alma mater

Exactly one year ago, I finished my first creative essay in over a decade. I couldn’t post it right away, because I was waiting for it to be reviewed by a local literary magazine. Needless to say, it was not accepted for publication. So, because I am impatient, and sitting on things does me no good at all, I present to you: my piece. Enjoy.

***

ALMA MATER

On the far side of the town of Oberlin, just before the sidewalk ends, there is a modest gravel driveway, sandwiched between a private residence and a private golf course. I could not say for certain who owns the driveway. It leads to both a maintenance shed and a two-car family garage. My feet belong to neither, but they have shuffled up this path, kicking loose stones, on more occasions than I can count.

What lies at the end of the drive is something of a secret. Two sandstone pillars, barely higher than my head, mark the entrance to a quiet, clandestine copse of trees called the Ladies’ Grove. But for its curious gateway, this place would seem indistinguishable from the adjacent woods, where there is a pond and a meadow and a forbidden fire pit for college students to congregate around after skinny-dipping in the summer. The neighboring forest is larger, with a more convenient entrance, parking for cars, and a rack for bikes. It is where the people go. There are few who would venture this far for an ostensibly unremarkable stand of scraggly trees.

In my soft, leather boots, with the top button of my wool coat fastened against the biting chill, I approach the stone gateway with all the solemnity of a pilgrim. Each square pillar is emblazoned with a word in all caps—LADIES on the left, GROVE on the right. I like to think of this place as forgotten and untouched by time, but the letters and their serifs are grooved too deeply to have withstood centuries of weathering. I consider the thought that someone, at some time, loved this place as I do, enough to preserve it from the slow-rising tide of our modern empire. Whizzing electric golf carts and rainbow plastic playsets mark its boundaries, but their bustle and noise do not penetrate the grove. I am grateful for this gift as I cross the threshold and breathe deep.

The air smells like brown leaves and mud, which makes sense, because it is March, and the ground is beginning to thaw. Instantly, I regret my choice of footwear, as my feet sink into the rich humus, and the cold damp penetrates even the tiniest holes in my well-worn boots. Apart from its clearly-marked entrance, the Ladies’ Grove seems to have no designated trails. Thin, young trees cast dark shadows in my direction, and fallen leaves blanket the ground as far as the eye can see, giving this place the illusion of infinity. Undaunted, I am guided by experience. I have walked these woods long enough to know the way.

It is not a great distance from the gateway to the muddy, sloping banks of Plum Creek. As I traipse through the quagmire, a gentle breeze coaxes a strand of hair from my long braid. I tuck it behind my ear. The marcescent leaves of a young beech tree spring into action, rubbing their dried, pale bodies together to produce a whisper like the quiet rustle of fabric. The sound follows the breeze throughout the woods, a long and haunting sigh. The return of the sun has not yet broken the frigid grasp of winter, and I am struck by the liminality of this moment, where seasons mingle and past and present converge.

Like a naturalist in search of migratory birds, I come to this place in search of memory. The Ladies’ Grove was established in the early days of Oberlin, a sheltered zone where young ladies could wander unchaperoned. Centuries ago, when dense woods still marked the boundaries of settlement, Oberlin’s college was the first in the United States to commit to co-education. Dozens of female students flocked to this isolated swamp town for the chance to prove their intellect, but that promise was only partially realized. Propriety demanded strict scrutiny of the fairer sex. There would be no public speaking, no ancient languages, no stepping out after dark, and absolutely no unsupervised roving in fields and forests. In the 21^st century, I can wander wherever I choose, but I return to the Ladies’ Grove as surely as a spotted salamander returns to the vernal pool of its birth.

When I pass through the pillars and into the trees, the memories of the earth beneath my feet entwine with my own. I walk in tandem with my fore-sisters. Lucy Stone and Antoinette Brown, before they spoke fearlessly for abolition and women’s rights, led their female peers into the trees to practice the forbidden art of debate and hone their oratory skills. Harriet Keeler, a firebrand suffragette who would go on to publish several botanical field guides, likely had her first introduction to the beauty of the natural world in these woods. Adelia Johnston, who refused to lead the Ladies’ Department if she would not be allowed to teach, was first accepted as a professor of Botany. Did she bring her classes here, a place where young women could grow as wild and beautiful as bergamot? What countless others passed through this forest enroute to fulfilling their dreams?

I imagine these women as I walk, and the long centuries collapse. They stepped over layers of decomposing leaves, same as me. The whisper of their heavy skirts swished through the trees. Their laced leather boots slipped over mossy rocks and into the dark mud. The ringing sound of their eager voices, yet untested, echoed the sweet songs of birds. The scent of rosewater, citrus, and sage mingled with our native wildflowers to create a perfume unique to this place and that time. If I close my eyes, I can smell it. We could not be closer if we walked arm in arm. This is the magic of the Ladies’ Grove.

When I felt alone or defeated in college, as I often did, I came to sit in the woods. On my first visit, I walked a wild, meandering route before I found a place to drop my cardboard cushion in the mud. The spot had called to me with its silence, far removed from the open reservoirs with their jolly student revelers. I could hear Plum Creek washing over pebbles in the distance. Little pools of water collected in the motley carpet of leaves and reflected patches of sunlight onto the backs of my crossed legs. I closed my eyes and sighed.

