BY MORGHAN HOLT

In print | Published May 1, 2003

Swarthmore, you have been cruel. You have brutalized me, pushed me to the point of unrelenting tears. You have depressed me, distressed me, forced me into desperate pleas, huddled in isolated corners of your looming library, surrounded by the smooth spines and pristine pages of your bountiful books. “Leave me alone,” I’ve wailed. “I just can’t take it anymore.” You have tested me and tormented me, milked me dry and left me limp, begging shamelessly for the most meager recompense. You thrust too much theory on me too hard, too fast. I couldn’t take its sickening abstraction, and it all came gurgling up. I spit you out, but I couldn’t purge the lingering acidity of your vile harangue: Be brainy. Couldn’t you see all I wanted was to be real? Many times, especially during our first two years together, I wanted to leave you. I was haggard, wasted, and still you pushed for more, teased me with your infinitesimal recognition. You weren’t good for me: I needed to be appreciated, so I needed to get out. I even packed my bags. Our relationship seemed so poorly balanced, so unnecessarily abusive; I’m an independent woman: I know what I want and need, and you were definitely not delivering. I stayed. But, Swarthmore, how I’ve hated you.

Swarthmore, you have been indulgent. You have swathed me in your cocoon of comfort, elevated me to heights of unknown gratification. You have motivated me, instigated me, inspired me to explore the depths and expanses of the previously ingenuous intellect and the primitive person that contented me before our initial encounter, our text-speckled, conversation-dappled passionately fluctuating dance. “I love it,” I’ve crooned. “And I want to know so much more.” You have tested me and titillated me, awakened fresh fervors and brought them to fulfilling fruition, gently lifting me, cradling me, prodding my stubbornly sealed eyelids apart so I could really absorb my multifaceted milieu. You nudged so many novel notions towards me, so subtly, so intriguingly. I immersed myself in the depth of possibility and rarely emerged dry. I slurped you down but could never sate my craving, my urgency: Know everything. Couldn’t you see how I ached for more? Many times, especially during the last two years we’ve tangoed, I’ve cringed at the prospect of leaving you. I need you, desire you and, after four long years of basking in your bewitching banter, I still can’t get enough. You’re too good for me: I’ll long for your cerebral spoiling; I can’t stand the thought of bursting from your coddling chrysalis. I’m an independent woman: I should embrace the opportunity to spread my big, beautiful wings, but I so fear the real world. I don’t want to have to search for smarties; I like my Swatties. I can’t stay. But, Swarthmore, how I’ve loved you.

It’s been a schizophrenic affair. I will both fiercely embrace and savagely resist its June 1 culmination. In the end, for all the psychosis of our encounter, it’s abundantly apparent that, Swarthmore, you’ve enriched me. You’ve taught me stupendous stuff about myself, others, the world. With tough love, you’ve tied my wavering trunk to a stake and encouraged me to lean and eventually grow in directions I’d never seriously considered. Even as my final finals approach, I can honestly say it’s been a phenomenally fun flirtation, and I sincerely hope you other ’03ers feel the same and that your future partners will reel from their respective dances with half the stupefying sorrow and exhilarating ecstasy that now plagues me. Thank you, Swarthmore, for a long, hard, but well-padded trip. Thank you, Phoenix, for the protracted platform.

You can reach Morghan Holt at mholt1@swarthmore.edu.

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