Toto, We’re Not in Florida Anymore

It didn’t begin with the sirens, but with a beep from Lydia’s phone. Then, all our phones started ding-ing and I ended up crammed into the bathroom (our “safe zone”) with two of my roommates, our friend Rachel, and two of the girls who live above us. Scrunched into our shower, I remembered being back home when I was little, snuggling up in my closet with a flashlight and books while a hurricane raged outside. Funny. This is the closest to my hometown (Tampa Bay) I’ve felt in a while.

For the past few weeks, I’ve battled icy conditions with youthful vigor and the charming naivety of a baby playing with a rattlesnake. The first time I saw my windshield coated with an armor of thick ice, I had no strategy for counterattack. I wrenched my car door open and turned on the heat and the windshield wipers, which didn’t help. After a hasty retreat to my dorm, I returned brandishing glass cleaner and paper towels. (Spoiler alert: they didn’t work.)

As a tow-headed third grader, I got an entire week off because of the imminent threat of hurricanes. I’ve run three miles along the beach in rain, thunder, lightning, and hail. But this was my first tornado. I’d imagined it would start with a dark stillness in the sky, then cyclonic winds would tear shutters (that magically appeared for this fantasy) off the dorm windows…something like The Wizard of Oz.

Instead, it looks and sounds like a thunderstorm, except that I can hear the warning sirens and feel the cold, smooth bottom of our shower while we wait for our RA to give us the all-clear.

Toto, I have a feeling we’re not in Kansas anymore.

I think there’s a reason that’s one of the most famous lines in cinematic history. It expresses a pensive sense of displacement. It was obvious that she was far from home, but there’s still a sense of hesitancy, uncertainty, and innocent bewilderment as Dorothy wonders where she is. And this simple statement implies a poignant question: can we return home?

They say “home is where the heart is,” but what the heck is that supposed to mean? I divide most of my time between college and where I grew up, about a 900-mile difference. When I’m at school, I miss my family, usually calling them a couple times a week and texting constantly. Then again, homecoming isn’t like a parade across the football field wearing a sparkly crown and holding a bouquet of red roses; it’s more like precariously walking a tightrope, attempting to balance the freedom I have at school with that fact that I’m back in the room I’ve had since I was eight. And no matter where I am, I spend a lot of time planning where to go next. For instance, right now, I’m planning on moving to Birmingham this summer for an internship.

Each one of these places has my heart somehow; I love my family, I love my friends, I love school, and I love my work. It would be so simple if I could just click my heels and magically be transported to one place where everyone and everything I care about exists in perfect harmony. Instead, I’m sprinting down yellow brick roads, hoping they’ll carry me to my dreams.

Saying that I don’t know where home is sounds heartbreakingly mournful. But I don’t think it is. It’s only sad if there’s nowhere to go or no one to be with. There’s something wonderful – scary and beautiful and bewildering – about facing a world full of open doors, hearts willing to welcome you in, and suitcases ready to travel to every corner of the globe.

Maybe that’s the idea. Maybe home doesn’t have to be one, single place. Maybe a central facet of maturity is the conscious decision to find joy in any situation, love for new neighbors, and beauty in foreign surroundings, so that wherever we are, we can sincerely and confidently say, “There’s no place like home.”

 

Littles and Childbirth and STD (it’s clean, I promise)

I was awakened by loud music reverberating from my phone.

It was midnight and I, being an early riser and, therefore, a terrible college kid, was already dead asleep.

Groggy and confused, I rolled over and nearly fell out of bed, wondering why an alarm was going off while it was still dark outside and why it was on my phone when I only set alarms on my desk clock.

I had a vague sense that I was forgetting something.

I picked my phone up and swiped to make the annoying noise stop. Then I realized that it was a call and I had just answered it.

“Hello?” I murmured in a soft, sleepy voice.

“Hi!” an incredibly awake voice chirped. “Want to find out who your Littles are?”

Suddenly, I remembered. I had set my phone ring to the highest volume possible because tonight we found out who our Littles were.

Littles? I got more than one?

The rest is hysteria.

I mean, history.

Nah. I mean hysteria.

The rest of the week was a crafting frenzy. When I wasn’t working on something for the Littles, I was studying or working on our school newspaper. Meals were irregular. Sleep was a sweet dream.