In the beginning, I believed it was the solitude of the space that made it sacred. The trees were stately pillars, the sun-lit canopy a stained glass masterpiece, the animal cries a chorus. I would return when icy drops of water coated pine needles like syrup, and again when the toads began to whir in harmony. I began to know the charm of all the seasons, and I rarely saw a soul. It was another year before I would discover the origin of my wooded temple and learn to call it by its name. That was when time began to unfold beneath my feet, a layered tapestry of stories bound together by the kinetic thread of memory. Then I knew I was never truly alone.

When we think of repositories of memory, our minds often wander to dusty archives, crowded library stacks, and interactive museum exhibits. I think of these trees: beech, maple, and oak. These botanical sentinels of time lead long lives. From their first roots plunging deep into the soil, until their decaying logs become a feast for fungus, trees may witness the birth of villages, the waging of war, and the growth of our children. Layers of time, like layers of earth, are bound up in these roots. After great trees are felled, I often see cross-sections of their large trunks hanging in buildings, little pins stuck into the wood to mark occasions like George Washington’s birthday or the 1969 lunar landing. We frame them in the context of human events and marvel at their longevity, but there is a way to tell the age of a tree that requires no violence towards its existence. You need only measure its girth.

In a healthy forest, each species of tree has a unique growth factor, a number assigned to them by forestry experts. Multiplied by a tree’s diameter at breast height, this species growth factor is the key to unlocking an individual’s age. For my excursion today, I have engaged the dusty and derelict portion of my brain dedicated to storing mathematical equations. Circumference divided by pi equals diameter. Diameter times species growth factor equals age. I mutter these formulas under my breath like a prayer as my eyes scan the woods around me. It registers, briefly, that I may never have been more focused on a visit to the Ladies’ Grove. I am on a mission.

In my pocket rests a long coil of yarn, which I will use to measure the memories of these trees. Not one to cut corners, I used a ruler to cut the string. With the help of a calculator, I painstakingly determined the approximate diameter of a tree that could have lived alongside Lucy Stone. I run my fingers anxiously over the fibers of the yarn as I walk the length of the creek. My eyes dart left and right. Many of the trunks here seem wide enough to predate the retired golfers making their way across the neighboring green, but none strike me as the great elders I seek.

Heaviness grips my heart and defeat twists knots in my gut. There are only so many trees, and so I turn to leave, unfulfilled. Without a purpose to guide them, the energy has drained from my footsteps. I plod back to reality. My eyes are fixed on the ground, and I move past small, spectacular signs of spring with hardly any interest. A mourning cloak butterfly, its dusky, pristine wings fringed with pale yellow, rises out of the leaf litter. Its flight carries it over a patch of delicate snowdrop blossoms before it disappears back into the infinite brown. A robin sings, long and flute-like, from somewhere overhead. This brightness cannot penetrate the cloud of my disappointment. I feel as gray and mildewed as the rotting leaves crushed under my muddy boots.

The same stone pillars that greeted me earlier once more come into view. I have nearly left this place behind, perhaps discarded it forever as a childish fascination, borne of a post-adolescent depression and nothing more. But something deep in my nature halts my feet and urges me to turn around. The loose strand of hair I had tucked behind my ear is once again plucked free by the wind. The woods at my back come alive with sound. My heart begins to race, and I am overcome. Despite my newfound cynicism, I cannot help but look back.

There she stands, as plain as day. The trees cease their whispering as the breeze fades, and I take in the wide, dark expanse of her trunk. My eyes follow the deep furrows in her bark all the way up to her tangled canopy, which towers above the rest. Trees are not as ephemeral as butterflies or birdsong, but this aged white oak has come to my attention just as suddenly.

I am a poor mathematician, yet I do not need the string in my pocket to know this tree is older than the rest and far beyond my expectations. White oaks grow strong and tall, and this tree is easily a double centenarian. As I approach, I notice a basal scar—a smooth, white patch in a field of scaly, gray bark about five feet from the ground. It is shaped like a heart, and something curious about this shape compels me forward. I tip-toe on her thick, mossy roots until I am close enough to touch the exposed wood. I raise my hand, close my eyes, and press my palm onto the smooth surface. Instantly, I feel her presence. The energy that passes into my body is too vague to be electric, and I am too much of a realist to suspect it is spiritual. Yet something stirs within me.

In older forests, there is something biologists call a mother tree, connected to all the others by an acres-wide, underground system of roots and mycorrhizal fungi. The mothers are the giants of the network, sending nutrients through the web to their progeny and their neighbors. When the time comes for a mother to die, the centuries of energy stored in her body will decompose slowly into nutrient-rich soil, a ready-made cradle for the next generation. She is a perpetual caretaker of the community, the method of its endless rebirth.

The woods of the Ladies’ Grove are not as old as they once were, but this white oak mother continues to nurture her kin. Over a century ago, when the first Oberlin women walked these grounds, she might have been a spry teenager, feeding off another mother’s roots. Now she shares this life-force with a new crop of youngsters. Gazing at the current expanse of thin trunks, which had so recently been the cause of my frustration, I am filled with an indescribable sense of warmth, of belonging. I think of the words alma mater, which, when directly translated, describe a mother who nourishes. Like these young trees, I am the descendant of giant mothers—the almae matres of my alma mater—whose decades of work made a fertile bed for my own growth. With each generation of independent, outspoken women, the soil grew richer.

