I've never looked forward to going back to school. As soon asJCPenney and Target started flashing "back to school sale" signs, Iwould dig my heels into the ground and try to make time move asslowly as possible. Last summer, after high school graduation andbefore moving into my very own dorm room at the University ofIllinois in Champaign, was no different.
Just a year ago, I spent every waking moment on the phone, hangingout, sending massive repetitive e-mails containing my just-receivedschool address and phone number, promising time and time again toalways stay in touch. Last summer, I did anything to prevent thethought of moving out to linger.
Now, the days can't seem to move quickly enough. The thought ofgoing back to college isn't the cloudburst over my day; it's thelight at the end of my tunnel. Three months of solid family-including a three-week vacation to Ireland-just doesn't say summerlike it did in grade school-or high school, for that matter.
Instead of feeling released from the regimented school life, Ionly felt caged. I was expected to take up the same role in thehouse that I held before moving out. My family had a routine thatdidn't fit me. They moved around to reopen the space I had leftvacant, but it was a spot I didn't want anymore. I felt like anoutsider.
The move back home was almost as awkward and unnerving as the moveout last August. My room looked unfamiliar, almost unfriendly.Everyone smiled too much, as if the showing of teeth would make mefeel at home. It took me two weeks to untrain my mind not to slip onsome flip-flops on the way to the shower.
At first my parents tried to act cool about my return. They triednot to mention the word "curfew", although I could see it resting onthe tips of their tongues, waiting. It was after our return fromIreland that they finally broke down and told me when to be home.
It took much less time to remember the freedom of a dorm room witha lock.
Sisters knocking on the door, asking to borrow clothes, loudarguments taking place in the hallway, disagreements over the phone,the television, or worse yet, the car. I woke up weekends to slammingdoors and pounding feet, fighting the urge to open my bedroom doorand yell "It's Quiet Hours!"
Clare, my sister, graduated in May, and she's moving into her dormroom in Wisconsin on Wednesday. It tears me up that I can't be there,but I'm already situated in Urbana, and classes start in a few days.I remember how scared I was, how much I wanted a familiar face, howmy roommate brought her whole family, how I fought tears all the wayto the front door of the dorm.
Now, it seems so easy to return. I feel like I belong. After all,home is where the heart is.
My new friends called me from all over the state, and seeing theirfaces again is surprisingly heartwarming. Even the cramped quartersof the dorm are a welcome sight. I look forward to walking on theQuad, standing in line at the bookstore, recounting tales of summerexploits.
The return to school lacks the worries I was plagued by last year.I'm living with people I already know I like and easily get alongwith-I have no worries about the roommate from hell or being leftwithout a friend at school. I already know the campus and am hardlyconcerned with procuring books or making it to class on time. Thestress of moving in is markedly less. My mother even sent me suppliedwith provisions in the probable event of inedible dorm food.Everything just seems so easy this time around.
Even the thought of starting class makes me feel strangely happy.My handpicked schedule, empty notebooks and unread books are somehowexciting, as is the prospect of what awaits me in psychology andliterature, the reason I'm here, to learn. Even my theater courseswill present a wider variety of experiences-a directing course, and practicums (hands-on crew experience working on theater departmentshows).
I even know what to avoid. I know what buildings are menaces tofind your way around, I know certain professors to avoid in thefuture at all costs, I know what courses to recommend to friendstrying to load up their schedules.
But my room is what I feel most comfortable in. Though I'm not yetcompletely moved in or unpacked, I feel more like me in my dorm. Thefreshmen that walk up and down the halls, looking lost or uncertain,never cease to bring a smile to my face. They look at me like I knowsomething they don't, like I have magical powers or something thathelped me survive to become a sophomore. I feel wise, and ready toshare my knowledge and experience. I am a well.
I may not dread back-to-school sales, or try to ignore my motheras she tries to sort out pencils and notebooks and school-supplylists in August, but I still identify with the child who wanted tomake time slow down. A year has gone by, and as I sit on my dorm roomfloor surrounded by boxes, looking at a bare mattress and emptywalls, I wonder how that year got by me so fast.
Does time ever slow down? Give you time to do all the things thatneed to be done? Let you prepare for what's coming next?
I blinked-and now I'm 19. I'll blink again and I'll be 40.College is all that I hoped and more-I only hope I have time to enjoyit all.
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