Day Three of Big/Little week, I was initiated into the English honors society, Sigma Tau Delta (STD, for short. Apparently English nerds are terrible at stringing together Greek letters). I was given a certificate and a pin. (I get a kick out of telling people I’m wearing my STD pin.) After obligingly mingling for a few minutes, I power-walked to my dorm (in heels) and began frantically painting for one of my Little’s basket. She likes “Despicable Me,” so I decided to paint a minion with the words “one in a minion.” I grabbed a scrap piece of paper to see if I could even paint a decent minion. Thankfully, I could, and I managed to successfully deliver her present. As I cleaned up, I picked up the piece of paper to throw it away.

Then I realized that I had actually painted the back of my STD certificate. (Wow, that really is a horrible acronym.)

That about sums up my week. In a figurative and also very literal way.

I was sleep deprived, stressed, and my “To-Do List” kept growing longer while my time to accomplish items on said list kept shrinking. It was the craziest week of my life.

But when I look back on it, I don’t remember any of that.

I think of the notes my Littles wrote me, telling me how much they loved their gifts and how excited they were to meet me. I think of jumping out from behind one Little and hearing her shriek, “You tricked me!” Immediately followed by, “I wanted it to be you!” I think of dragging my Big and one Little backstage to surprise my other Little after her performance and being unceremoniously kicked out. And I think of standing in the lobby, holding her family shirt, when she walked out in the reception line. I think of how surprised she was when she realized what was going on and how another cast member had to tear her away from our first family gathering to thank the audience.

I never understood childbirth before – how a woman can undergo such intense pain and forget about it when she finally gets to hold her little one.

I get it now. At least a little bit.

I love my babies. And, given the choice, I would go through the entire, chaotic week for them all over again.

I would even paint a cartoon figure on the back of a certificate of high academic accomplishment. Or, if it came down to it, not be a part of STD at all.

You know what I mean.

Ohana means family. And I have the best family ever.

How College Made Me a Criminal

I am an accessory.

And I don’t mean that as a metaphor, like, “I am a silver necklace in a world of oversized t-shirts.”

I mean like the criminal kind.

In the past, I have been what laymen commonly refer to as a “Goody-Two Shoes.” Or, as my more technical-speaking sister called me, a “Goody-Goody.” (I never saw the insult in this statement, which is a defining characteristic of the Goody-Two Shoes species.)

But, as I’ve said before, college changes you.

It gives rise to crimes of desperation. Sheer desperation.

I mean, there’s no thrill or glamour in stealing toilet paper.

Sometimes, it’s just kind of necessary.

Coming out of class today, I saw my friend, Lydia. I ran up behind her and tapped her on the shoulder.

“Hi,” she said, taking out her earphones. “I’m going to the PAC to steal some toilet paper.”

That’s the thing about Lydia. It doesn’t matter whether she is watching Netflix or planning murder. She will tell you exactly what she is doing in the same frank, outright manner.

“Oh.” I looked up at the building. “I’ll go with you.” We live in the same dorm building. I figured we could walk back together after stealing a roll or two.

But Lydia was a woman on a mission.

We went to. Every. Single. Bathroom. In. The. Building.

It isn’t actually that dramatic. There are only three bathrooms, all on the same floor.

And we walked away with only one roll.

My roommate did the same thing once, when we were out of toilet paper. And, to be completely honest, I have, too. (Fine. I’ve been an accessory twice and perpetrator once.)

Still, if the punishment fits the crime, I cannot imagine we would have a harsh sentence.

It reminds me of a case in New York where a man was found guilty of stealing a loaf of bread. The judge fined everyone in the courtroom for living in a city where a man had to steal a loaf of bread, then gave the collected money to the man.

I sympathize.

Though, thankfully, we’re not starving. Thanks to mandatory, pre-paid meal plans, we feast like kings on greasy cafeteria food.

We just need something to clean up with.

Freedom and Sausage

My first taste of freedom came at breakfast.

(Apologies for the pun.)

I have been away from home for several occasions – camp, conferences, sundry trips – but on all of those occasions, I had a rigid schedule with strict set of rules, the most prevalent being, “YOU MUST EAT EVERY MEAL.”

Being the rule-follower that I am, that was my mentality when I left for a college weekend – by myself. It didn’t even occur to me that we were not required to have breakfast until two girls I was rooming with decided to skip. I opened my mouth to warn them that they had to before I realized: we didn’t. There was no counselor or chaperone to “counsel” us to eat breakfast. That simple realization opened a new world.