I came to the Ladies’ Grove in search of memory. I wanted to feel the presence of the pioneering women who strolled under these trees before taking on the world. I thought their spirit could only manifest in the heartwood of an aged giant, but memory is not static. It flows. Whether through human history or a vast, symbiotic network of roots and fungus, that memory feeds its descendants, ensuring their survival in a world that is not always open to them. The virgin forest that once surrounded this white oak mother long ago fell victim to the axe; many strong women passed on before their goals were realized; but the young trees of the Ladies’ Grove and I have grown up with the energy of those that came before. In the constant generation of this little grove of trees, as in the continued beating of my heart, their legacy lives on.

As I finally pass through the twin pillars, the ground beneath my feet changes slowly, from soft earth to crushed gravel. I follow the curious driveway, past the garage, past the maintenance shed, until I reach the sidewalk. My legs carry my body back towards town, but I have left a piece of me behind. When I laid my hand on the great white oak, I felt its fragility. Someday it will collapse under the weight of its spring leaves and seed its memories back into the earth—centuries of sunshine and rainfall, of birds’ nests and squirrel quarrels, the sound of rustling leaves, the ringing of passionate voices, and, perhaps, even the light brush of my fingertips.

ode to a joyful place (now gone)

“You don’t know anything about bowling.”

He said this, not to be mean, but to state a fact. I knew nothing about bowling. Still, with the confidence of an eighteen-year-old who had been denied very little in life, I entered the interview wearing mom jeans and an old, ratty sweater, sure that he would hire me.

My gut feeling wasn’t wrong. He didn’t hire me to work at the bowling lanes. That would have been a disaster. But he saw something in me–maybe it was hidden potential, maybe it was a sad and desperate search for someplace to belong–and he called me with a job offer later that afternoon.

Wilder Desk Attendant.

I left Oberlin with a glimmer of optimism. Next year would be better.

—

“Meet at 9 a.m. Wear comfy pants.”

The e-mail that went out to all new and returning Wilder employees was vague and cryptic, perhaps on purpose. We all crowded onto a rumbling yellow school bus, delayed because some students were held up buying drinks and peaches. I remember the smell of the brown plastic seats. I was still young enough to be nostalgic for the clear boundaries and expectations of public high school. Old worries crept in to ruin the excitement of this new beginning. What if I still didn’t fit in?

There was a boy, tall and skinny with a shock of hair that seemed to defy gravity. I remember going to sit near him, because I felt like he was worried, too. When the upperclassmen appeared with bushels of fruit and glass bottles clanging in green plastic bags, he didn’t step up to greet them or admonish them jokingly like the others. I can’t remember the exact moment when we first spoke, or the exact words we said. They were likely uttered in that awkward, halting way when your voice is somehow caught off guard, the connections between your brain and mouth severed by racing, anxious thoughts. Still, we became friends. Not just for that weekend. Not even just as co-workers. Real friends who went jogging together, cooked meals and watched Twin Peaks together, played board games, sent letters, went bowling together.

He wasn’t my first college friend, but he might have been the best.

—

The Wilder Orientation Lakeside Retreat weekends have passed into legend over the years, a relic of a more open budget, but they were the key to my happiness in college. Wo-Ho-Mis lodge was our headquarters for all the standard ice breakers and training activities you would expect on a work retreat. It was also the headquarters for late night games of The Floor is Lava and dramatic readings of hyper-religious teen self-help volumes that warned of Flirt State University, followed by early morning yoga and meditation with our boss. From there we were given free reign to explore the town–unlimited shuffleboard, mini golf, ice cream, movies, and lake swimming.

You may be thinking “wait a second–this was for work?” Well, you’re right. Without meaning to, I had fallen into one of the best jobs on campus, working for and with some of the best people in Oberlin. These retreats weren’t just meant to spoil us and show us a good time. They were meant to help us bond in meaningful ways–to teach us the basic expectations of our jobs, but also to nourish our whole selves in a way that recognized our humanity. We weren’t just employees. These trips emphasized that we were a family. We arrived back on campus ready to share the love.

—

For those unfamiliar with Oberlin, Wilder Desk was located immediately to your right as you entered though the Student Union building’s main doors. One side of its green counter was always full of student handouts or free food leftover from meetings. There were usually a few people gathered around that area, backpacks slung over one shoulder, casually discussing class assignments or study abroad plans. From a computer behind the desk, quiet strains of music (any genre–pick your favorite) drifted out into the common space, barely heard over laughter echoing in the halls or the stampede of mandatory discussion groups tromping up and down the stairs every hour. When you stepped into the building, someone at the desk would greet you with a quiet smile (or a boisterous “hullo” if you were familiar). It was a simple, but powerful, acknowledgement of everyone’s shared existence. Our boss called it “stellar customer service.”

He believed that goodness was contagious–that, from the Desk, we could radiate a spirit that touched everyone who walked through the doors, who would then take that goodness out to the world, and the world would reciprocate. That doesn’t mean we never cried at the desk. I was perpetually tearing up over assignments or loneliness, embarrassing as it was. But he intentionally hired people to create a community of caring. We lifted each other up no matter what. It wasn’t “the customer is always right.” It was “the customer is a human, and so are you, so let’s work together.”

