Recently, I stumbled upon a gift my mom gave me before going abroad: a pop up booklet containing 3D paper constructions of Berlin sights. I remember opening it a month or so before departing, and seeing all these important places in the city, without actually having any memories or experiences to connect them to. But looking at the booklet in retrospect, I was elated when I realized I had visited most of the places and come to love them. I was filled with an immense longing-- to go back, to wander around the twisting streets of Mitte again, to eat schnitzel more than three times a week (no shame), to ride the S-Bahn nach Westkreuz and hear the announcer say "Nächste Station: Alexanderplatz" (I weirdly loved hearing the automated recording say "Alexanderplatz," though I'm not sure why). In the five weeks we were in Germany, I really fell in love with Berlin. Coming back into the city from Bochum after the three day weekend, I was riding the IC train and as we approached the Hauptbahnhof, I felt like I was arriving back into the arms of a loved one. I was comforted by the bustle of the city, the ebb and flow of pedestrians and cars and trams and buses, and the cityscape in general: sitting along the Spree near Hackescher Markt and looking across the river at Museuminsel and seeing the Fernsehturm poke up through the tops of buildings. I miss Berlin. 
I had the chance to go to Prague with my German friend, Leonie, after the program ended. We were only there for a weekend, but it was the perfect amount of time to explore the main staples of the city. The weather was particularly hot and gross, so we decided to go to the Ice Pub-- part of Prague's largest nightclub that is made entirely of ice, and the only word I can use to describe the experience is "strange." But it was a fun, unique place to be and definitely worth the 200 Kč we spent to get in (only $8.25). As we walked around the streets of Prague after the Ice Pub, I asked Leonie if she believed in life-changing experiences. Or life-changing books, music albums, movies, anything that can so definitively change your life. She replied yes, but I'm still not so certain. Perhaps because I've never had a life-changing experience, but I feel like even though certain CDs and books can vividly remind me of a specific time period in my life, none of those items necessarily changed my life. And I hear many people say after returning from various trips abroad: "What a life-changing experience!" and I almost feel ashamed, because I don't think my times abroad have ever been life-changing. Should they have been? 
After talking with Leonie (and a random stranger who overheard our conversation and jumped in for a bit while we passed by), I realized that I view my life in more of a process: I change, I grow, but there are no events or experiences that mark my growth. I can't really say, "I am this way only because I experienced this;" I can't tangibly connect personality changes or character growth to one event, one book I read, one CD I listened to. This isn't to say that I view things in my life to be inconsequential-- of course they're not. I have had many memorable experiences and all of them matter. All of them collectively make up who I am and what I like and what I value, but none of them single-handedly changed my perspective on life. 
This is all to say that Berlin was not a life-changing experience for me. I arrived, I had fun, I made memories, I learned things, and I left. I don't feel different than when I left. I perhaps know more about certain subjects, particularly memory politics, Native American portrayal in Germany, memorialization, and immigration. But ultimately, I am not a changed person. I'm still me, but with the added bonus of adding another city to list of ones I feel a special affinity for. I often find myself saying, "When I was in Berlin, I..." and "I remember being in Berlin, and..." and I know that these experiences abroad have etched themselves in my bones and are itching for more to be written beside them. 
For Summer 2016, I am considering participating in the DAAD RISE program and conducting chemistry research somewhere in Germany. This opportunity was introduced to me only very recently, so plans might change, but I don't think I can pass up a chance to go back to Germany, even if not in Berlin. (Of course, constant trips to Berlin will be necessary any chance I get.) Whether I participate in this program or I find my way back to Europe down a different path, I'm excited to explore new parts of the country, maybe move my language skills beyond basic conversation knowledge, and finally return to the capital city-- reunited with the S75 nach Spandau and the U12 nach Warschauer Straße. Even though in my 5 weeks there I got to see and experience a lot of different things and places, there is so much in Berlin to come back to, new and familiar alike. For now, I'll be avidly following berlinstagram and reminiscing every time he posts a photo from a place I recognize. For now, I'll just think about the time I saw Michael Cera (??!!) at the flea market in Mauerpark, and the amazing niche museum I went to on typography in Berlin. I'll remember the way my hair whooshed back like a cape every time the subway arrived, and the way the city looked at night from the Oberbaumbrücke. I'll remember so I can look forward to going back.