I hesitate to use the word “freedom” because living off of weekly (okay, daily) petitions to my parents for money is hardly “freedom.” But working hard, planning for my future, and making my own decisions (yes, even dumb things like eating breakfast or not) is a beautiful kind of freedom.

I’m here because I want to be. And I ate breakfast, and still do, because I want to. Even though it seems to be an unwritten rule of college not to.

Every morning, I wake up, throw on some clothes, add a swipe of mascara, and slip off to the cafeteria for breakfast, leaving my roommate, and the rest of campus, slumbering.

Every morning, I eat alone.

The only other people I ever see in the cafeteria are the athletes; some girls wearing colorful Nike shorts, others wearing basketball shorts, and guys in t-shirt and workout shorts.

One dreary, rainy morning, the athletes were allowed to sleep-in and I discovered a chatty chemistry major who was eager to dump her woeful tale of an 8 o’clock Physics II class on a sympathetic ear. So eager, it didn’t matter that that ear was precariously balancing a thick book, colorful array of G-2 pens, open notebook, and plate of breakfast. From my table, holding my honors reading in one hand and a fork in another, I nodded at her miseries. After a slight lull, she interrupted my studying again to ask what class I had.

“Oh, I have Public Communication at 12:15 and Physics lab after that.”

Her eyes bulged. Her jaw dropped.

“What are you doing up?” she asked in an incredulous tone that implied that I suffer from a mental disorder of the highest degree: early bird syndrome.

I gave the poor girl a small smile and shrugged.

Just enjoying my freedom. And sausage.

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I Survived Awkward Day

My first day of classes!

Mama came in and gently woke me up.

I was awakened by sunlight streaming in through the blinds above my dorm bed.

I brushed my teeth. Mama pulled my fair hair back from my face.

I spread a towel on my bed and applied my make-up. Yawning, I strolled into the bathroom I share with my roommate and straightened my hair.

Mama made me a filling breakfast.

I poured myself cereal, too lazy to walk over to the cafeteria.

Mama smiled as she gave me my lunch box and had me pose while she took a picture to commemorate my first day of school.

After putting my student ID in my backpack, I took a selfie and sent it to Mom, so she could see her girl on her first day of college. Which I shall henceforth refer to as “Awkward Day.”

My first class as a college freshman, the professor strode to the front of the room. He placed his notes on the podium and peered at us through wire-rimmed glasses.

“Welcome to your first day of classes, or, as I like to call it, Awkward Day,” he greeted us. “Here, all of you are, sitting with pens and pencils in hand, waiting for me to say something profound or sagacious so that you can write it down. (Yes, I can see you.) And here I am, standing here, with nothing profound or sagacious to say.” A soft clattering and nervous chuckles swept the room as we put down our pens. “All of you are looking at me, sizing me up.” He lifted his tie. “Do you like my tie?” I had already approved.

He paused. “And you think you’re the only one making judgments?”

Starting college feels like being locked outside in your pajamas. And not cute little shorts and a tank top, more like footie pajamas with Dora the Explorer on them. Holding a sign that says, “I DON’T KNOW WHAT I’M DOING!”

You get lost (a lot). You sit in on the wrong class. You walk into the cafeteria and discover that it closed 30 minutes ago. You forget your keys, your RA is gone, and your roommate doesn’t have her cell phone (sorry, Hannah!). You question what you’re doing, who you are, why you’re here, and what the heck is coming out of your mouth. My first few days on campus, I felt like the clumsiest, most tongue-tied person on the planet.

The good news is that, eventually, it does get better. (Now I only feel like the clumsiest, most tongue-tied person on campus!) Gradually, you learn the names of the buildings and how to get around. Crowds become people and people become friends. You figure out how to do things for yourself. One day, you calm down and realize you’re home.

Or so I hear.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, it’s Awkward Day Part II – my first laundry day. I have to text my mom and figure out if I’ve sorted these clothes correctly.

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Drop Anchor or Set Sail?

When I think of my childhood, I think of the beach. I think of hours tramping in the ocean; wandering along the shore, collecting shells and driftwood with a childish eye for beauty and perfection; being flung around like a ragdoll in the washer after slipping off my boogie board; sundry family vacations; and constructing castles out of sand, shells, sticks, seaweed, and any other simple treasures I could find.

I remember standing on the seashore, watching sailboats skim across the rollicking waves, squinting against the sun as I tried to make out the figures on the ship. But no matter how hard I looked, they always remained elusive silhouettes gliding onto an unknown destination.