—

As a Desk Attendant, you had to keep track of everything. My boss called it “driving the bus of Oberlin.” We were the starting point of every question about department office hours, mail room hours, directions, local landmarks, lost IDs, college radio shows, club membership, ticket sales, event schedules, and more. I once took a phone call about a chicken crossing the road (literally). We had an answer for everything, and, if we didn’t, we knew where to look. We rented out frisbees and board games, and sold banner paper, stamps and envelopes. We were a hub for friendly activity, chugging along to the tune of a noisy cash register with chunky buttons and a proclivity for beeping when poked the wrong way.

Wilder Desk was the literal keeper of the keys. Any room you scheduled in the building, whether it was for a dance rehearsal or knitting club, you had to stop by the desk. The keys hung from little golden hooks on a wooden stand that made a metallic rolling sound when it turned. We exchanged IDs for keys and keys for IDs. I learned a lot of names that way, made a lot of pleasant small talk with all sorts of people. Slowly I began to feel connected to the Oberlin College community. I was no longer an island in a sea of inexplicable adolescent sadness. I had found a place to belong.

—

Over the course of my three years at Wilder Desk, I grew to feel loved and cared for in a way I never would have expected after the disaster of my first year at college. I made friends that were like family. We visited each other during our respective shifts, gorging on free leftover pizza, playing contentious games of Connect 4, once even hosting a mini tea party with finger sandwiches and piping hot mugs of tea. We had holiday gift exchanges and ridiculous dance-offs. No matter what happened, there was always someone there at the Desk. Goodness bred goodness. We were all different, but we all got along.

Even after we graduated, that community of caring persisted. I remember visiting the Desk during my five year reunion. The faces were different, but the same spirit and camaraderie were there. They drank in our stories of former desk attendant glories and shared some of their own. Our photos were still on the computer, joined with hundreds of other photos of later generations of students, all of us one community. I posted an update for my former co-workers who were unable to attend, and we were all reunited virtually in our love for Wilder and sweet memories of the Desk. Again, I felt connected. Again, I felt rooted.

—

For better or for worse, Oberlin College decided to demolish Wilder Desk over the past summer. Student workers were advised to find other employment and a longtime college staff member was laid off. The decision came amidst a lot of other routine decisions–the closing of a dining hall, the retirement of outdated college rental apartments–but, despite the apparent normalcy of the act, it still felt like a betrayal. Frustration burned hot in my belly as I watched a video of the Desk’s deconstruction online. Bigger and better things to come…but what could be better than Wilder Desk?

I recently visited Oberlin for an unrelated committee meeting. I got a coffee and a bagel from The Local and sat out on Tappan Square, soaking in the memories. It was 9:15 am, in the middle of class for a Wednesday morning, so the square was deserted. An older man on a bicycle clattered past on the brick walkway, but that was it. I finished my bagel and crumpled the foil in my hand. With time to spare before the meeting, I stood up and walked to Wilder Student Union.

The Desk is gone. Replaced by empty chairs and a newly-painted orange wall, the life and vibrancy–the camaraderie and community–that were the heart and soul of my Oberlin experience have vanished without a trace, wheeled out with the last speck of evidence that anything but a clinical coldness had ever existed in that space. No one gathered around the counter. The counter wasn’t there. No one smiled at me when I came in. There was no one to smile. There was no one to drive the bus.

Wilder felt dead.

RIP Wilder.

—

“You don’t know anything about bowling.”

Sometimes I think back to that first interview, and I realize how lucky I am that he hired me–that my first job was at the Student Union, my first boss a man who believed in validating and supporting his employees as people. Oberlin College taught me a lot of things, but maybe the most important was the philosophy of stellar customer service. (Or maybe it was open-handed gestures–my Wilder folks know what’s up!)

The Desk may be gone, but it will remain the epicenter of a giant ripple of goodness in my life’s story. It was the end of my isolation in college and the beginning of my blossoming. Without the family I found there, I would have likely thrown in the towel. I am strong because of the three years I spent being supported by wonderful people. I am competent at my current job because of the three years I spent learning from good supervisors how to serve an entire community. The skills and self-confidence I learned at Wilder are equal to (if not more than) any I learned in an academic course. As my alma mater seems more and more intent on chipping away at the heart of its community, all I can do is take that spirit and continue to spread it. That will be my act of resistance.

The Desk is gone; long live its joy.

get yourself back // five years later

so before you start talkin’ ’bout the wonders of the world again
the taj mahal, the great wall, the places that i’ve never been
take a little drive, take a little trip to heaven
and wonder for a while if it’s paradise or [oberlin]

– josh ritter, cumberland

i struggle to take pictures when i’m in the company of other people. i think it stems from a deep-seated worry that my eagerness to capture a moment will stand out awkwardly against the chill atmosphere of a group hang, that the people i’m with will somehow take offense in my desire to preserve the candidness of the soft light of evening on their cheeks… in the end, i either wimp out completely, or snap a photo so quickly the result is a blurry mess.

i guess what i’m trying to say is that if i’m going to remember anything about my five year college reunion, i’m going to have to step up my descriptive writing skills. as such, i apologize in advance for the length of this post, and for the poor quality of the few images that will accompany it. i will do my best to limit myself, but make no promises.  my senior thesis, after all, was pushing 100 pages…

-xXx-

i combined all of the giant, dark-haired, smartphone power goddesses into one woman called “hot rebecca.”

