in Spain. So it really depends on the word. You never know what you’re going to get; it’s like 50/50.
It also depends on who I’m speaking with. I can tell you that down in Andalucía, while I didn’t fully lose my s’s, they definitely got softer, and gracias quickly became gracia. Don’t worry—it’s back to gracias now, thanks to re-assimilation.
It’s kind of sad, though, because I feel like I’m losing my Spanish, which is ironic considering I’m in a Spanish class. I assumed that by taking one, I’d automatically maintain it—but when you’re not using it every day, it sort of disappears. Even in class, I don’t use it much, except to tell everyone I have nothing to add when our professor attempts to explain Spain’s autonomous communities.
Just another reason to go back to Spain, I guess. I miss the casual rhythm of living in Spanish—where everything I said didn’t have to be something profound for a class full of “eager scholars” or my professor, who loves to call on me when I am definitely not raising my hand (and sometimes even when I am). She always seems a little disappointed after I speak—either because I didn’t say what she wanted, or because I butchered something in Spanish. I can’t even tell at this point.
But I also feel bad because when I’m called upon as this “Spain expert,” every sentence seems to start with “Cuando estaba en España…” which feels weird considering half the class actually lives in or has parents from Latin America. My three months abroad are nothing in comparison. And if I think I sound annoying, I can only imagine how they feel. But what else can I say? It’s not like I can begin with “Cuando estaba en el noreste de Connecticut, donde no hay gente que habla español…”
And this is nothing against my professor—she’s super nice. So, if for some reason this ends up on her computer screen, please know this is not a critique of her at all. It’s definitely a me thing. A me-being-upset-that-I’m-losing-my-Spanish thing. A me-having-only-three-months-of-life-experience-to-cite thing. A me-without-a-consistent-accent thing. I know I’m critical, and I often have to remind myself (or, more accurately, my ESL class reminds me) that my Spanish actually isn’t that bad.
“Blank Space (but Make It ESL)”
ESL, on the other hand, has been interesting. I lowkey love it—it’s honestly one of the highlights of my week. I teach once a week for two hours, and it’s intense. It’s this weird combo of the organization giving us stuff to teach and us teachers kind of… making it up as we go. And yes, that’s the correct word: making it up.
I have an ESL grammar book that someone donated, but truthfully, I have no idea what I’m doing. There has to be some sort of progression, right? You don’t just throw a bunch of young adults out there and say, “Hey, teach English,” right? Because it really feels like that.
The thing is—I don’t know English like I know Spanish. I can’t list all the irregular verbs. I don’t know all the conjugation rules or tenses. And while, thanks to linguistics, I can tell you why “Wednesday” and “February” are spelled so weirdly, I have no idea why one kid is a child but two are children and not childs.
And don’t even get me started on my accent. It’s definitely not “correct,” at least according to the phonetic transcriptions we did in class. But it affects my ESL students—or, really, student, since only one has shown up for the last three weeks.
Like, how do you say the word aunt? Because apparently, I’m saying it wrong. That, and my grammar—especially when I get lazy at home—is all over the place.
As someone deeply invested in the lands of linguistics, sociolinguistics, and sociology, I know there are better ways to do this. Maybe not one perfect way, but definitely better ways than whatever it is I’m doing. I have no clue how much my student actually understands—though it seems like they do—and I know they like my co-tutor better because she speaks Spanish to them more often. I, in my stubbornly idealistic way, always start in English or use a picture. And according to a book I checked out from Firestone a few weeks ago, the teacher is the number-one reason adult ESL students quit. Which means my teaching might actually matter… for better or worse.
At the same time, I can’t help but feel a little used. On day one, I learned that students pay a hundred dollars to be part of the program. I’m not paid at all—I thought I was volunteering to help the community. But apparently not. I can’t help but wonder if the reason I only have one student left is because of that cost. I wanted to teach English because I genuinely wanted to help out, and while I can’t stop ICE raids or systemic inequality, I figured this was at least something small I could do. But the whole thing feels a little off.
I still remember that first day, showing up in my Universidad de Salamanca sweatshirt to teach English in this slightly creepy church building covered in crosses. I felt… colonial. Like we were reenacting my Spanish class, but in reverse—a low-budget 21st-century rendition. Maybe I wasn’t enslaving anyone, but the historical echoes were loud, and the posters of Jesus watching me try to teach “basic greetings” didn’t exactly help.
And then there’s the lack of ethernet cable. I’m sorry, but I cannot teach without projecting the mandatory slideshow. My laptop—like every modern laptop—only has USB-C ports. I’m not buying an adapter with my own money when I’m not being paid, especially when someone in this chain clearly is.
Still, I’ve done my best to add a little Delia spin to things. I research grammar on my own. I once designed a lesson on parent-teacher conferences—complete with mock conferences—so one of my students (who has a daughter starting school) could practice. She never showed up. I’ve made readings, listening exercises, writing prompts, vocab lists (since the slides tend to forget those). But I still have no idea what I’m doing. Is it really effective to dump 50 new vocab words on someone in one class? Probably not. But what else can I do? It’s two hours, once a week, with a new topic every session. You just have to cram it all in.
And don’t even get me started on the typos. The Spanish on the slides is atrocious—like, zero agreement between nouns and adjectives on slide one. And it only gets worse. I don’t know how my co-tutor, a native Spanish speaker, didn’t notice, but between the two of us, we make one complete native English-Spanish speaker.
Anyway, I could talk about ESL forever (and frequently do), but to summarize: I’m learning a lot, having fun, and really enjoying getting to know my students. I just wish I could do it better—with either total creative freedom or actual structure.