As a final “hurrah” before I left for college, my 21-year-old cousin Brittney and I visited a favorite old spot of ours – a pottery painting studio. (Admittedly, we are not the wild ones in the family.) This was a chance for us to talk and have fun, but it also served a practical purpose – I needed a mug.

For weeks, the thought of college hasn’t left my mind. Over and over, I imagined transforming my dorm room into a comfy living space, sitting in my first class, poring over books and notes at the coffee shop, confidently walking around campus with an armful of books…I spent hours lying on my bed, propped up on my elbows, browsing Pinterest for tips for college freshmen and researching the different organizations on campus. I have been wildly anticipating this and can’t wait strike out on my own, try new things, and meet new people.

However, there is a “sweet sorrow” in parting (to quote Mr. Shakespeare). I wanted my mug to remind me of home, too, and bring me back to this very moment, sitting with my cousin, two young adults looking hopefully into the future.

It’s no surprise that I immediately thought of the beach. What did surprise me was the phrase that popped into my head: Drop Anchor or Set Sail?

There is a point in our lives where we all need to ask ourselves that. Do I stay where I’m comfortable and content? Or do I lift the anchor and sail off to a new adventure? That was what I constantly asked myself during senior year. It was never a serious question, though. I knew that I wanted something different. I wanted to go where I didn’t know anybody and would be forced out of my comfort zone, where I could learn about myself and plan for my future without anybody expecting anything of me.

I also painted a quote inside the rim from one of my favorite authors, Louisa May Alcott: “I am not afraid of storms, for I am learning to sail…” (emphasis added).

I’m so wrapped up in fantasies, it’s hard to remember that I will inevitably make mistakes. Once, I saw a boat catch on fire. I watched people leap from the vessel as it belched black smoke into the serene June sky. Those people might not have made it to their intended destination, but they were safe. And that boat definitely never sailed again, but I still remember it, years later, when countless other ships have sailed (pun intended) out of my mind. Mistakes (obviously) are unpleasant and unwanted. But I’m learning. I’m learning about journalism and science and math, obviously, but, more importantly, I’m learning about myself. I’m learning how to live on my own. (Financially supported by my parents, that is.)

I have no idea what the next four years hold for me, let alone what I’ll do after I get my diploma. Statistics imply that I will change my major (perhaps multiple times) and end up in a job that has nothing to do with my degree anyway.

Maybe I’ll sink in a dazzling bonfire. Maybe I’ll find refuge on an exotic shore, unscathed and fabulously tan (hey, a girl can dream!). Whatever happens, I know that it will be an adventure.

Lift the anchor! I’m ready to set sail.

Answering the Question

Questions can be good things. They tickle our minds, inspire us to find answers. But they can also be frightening.

During senior year, you are asked a lot of questions. Innocent questions. “Where do you want to go to college?” Some of them you’ve been asked almost as long as you could speak. “What do you want to do when you graduate?”

They become frightening when you realize you don’t know the answers.

Those are questions I started seriously asking myself since freshman year. Fast forward four years and I want to have an answer.

I started visiting colleges freshman year. Senior year, I looked at almost every available college, categorized them, and, with some difficulty, picked my top schools from each category. But still, nothing seemed quite right. I panicked. I sent applications to every college I could think of (or, at least, every college that sent me a free application).

A few weeks ago (maybe a bit over a month), my pastor recommended a school to my dad. A little research showed that there was a contest for various levels of scholarships, but the deadline was only a few days away.

Half-crazed with desperation, I sent my application in.

I couldn’t attend the weekend at the college that applicants were encouraged to attend because I had a government conference that week. My interview (via Skype, which never works properly on my laptop) was set up a few days after I was scheduled to return from my sleep-deprived week. And, somehow, I had to find time to read a book entitled Serious Times. (An interesting book, but “reductive naturalism” and “syncretism” don’t make for a gripping read.)

I felt like I bombed my interview (especially when, as predicted, Skype failed me), but the stars aligned. I received full tuition, making this school even with my other top choices. And (coincidently?) my spring break was clear, so I could visit campus before my other scholarships expired.

After initial disappointment at the campus exterior (a recent ice storm had killed everything that’s supposed to be green), I discovered engaging professors, friendly students, exciting opportunities, and challenging curriculum. By the time I left, I was sure that Union University was the college God reserved for me.

Questions are good, but answers feel safe. And I’m glad that my biggest question will be “How should I decorate my dorm room?”