– leslie knope

the weeks leading up to the reunion were fraught with restless anxiety. it began, on a very basic level, with a fear of seeing a handful of individuals, all of them, embarrassingly, male. i didn’t want to see the wives i’d imagined for them, or be reminded of their happy lives without me. i wasn’t convinced i’d have the energy to look perfect, speak graciously, and not fart in their presence. i was deeply afraid of the possibility that they had moved on easily, without the tears and heartache that would make our dalliance memorable. i was terrified of being forgotten.

ironically, those feelings soon evolved into a desperate hope that i could forget. oberlin college was a place of astounding intellectual discovery for me, but it was also the center of life-altering pain. a close friend of mine died in the middle of my freshman year, and the depression that followed made me mean. i was slow to make friends, and i was difficult and demanding towards those few i had. i often felt isolated and abandoned. by the end of my senior year, the control i exercised over my body (a control i could not exercise in my personal relationships) had turned into the beginnings of body dysmorphia. the two people i kissed that year both left me heartbroken, and shortly after graduation, i had my first non-consensual experience.

i hate this picture. i posted it before reunion weekend because it so perfectly illustrated my feelings towards going back to oberlin and remembering college. it was taken during senior year finals on the porch of keep co-op. i look happy because i had slept in a boy’s room the night before and had just slayed a five mile run in ninety degree weather. both of those memories have since turned sour and can derail any positive developments if they catch me off guard. i have moved on…but only just.

i love oberlin. i go back all the time, and i talk about it nonstop. but i love it as a place i lived, not as a place i went to college. i’ve left behind a lot of the hurt i felt (and caused) as a student, and i have reclaimed the spaces i love in my consciousness through hard work and with the help of supportive friends. my biggest fear about the reunion, it turns out, was not running into old flames and their imaginary new lovers. my biggest fear was exactly what everyone was returning to do. my biggest fear was to remember.

-xXx-

i arrived in oberlin on friday around 11am full of trepidation. i was already in a bad mood, because some aggressive jersey driver had cut me off on rt. 20 for no reason. i was going 80 mph. there was no one else on the road. i followed that car, seething, all the way to alumni registration.

i hadn’t even opened my event folder when my friend dashed out of slow train and pulled me inside. he had been living in oberlin the entire year, and sitting with him, chatting about our day-to-day lives was comfortingly normal. the only difference i noticed from the countless other times i’d visited the town were the amount of people in line and the number of vaguely familiar faces, glancing furtively around the room in search of old friends to hug.

i, too, was looking around but chose not to greet the acquaintances i noticed. i saw no need to catch their eyes, and, oddly, i felt no guilt about this. the energy wasn’t right. i saw no benefit to forcing what little conversation could come from friendships long since passed into the mist. i was comfortable where i was. why change that? i wondered briefly if this meant i was getting wiser or lazier and came to no conclusion.

-xXx-

“i’m trying my best to step back and let people feel nostalgic without being a total dick.”

– me, at the feve

i’ll preface my next statement with the fact that i visit the feve a lot, and for good reason. it is a special place. i’ve shared a lot of happy memories there since graduation, and anticipation of a good night does make me smile like a nerd when i walk up the stairs.

still, i could not achieve the same starry-eyed wonder at being there that my friends were feeling. there’s a real difference between the magic of knowing a place so well the bartenders recognize you on the street and the magic of passing through the door into a place you haven’t seen for five years. i couldn’t help but feel my experience at that moment was somehow missing everyone else’s mark. there was some happiness there i just couldn’t access, and old anxieties tickled at the edge of my brain. i took a few deep breaths and reminded myself that difference does not signify inferiority.

it was a reminder i needed the remainder of the night, as dinner at the feve dissolved into drinks at the sco, oberlin’s student union dance hall. as a student, sweatily grinding against total strangers late at night was, frankly, the last thing i wanted. i was consistently in bed by 11pm, and awake by 7am. there was no room for sticky floors covered in beer and bass lines resonating in my rib cage. i barely spent fifteen minutes there as an undergrad, but there i was…five years later…nervously biting my lip at the fringe of a crowd way more enthusiastic than me.

quite unexpectedly, i was not left alone to meekly bob my head on the periphery. countless people found me isolating myself and pulled me into the fray. it didn’t matter that i dance to pop music like a peacock spider entrancing a mate. it didn’t matter that all the words i was shout-singing were wrong. i had no idea people would be as eager to see me as i was nervous to see them. i felt included in ways that i rarely did in school.

“what’s that in your bag?” one of my friends asked as i tried to keep my heavy purse from bouncing too much.