This week in Jena focused on Karl May and his depictions of Native Americans that have been largely famous in Germany since the early 1900s. I have found this particular topic enlightening, since I had no idea that the Native American culture was appropriated or even acknowledged (albeit in a false/misrepresented way) outside of the U.S. I have been greatly disappointed in the way Native American history is taught in the American education system-- I hardly know anything about existing groups or their living conditions on reservations or their culture or their feelings towards their treatment in current American society. I feel like since I know so little, I couldn't really engage in critical discussions about Karl May's representations of Native Americans because, while I knew something was obviously off and wrong about his portrayals of the culture, I couldn't exactly put my finger on what and, most importantly, what would be the correct and respectful way to talk about and represent this population. Likewise, as a non-Native American, it is difficult for me to say with any authority what is the right way to represent Native Americans, and I wouldn't want to speak over or for anyone. 
However, I think these complications and struggles were part of the reason why Jena was so informative and interesting for me, especially when thinking about American national identity. I've heard a lot of "go back to where you came from!" comments aimed towards POC immigrants, and also a lot of comments in response-- often along the lines of "the entire non-Native American population are descendants of European immigrants, so go back where you came from." I think these narratives are reflective of a complication of what it means to be American. Thinking about Germany and their former jus sanguinis laws (only recently changed to jus soli), only people with German blood and ancestry could be officially recognized as citizens. If this were the case in the US, only Native Americans would be allowed to be citizens, and the majority of people currently living in the country would no longer be legal residents. In any case or situation, it is extremely difficult and frustrating to be told, legally, socially, or otherwise, that you do not belong-- that you are an "alien" or a "visitor." However, I don't really hear these terms used towards Native Americans-- like I mentioned, I don't really think there is much of a narrative surrounding this population in hegemonic society. Perhaps this is a subversive, unconscious way to ignore faults in American history (much like the Civil War was a "fight for state's rights" and not over slavery...). Either way, this ignorance serves as a way to alienate and invalidate the Native American populations, their wants and their needs. 
While over the past 5 weeks, I have learned that pinning down a definition for national identity is extremely difficult, as so many factors play into its formation and reformation. What makes a German a German and what makes an American an American is not entirely clear, and this fact is only clearer as I think more critically about my research project and post-war identity. However, I feel that it is easier to pin down what doesn't make a German a German, and same with Americans. It seems to be less complicated so complete "A German/American is not ____" rather than the same sentence in the affirmative. I don't think that anyone, including myself, would immediately think of a Native American as being "American" when asked to define a typical American national identity, even though, all things considered, Native Americans are more "American" than those with European heritage. And with sports teams and Halloween costumes that capitalize on the appropriation of their culture, it's easy to see how hegemonic structures are upheld 

German keyboards have the Y and Z keys switched but almost everything else is the same... also on the Humboldt computer, German nouns (cognates in English) are capitalized. And almost everything has a squiggly red line under it, since English is "incorrect." Also it takes me like 3 minutes and a bunch of squinting to figure out where punctuation is, since that's different too. (These parentheses and every single apostrophe are an adventure to find every time I need them.) So! As implied, I was able to get Internet access at the Grimm library at Humboldt and have my own nice library card, good for one month! It's nice being able to access the Internet again and not have to resort to my tiny phone screen for research or typing these blog posts. However, it is arguably not as nice to fall out of and procede to break a chair in the silent computer room. Grounds for deportation, I think. But onwards to more adventures made in Week 3 in Berlin!

This week was filled with really cool visits and explorations of the city-- a new goal of mine is to visit one new place or neighborhood everyday. I don't want to settle into a routine so much that I gain a sense of familiarity with Berlin, when obviously I haven't even grazed the tip of what this city has to show me. That being said, I am really enjoying beginning to gain my footing and be able to navigate the U- and S-Bahns with ease and, dare I say, prowess. Likewise, I've noticed that I'm able to generally know how to get around in Berlin's central areas, and know that if I go down this street, I'll get to Hackescher Markt, or if I go this way, I'll be at the Tiergarten. I really like the feeling of knowing where I'm going and being able to blend into the culture more and more. Even my German skills are showing improvement-- words I once knew trickle back in to my memory, triggered by a street sign or an advertisement, reminding me of my last German class 3 years ago. It's slowly dawning on me, however, that this coming week (Week 4) is my last week in Berlin. Only fleeting nights will be left, one before leaving for Jena, a second upon our return, and finally the night before I leave back to the States.  

Probably one of the most affecting things I did this week was visit the Memorial to the Murdered Jews of Europe. Before visiting, I was doing some research as this memorial is part of my project. I read an article that noted that while "Denkmal" is the word for a memorial, "Mahnmal" is used for this particular memorial. According to the article, this had a special meaning that translated to "warning memorial." I think this gives a really interesting insight into how Germany views their past and representations of their past-- building structures that signify to future generations a sense of shame and warning to never repeat the past. While perhaps slavery is the American equivalent I keep coming back to, I still think it's interesting that there are no "Mahnmals" for America-- no warning monuments about modern day racism. Perhaps this indicates a lack of shame and regret on our country's part, even if slavery happened a long time ago compared to the Holocaust. Even so, more recent U.S. war memorials don't give warnings for future wars, but instead revel in the American sense of pride and the symbolically obligatory, yet still heroic, actions of the men and women fighting for the country. Aren't all wars a source of shame, for the lives lost on all fronts? As I write this on the Fourth of July, remind me again what we're fighting for? Perhaps it's easy to be against war when there are no impending international conflicts and I can't understand the sentiments or emotions that are involved in such times, but overall I don't support or understand the point of war.

