Dear Readers,
It hit me recently, in a buzzing swarm of thoughts, that I’m a junior. With three years under my belt, rejections a plenty, fist bumps over paper grades, and a particularly embarrassing episode when I cried under a lamplight near Willets Hall and PubSafe thought I was hurt … I’m rambling, aren’t I? Well, while I was reflecting on my peculiar constellation of memories, it hit me that I haven’t lived yet at Swarthmore. Sure, I’ve arrived at Olde Club and Paces, then stopped because they weren’t for me, rolled on carpeted stairs Halloween 2023 because they “felt soft,” stuffed my hips into a clingy little black dress, but still … even still, I don’t feel quite satisfied.
My reflection ushered in a line of internal dialogue when I walked into Narps a few days ago. I was just trying to find a table — which feels like an impossible task the second Swarthmore’s temperature drops below 50 degrees. As per usual, it was packed, and I may-or-may-not-have been eyeing this guy I think is cute among the crowd … but that’s besides the point. Eventually, I found a seat by the microwave, next to the long tables that encourage college students to be cliqued up. Again, I digress. I grabbed about every legume known to man/woman/person kind, drenched it in balsamic vinegar, my favorite, and took a seat. Mangia, mangia.
But something was different this time. There was a lingering weight in the air that I couldn’t quite place. I stuffed all the same ingredients into my bowl, with the exception of steamed broccoli over raw. The seat had the same basketball upholstery I vehemently hate, my friend had the same sweater I enthusiastically love, and the table had that same peculiar plastic-ky feel that sticks onto my finger pads like ketchup on a five-year-old’s hands. I looked away from my friend, and, for the first time, actually noticed the circus around us. Chaos without performance. All people our age, laughing, stealing food from each other’s plates, rudely brushing their knees onto the back of my chair to scoot in … it was odd. For a while, I ate dinner with my family, only. I didn’t know my friend, or these plastic tables that pretend to look grandeur or the beige-ish bowls that are kind of camp, to be honest.
And I realized, maybe for the first time, how much I love this place.
I swore I was ready to graduate, but I don’t know. I wanted to transfer, but I stayed. I nearly applied to go abroad, but I became an RA. When I looked up, I saw connections aplenty, new fists to bump, people to cry with under lamplights, but all never explored and equally possible to begin with a single hey. It was a conflicting feeling. I have all the time in the world left but simultaneously only one year. Why hadn’t I said what I wanted to confess? Why don’t I curse out that buddy who thinks it’s ok to jostle my chair? Screw you man. Why don’t I tell that guy I scan for that I like his curls, because I do, and I should. Why haven’t I taken full advantage of this sometimes horrible, but often amazing place?
Truth is, I’ve glanced at that room a million times for a million different reasons to avoid rejection. I never thought I’d stay at Swarthmore long enough to see “Sharples Commons” or Mertz lawn reopen. I figured I’d avoid it. Avoid my associations with the place and leave my brain pooling like leftover balsamic vinegar at the bottom of my bowl. Mangia, mangia.
I’ve often thought that our campus should be more vulnerable — that we should be more honest with each other. But hey, maybe Prufrock was right, I’m a hypocrite. “In short, I was afraid.” At times, I’ve wanted to leave this place. Somehow taking the truth in stride, and admitting it hasn’t always been easy was the first step in finding my standing in our small Swarthmore snowglobe.
But the stairs still feel soft, and I still like elastic dupe-Skims dresses that suffocate my skin. I don’t know if I’ll ever stop quoting “The Love Song of J Alfred Prufrock” or if I want to forget that lamplight I cried under. These were memories I swore I had left at the bottom of the bowl for the dish drop of my brain. But I suppose, in my house, contradiction cracks through the foundation.
“I know, I’m glad I stayed too.”
Sincerely,
Corinne