That basically walks you through a typical Tuesday for me, minus lunch at two, dinner at nine, and the mandatory nap in between. I know, so Spanish of me—but even when I resist, the nap always wins. On the one day I have class in the afternoon, I spend the three-hour seminar spinning in my rolly chair like a five-year-old trying to stay awake. I get there early to claim that chair, too. I’m sure it annoys everyone else, but as long as I have the right chapter open and did the homework, I’d say it balances out.
“The Life of a Showgirl”
Now I could definitely go on for pages about the past month, but instead, I’ll leave you with some slogans from the Notes app. Some have context. Others absolutely don’t. Please enjoy.
- They want religion? Fine. Let’s put the Pope on for the halftime show.
- Teaching a language is mediation between cultures.
- Not a single practice midterm this year. Just flashcards, study guides, a few problems — and somehow a 97 average across all my exams. (Work smarter, not traumatized.)
- Never thought I’d be sitting in Junbi, writing a critical analysis of magazine layouts and Instagram posts from “a Northeastern boarding school.”
- Why do I have to go to soc precept???????? Ughhhhhhh.
- Professors After Dark: the new hit Netflix show. (Already pitched it.)
- Life lesson: never wear a soccer jersey unless you’re prepared to discuss said jersey in every elevator and with every professor you meet. And I know absolutely nothing about the team.
- Academic drama: someone stole an idea, published a book, and—the advisor knew.
- They canceled the photo contest. Remember those gorgeous photos from Spain? Yeah. No awards for beauty this year. ☹
- How to learn Spanish (the Bad Bunny edition): Decide your goal. Want to sing Titi Me Preguntó or order coffee in Madrid? You don’t need “¿Cómo estás?” to survive a reggaetón lyric.
- SNL featuring Bad Bunny. I’m not even a fan, but he’s low-key killing it. Loved the line—something like, “I’m going to do whatever I want.” Iconic.
- He’s a US Citizen and Catholic! What more do you want?
- If I wanted to smuggle books out of Firestone, I could. Why is security so judgey? Every checkout comes with commentary: “You’re too young to study patriarchy.” Didn’t know that was a prerequisite.
- Dirty Matcha. My Baltimore era: visiting a friend, running a “slow” four-mile run that wasn’t, making a slightly tragic tortilla española (hard potatoes, overcooked egg—but shaped like one, which counts), exploring the city, and trying my first-ever matcha. It tasted like grass, but in a good way. Back at Princeton, I tried the infamous dirty matcha — espresso + matcha = unholy union. Verdict: disgusting. Lesson learned—coffee, matcha, and strawberries should never meet.
- ESL irony: mid-lesson on “how to write the date,” I realized I’d forgotten the American way. Phone set to Spain, laptop to the U.S.—complete identity crisis in timestamp form.
- Sunglasses and cockatoos. Guest lecturer from Dartmouth talking about a xylophone language. At the end, a student in neon yellow shades asks, dead serious, if cockatoos are affected by musical conversation because they “like to dance.”
- “Now I need to make some alcohol.” — My friend’s organic chemistry professor, mid-lab. I had to sit through that class (and a stats one where my friend fell asleep). I kicked her awake. The class was only thirty people.
- Teaching ESL in a church while wearing my Universidad de Salamanca sweatshirt. Crosses everywhere. Is this colonialism? Maybe.
- A spelling mistake… on the first slide… and the next… and the next…
- What is college? (Still under investigation.)
- The Humanities Welcome.
- “Why are you watching football in the shower?”
- Everyone’s always like, “Wow, Delia, you have all these secret interesting parts of your life.” And what, am I supposed to introduce myself like: Hi, I’m Delia. National triathlon title, bilingual, Princeton student, ex-tri-varsity athlete, gave a balcony speech, lived in Spain, write a blog, teach English, run a triathlon team, and drink too much coffee. What’s your name?
- Dining Hall Creations. (A saga.)
- Inspiration strikes in a public library, listening to a guy I don’t know talk about another guy I don’t know who makes plays I don’t know — and somehow it’s inspiring. What is my life?
- I told her I changed my major and she cried.
- I told her I changed my major and she told everyone.
- Performative men.
- I just keep running into these people.
- THE EMAILS.
- Si quieres hablar español y beber té tradicional de Japón con un menú en japonés: MTEA.
- “Are you fluent?”
- “So are you fluent?”
- “No, but are you fluent?”
- We invited a hippie to dinner.
- Legumbres.
- Tuna noodle casserole.
- “Where do you see yourself in ten years?” (No comment.)
- How to make a tortilla: a metaphor for life.
- The perfect drink — Gen Z thing or me thing?
- They’re charging for this?
- It’s still all about the Romans.
Maybe one day I’ll turn this into a poem—it’s giving high school English class vibes. Like, what does she mean, “It’s still all about the Romans”? And then some kid raises their hand with a wild theory, and somehow they’re right. Maybe that’s what I intended all along.
Because, as Taylor Swift once said, “Maybe I’ve been afflicted by a terminal uniqueness.” And I did say this was a multilayered story. Maybe you just got the surface-level details and thought, what the heck is going on? Or maybe you caught a few hidden layers, the ones that slip between the lines when I’m not trying to be profound but accidentally am.
In the end, it all loops back to that sociology paper on dramaturgy. How does one manage all the audiences at once? How can I say everything I want to say and nothing at all?
This month wasn’t about a single headline moment, but about the fragments — the ones scribbled in the margins, half-formed and half-forgotten. The thoughts that make no sense until months later, when they suddenly do.
And maybe that’s the point. Maybe stories don’t end — they just pause long enough for you to take a breath before the next chapter begins.
So, I’ll stop here. Curtain down, lights low.
See you in the next act.
Hasta luego,