Back to the memorial-- I was very affected. The monument, huge slabs of concrete with no writing or informational plaques, grows slowly. Soon, the concrete towers over you and all but consumes you. The ground inclines and declines in little waves of hills (still not sure if this was the natural terrain). A lot is left up to personal interpretation, which I liked. While there was an information center, the memorial itself was very public and didn't have a set flow or path-- you could wander in out and around as you pleased, whereas other monuments generally have a logical path to follow, even visually if not typographically. As such, the entire monument depended on the visitor's previous knowledge of the history and context behind it, which makes for a more personal and emotional visit.

Though, the fact that there were people taking selfies and pictures atop the concrete structures doesn't sit right with me. What are the motivations for inserting yourself, smiling, into this memorial dedicated to the tragedy of the past? Another question to ponder over as I continue my research in the growing German heat.

(In related news! My computer is in the shop and ready for pickup on Monday. Here's hoping it holds up...)

I am writing this on my iPhone, because my laptop is currently non-functional. (So please excuse the lack of formatting and pictures; I will make an effort to come back and add those when I am able.) I had 4 parts replaced the week before I left for Germany, but alas, my Mac has failed on me again in the worst possible place and time. Surviving with just my phone for now will have to do until I get my computer fixed, much to my frustration. But! I'm in Berlin, the weather is finally starting to warm up and be sunny, I can do most things with my research without my laptop, and I'm with friends. Alles Gut.

In class this past week, I had a riveting discussion with a classmate as we talked about this week's reflection prompt: how have our experiences in Berlin thus far changed our perspective on German and Berlin identity? I'm not really sure I had a clear idea or guess of what a German identity was before I arrived, but I figured it would be marked similarly to an American identity, like "an American is someone who values freedom, pursuit of happiness, and equality." (Though one can argue that these things are not true in the current state of US society.) A German would be similar-- "a German is someone who...." But I'm finding that this identity is harder to pinpoint than I thought.

One of our peers had mentioned that no one in Germany would ever say that they are "German," but rather that they are "from Germany." I thought this was really interesting, because "I am American" is something that we say all the time without thought, even if we don't have a strong connection to the country. I think this realization complicates the question of what it means to be German, and to a further extent, a Berliner. I think this observation is especially obvious when thinking about the architecture and places in and around Berlin. Another thing we talked about in class is how Germany on the whole, we felt, was very good at facing and confronting their past. On the visit to the Sachsenhausen concentration camp, I noticed that while most things had been destroyed post-liberation, many sites were preserved and today the area serves as a memorial for the Holocaust. Places like this are everywhere-- not necessarily concentration camps, but preserved sites that remind the public of the past. On our tour of the Reichstag, for example, graffiti done by Soviet soldiers as they tried to overtake Berlin still remains a part of the architecture, maintained because it's a part of German history.

These thoughts are only really relevant for a person who has been engulfed in German history and culture for most of their life-- so someone who was born in Germany and/or has several generations of family from Germany. But another interesting topic brought up this week was immigration and migrants in Germany. I learned that it is terribly difficult to become a citizen of Germany due to legal navigations and harsh restrictions on living and working as an immigrant, and this brought up the question of migrant identity. When Rhissa, a former occupant of a refugee camp in Oranienplatz, came to speak to our class, he explained that Italy was "responsible" for him, since that's where he entered the continent after coming from Africa by boat. So he couldn't go back to his home country when he was forced from Germany, but instead was sent to Italy. His experience is not unique-- and this migrant identity is undoubtedly complicated. Where are you "from" when where you're from you cannot return to without much struggle and sacrifice? How can you see yourself fitting into a society that actively, legally, socially, economically, rejects you? These are difficult topics to think about, but it's an interesting lens to think through when we've really only focused on the "typical" German identity, and not the migrant identity.

I can't help but make connections to American history when I think about identity formation. In my preliminary research for my proposal, I found that the only slavery memorial (besides the one erected in New York in March of this year) in America is a statue of a standing white man leading a crawling black man to freedom. How telling of how our society feels about slavery and our past-- we are not ashamed. We do not acknowledge the horrors done at the hands of white people, only the good things we eventually did, even if these good deeds were often done disingenuously. The confederate flag still flies in America. No Nazi symbols or paraphernalia is allowed in Germany. The American identity remains strong, unaffected by the shameful past. The German identity is fractured, unable to be pieced back together, after continuing to face the repercussions of the history.

I'm really looking forward to delving more into my research project, which has a lot to do with comparing national identity in America and Germany. I've already gotten some interesting survey results from the American perspective, and I look forward to see if my impressions of German identity are correct when I receive responses from Berlin inhabitants.