“oh, i don’t actually know,” i said, peeking inside. “i thought i took everything out.”

laughing, i reached inside and pulled out betty friedan’s the feminine mystique.

of course.

only in oberlin…

-xXx-

i learned a lot about being tolerant of other peoples’ feelings over the course of the weekend. the nostalgic excitement my friends were feeling had somehow transformed into nostalgic exhaustion overnight, while i was curled up next to my cat in cleveland. i drove into oberlin prepared for more of the day before, but was met with lots of overwhelmed people who texted that they needed space, or who weren’t ready for a one-on-one conversation with someone they hadn’t seen in five years.

i took a beat and tried not to be offended. these were more feelings i couldn’t quite access. oberlin was like a second home to me. i even wrote a blog post about how the town was the closest thing i’d had to a serious relationship. i’d had five years to come to terms with the emotions certain corners had the power to conjure. most of the friends i longed to see only had this one weekend. that’s no easy feat.

instead of forcing people to come out and play with me, i found meet-ups that sprung up organically. running into old friends in line at the co-op picnic, sunny walks in the arb, joint trips to the free store, bowling at the best lanes in the whole wide world…these things happened as i was just wandering aimlessly, which i am wont to do in oberlin. i was never alone for long.

-xXx-

one regret i felt deep in my bones was my inability to share what i consider my singular accomplishment with everyone i loved. our class sponsored an ignite session, where we could share short presentations about what we’ve been up to since graduation, but i thought it was lame. for a brief moment, i considered trolling the session with a five minute performance art piece of me sobbing violently into a pizza while i projected images of old flings stolen from their facebook pages. but that was a joke that never grew wings.

i was so focused on how i could thumb my nose at people who cared about things that i overlooked all the things i cared about and actually wanted to share. thankfully, the project i loved the most was already in the program. the oberlin heritage center was gracious enough to run the women’s history tour i had written during my americorps service. they had even credited me in the schedule booklet as the author of the tour, which made my heart swell with pride.

that said, for various reasons, only one friend was able to attend one of my tours during the weekend. it was early in the morning. it was raining. it was too overwhelming. grad students want to have fun, they don’t want to be lectured. it all made sense, but i still felt anonymous, invisible, and sad. as i sat alone on a bench later, i tried to hold on to the positives. the oberlin heritage center, an organization that had taught me so much about local history, respects my work as a historian. that one friend that showed up unexpectedly made me feel special. i got to meet a woman who had inaugurated the women’s studies program at oberlin, and she said my tour was wonderful.

all good things.

but, if i could do it over again, i would have done an ignite presentation or an open mic night. if there’s anything i love, it’s being recognized.

-xXx-

despite being the grinch when it came to nostalgia, there were a few moments that i, too, got swept up in the memories. the first wave of bittersweet emotion came when i experienced the stellar customer service of the current student union information desk attendants. i was cutting through wilder to get somewhere else, when one of the deskers looked up and smiled warmly at me.

i don’t know what it was about that particular moment, but what i did next defies my misanthropic nature. i walked over to the desk and struck up a conversation. before i knew it, i was regaling them with stories from my time as a wilder employee. i showed them pictures of us playing connect four, ravishing leftover pizzas, and hosting tea parties with little finger sandwiches. after a while, they invited me behind the desk, and we clicked through pictures on the computer (still the same old mac desktop from 2012) until we got to my senior year.

everything was still there.

as we flipped back from the most recent pics, i was struck by how constant the wilder family has been. the close friendships i formed there aren’t unique. students now are forming those same tight bonds with their co-workers. i realized as they took my picture for their @wilderdesk instragram account that wilder is such a magical place, not because of the physical building, but because of the people our boss, tom reid, welcomes into the family.

(and, speaking of tom reid, he let me peek into the bookkeeping room, that beloved, claustrophobic closet full of metal safes where i spent a majority of mornings in college pretending i was a pirate as i organized bank deposits. i’m not ashamed to admit that i teared up.)

the second wave of nostalgia came in mudd library, in my special little corner where i would often retire for a study break or a peaceful moment alone. tucked away, against a nondescript wall in the library commons, is a file cabinet full of boxes of microflim, which contain entire editions of the oberlin review and the oberlin news tribune, beginning in the 1890s.

i learned how to work the machines early on in my college career, as the study of oberlin’s local history became my main motivation for not transferring to a different school. the familiar, warm glow of the screen and the hum of the motor were often my companions on friday nights before walking to my shift at the college observatory. mostly, it was an aesthetics thing. if i saw an advertisement or a front page that i liked, i would print it off and hang it in my dorm. occasionally, i impressed a professor by using articles in my research projects.

i still maintain those machines are some of the best kept secrets at oberlin.

i hadn’t visited the library for over three years when i sat down at the machine on saturday, but i found that loading the roll was part of my muscle memory as much as the dance steps i learned in elementary school. i was alone at that moment, but i was so inexplicably happy as the scans appeared on the screen. i showed my print-out to almost every familiar face i passed as i walked to my next destination, but no one seemed particularly impressed by my mastery of an outdated technology.

kids these days, i suppose…

the third nostalgic moment occurred in the bowling alley, but i have already waxed poetic over the importance of the lanes on my mental health and how much i love bowling at oberlin, so i will spare you (get it?) more of the same. however, i should say this: i am never more confident and at home than i am at college lanes. there’s no room for anger or sadness there. it’s just you, the pins, and some excellent student-selected tunes. i am so grateful i had friends who were willing to relive the lanes with me twice over the weekend.

i once got drunk on wine with a guy in this old, rarely-used women’s locker room while waiting for a bowling lane to open up, and this remains one of my favorite memories

-xXx-

it has now been almost a week since the first day of the reunion weekend, and i’ve only just now found the time and energy to think extensively about the experience. if you would have asked me last thursday if i was excited to go back to oberlin, i would have given you a really long, round-about answer about anxiety and introvertedness. today, i’ll tell you simply that i’m glad i went.

there were moments of loneliness and places of discomfort. there were periods of disappointment and feelings of inadequacy. but…overall, i felt good. my friendship was reciprocated in surprising ways. i was not only seeking; i was also sought after. i did not see everyone, and i made out with no one, but i realized how much i’ve grown since i was a student.

so, thank you to all the people who came and hung out with me (but especially to all those old hook-ups who didn’t). thank you to the staff of the college and the student workers who spent the weekend helping us old losers reminisce. thank you to the employees of the bars and restaurants who kept us fed and watered.

in spite of myself, i had a good time.

First Day Report

Many of you know: today was my first day at a new part-time job. Most of you can’t know how absolutely ready I was, how absolutely terrified.

Rewind.

Almost two years ago, I moved from my college town to a new city, hoping to connect with what many of my peers seemed to have experienced after graduation. Career opportunities, friendships, relationships, success, and pride: that’s what I hoped to find. Whether I was chasing a pipe dream or not, I don’t think it would surprise you to hear that moving to a new city was not an insta-cure for the quarter-centenarian malaise. Some 80 weeks later, I was still feeling isolated, discouraged, stuck, and hopeless. The feelings of shame and worthlessness persisted, but my network of support and mentors had drastically shrunk. I was (as Lord Elrond once described the race of men) “scattered, divided, leaderless.” I was (as John Adams once described James Otis Jr.) “a ship without a helm.”

Rewind.

In college, I took a bowling class. The coach had a policy against negative thought patterns. If we weren’t mastering a skill quickly enough or if our scores were disappointing, he wanted us to hit the brain breaks and reorganize the route. If we were particularly bad at optimism, he suggested we actually say “STOP” out loud, followed by a sentence that could turn our thoughts around. For example, if you miss a spare and you feel like you’ll never get it right: “STOP. You’ve done such great work, I bet you’ll get the next one.”

You can probably guess who took this skill out of the lanes and to the next level. (Spoiler alert: it was me.) I was having a particularly difficult year writing my thesis, and I ended up walking around campus, muttering “stop” every fifteen minutes or so. It was one of the few things keeping me from crumpling under anxiety and feelings of inadequacy. I sounded insane, but it worked. I finished my thesis. Even now, after a few hundred tries, I can usually spin straw situations into gold if I just remember to STOP.

“Thank you, Chris. You’re welcome, Chris. I sound insane. I’m going to go talk to my therapist.”

Fast-forward.

I think this past February was the hardest month in my life so far. To kick it all off, I caught a knife with the palm of my hand, which resulted in a trip to urgent care and my first stitches. For a week, I couldn’t braid my hair, tie my shoes, scrape snow off my car, or even fasten my own belt. I was impotent and useless in ways I’d never experienced, and all my dissatisfaction with life came rushing forward. I could no longer temper the ennui with hours of Netflix and cups of tea. I felt overworked, undervalued, bored, and stagnant…

…And then I remembered to STOP.

I made it my mission to shake up my life. As soon as my stitches were removed, I took a long shower, brushed my hair, and cleaned my apartment.”New or challenging” became the mandate for all after-work activities. I went to concerts instead of binge-watching shows I’d already seen. I journaled in coffee shops instead of scrolling through Facebook. I went on runs through the woods; I practiced viola; I started and finished books. For the first time in over a year, I updated my resume and started scouring the Internet for jobs. Even the smallest breaks in routine boosted my energy and joie de vivre, and the tangible results came quickly.

Less than a month after my injury healed, I scheduled my first job interview. Interview followed interview. I had made a change and now the ball was rolling, rolling. It was almost frightening how quickly my own agency was confirmed. All this time I felt blown around by the winds of chance, and suddenly I was in charge. Positive action had reaped positive consequence, and the only thing to do was keep driving…

Fast-forward.

“Starting a new job is always emotional,” said my training manager today in the biggest understatement of the year.

As I sat through the endless hours of training to prepare me for success in my new job, I oscillated between homesickness for my museum and overwhelming excitement for my future, both of which nearly brought me to tears. I was dressed in a sad attempt at business casual: my pinstriped eighth-grade-orchestra pants and a white lace free box crop top hidden under a hand-me-down blazer. I felt young and inexperienced as I entered the boardroom and tried to make small talk with strangers. I thought back on my last days at the natural history museum, tried to remember what it felt like to be sure, and repeated the congratulations of my coworkers over and over in my head.

Good luck.

I’m glad you got a position you wanted.

You’ll do great.

We’ll miss you.

This new job was never in my plans, but something about it feels good. Years of hard work have been validated by a 100% increase in hourly wage, more creative responsibility, and entry into a workplace that (according to these training sessions) is reserved for only the best candidates. I feel nervous, excited, overwhelmed, overjoyed, and empowered. I made a choice to make a change, and now I’m here, standing on the precipice of possibility. You’ll have to stay tuned to find out what happens next.

“Congratulations, [redacted]!”

Birthdays

Some of you know—most of you don’t—that I turned 25 on July 2^nd. As momentous as the math would seem—a quarter of a century, the square root of five, a number whose digits add up to seven—the whole affair turned into a bit of a letdown.

I had high hopes. Despite moving to a new city as a solitary unit, I’ve been optimistic recently that I’m finally starting to get it. I have new friends—work-friends, but friends, I insist; I have places I like to go; I have started to like myself. In light of these momentous advances in personal happiness, I genuinely expected to enjoy my birthday, but something dark and cloudy descended on my mood, and I balked. Let’s be honest: the day was rough.

It started with tears, which were followed by lines at the DMV. The sun poked through my spirits when I baked a cake and some vegan cookies to bring into my friends at work. An onslaught of curt birthday messages on social media were like arrows to my lonely heart, and then I scolded myself for being so ungrateful. People asked me if I had plans. The answer was no. I didn’t understand the questions were an invitation to make some. I went home and wrapped myself in the warmth of the few cards and packages I received in the mail, and I tried not to feel like a failure.

“Someday,” I opined. “Someday I’ll find my social agency, and I won’t be so afraid to ask people to love me. Someday, I’ll feel like I’m worth it.”

I don’t want anyone to feel like their Facebook notes and texts were unappreciated. You all mean the world to me, but sometimes the mental clouds are just that impenetrable. I’m fine now. I’m happy now. So, it’s time to celebrate a different birthday.

Call it a second chance. I was browsing my Facebook memories (this is a new daily reminder I get—my inner historian rejoices), and I discovered that my blog—this blog—is officially three years old! Like an actual child, this blog came into the world screaming. It was all tears and helplessness, but there was a nascent sense of self forming just below all the noise. My blog learned to talk, then it learned to walk. Now, it runs—on thoughts and experience, it runs like clockwork. I have found my voice.

(Who knows what I will think about my recent entries in three more years, but, for now and for once, I feel like I’m actually saying something.)

To celebrate my growth, I thought I’d take a look back. There was a time, not too long ago, that I couldn’t see past heartache and disappointment. There was a time, not too long ago, that I couldn’t write a resume or use a microfilm machine. A lot has happened in three years, and here are some blog posts to prove it.

July 2012: My blog begins with a name and a quote, both from Alcuin by Charles Brockden Brown, a source that featured heavily in my senior thesis research. I lamented my inability to function in the real world. I started a blog to document this experiment. Growing pains ensued. (No link, because the post embarrasses me. But the quote is awesome.)

If they generously admit me into the class of existences, but affirm that I exist for no purpose but the convenience of the more dignified sex, that I cannot be entrusted with the government of myself: that to foresee, to deliberate and decide belongs to others, while all my duties resolve themselves into this precept, ‘listen and obey;’ it is not for me to smile at their tyranny, or receive as my gospel, a code built upon such atrocious maxims. No, I am not a Federalist.

July 25, 2012: That summer, my heart broke, but I also met and hugged a personal hero of mine. There’s nothing quite like Josh Ritter telling you it will all work out in the end. I’m still carrying those endorphins with me.

December 5, 2012: A tribute to bowling, which has more to do with real life than one would expect. Thanks to a mentor, Tom Reid, for introducing me to a new way to untangle my problems.

December 19, 2012: I was working in a burrito restaurant at time when it seemed like all my other friends had “real” jobs. Despite the worry I was falling behind, I loved my job and all the weird smells, late nights, and rough edges that came with it.

Killarney Nat’l Park – Killarney, Co. Kerry, IRL – October 2012 – I also went to Ireland at some point in 2012. The entry was boring, but this photo is lovely, so it stays.

February 8, 2013: I was starting to settle into my new life in northeast Ohio, but I still had to remind myself to let go and enjoy it. A short letter to hold onto in dark times.

August 19, 2013: I was accepted into the AmeriCorps program with the Ohio History Corps and the Oberlin Heritage Center, and embarked on a journey that would bring me even closer to the little town I loved. A brief statement on why museum work and local history matter.

December 25, 2013: Learning broadens your horizons, connects you to stories you never knew existed, and sheds light on past experiences. Commentary on a documentary and how I found feminism.

March 12, 2014: When life goes too fast, there’s nothing like developing a roll of film to help you slow down. A series of images and a tribute to my darling Minolta camera.

March 30, 2014: In the same vein, a description of why letters are so important and why I keep all of them.

December 27, 2014: This past December, I left a job and people I loved, so I wrote a fictional account of a year in the life of my Hale Farm character(s).

February 9, 2015: I am a binge-watcher, and sometimes this changes the way I see the world. A particularly in-depth analysis of one aspect of a show I absolutely adore, and an issue that hits home.

These posts aren’t exactly the best representation of my blog over the years. I’ve left out the entries that feel too maudlin in retrospect, or that are still too personal. I’ve also avoided the more recent, since they haven’t yet been lost to time. Instead, this is a Parade of Champions—of posts I’m proud of, that say something about me and my journey, that remind me I can achieve.

I won’t make this entry much longer, in the hopes that you can find the time to read one or two of the links above. I’ll only say this: thank you for being my friends, for following this blog with its ups and downs and in-betweens, and thank you for all the kind birthday wishes.