518 words on individuality and my new home

Brevity is the soul of wit when you spent all day unpacking and organizing your belongings, attending meetings and welcome sessions, hiking up and down hills, and saying goodbye to your father, all in the name of moving into your new home.

Therefore, I really will be brief tonight.

I moved into my new home: a white room in the basement of a big, orange, brick building. It’s actually much more fun than I make it sound. I’ve got a great roommate who thought to bring all sorts of cool, homey things that I would have thought to bring, but never actually bought (remember: I don’t like stuff). I brought a lot of stuff (posters, books, a big, yellow cello case) that add a lot of personality to the white canvas. The room’s conveniently situated right next to both the bathroom and the laundry room. My building is right in the middle of campus; there are some cool perks that I should definitely write about later when I’m not itching to crawl into bed.

Not that I really know, but I would bet that our room would win a “best decorated” award. It totally encapsulates the motto of individuality. More on that when I’m organized enough to take pictures.

In my first 13 hours here I’ve discovered how pertinent individuality is to this place. Hair styles were the obvious markers of individuality. Pink hair. Blue hair. No hair (for women and men alike). Dreds. Fros. The crazy, big, curly hair that I wish I could pull off but too am too afraid to attempt. The next big thing was makeup: lots, and lots of makeup, with lipstick being a common thread. As for clothing: everything from overalls to crop tops, from skinny jeans to booty skirts, and lots other garments any trendy thrift store could wish to sell. Let’s not forget the gauges and tattoos either. This is not a criticism; it’s just an observation that my peers make their mark in their presentation.          

I realized this before, of course, but wandering around with the other 390 freshman forced me to look around and notice how common I outer appearance is. My hair is blond-going-brown. I have earring holes, but that’s it. Today I wore a my green Ohio t-shirt in hopes that my peers might remember me by my Midwestern roots. That’s another discovery. I found one surface-level trait that makes me an individual: I’m from Ohio. I met one other girl from Cleveland. I would say, “I’m from Columbus” and get the slow-nod of approval. “Ooooh, you’re not from a coast. That’s cool.”

(The coast of Lake Erie, if that counts.)

Most people are from California. Lots of kids are from the East Coast. We Midwesterners are sprinkled in here and there. I can type very confidently, though I don’t actually know this for sure, that there are more foreign students than Ohioans. All I have to say as I pass the 500 words marker is that I’m very cool with that. But, for the heck of it, O-H!

…

I’m not at that home anymore.    

Arrival at the Anthill

We (my dad and I) have arrived at the anthill.

I’m too weary for the long explanation, but I’ll give you the brief version, for brevity is the soul of wit. The other night my family and my grandparents went out to dinner one last time before I left. One of my grandfathers compared New York City to an anthill, what with ants being very busy and New York being a very busy city with very busy people with very busy lives who are studying at very busy universities and very raising busy children and running very busy companies, assuming they’re not very busy tourists who have very busy travel itineraries before they have to go back to their very busy lives in, say, Columbus. I’m dubious that he’ll make it up to campus anytime soon.

When I visited before last April, I flew into the LaGuardia, where my uncle picked me up to take me back to his place. Actually, it was his friend’s family’s house. It was a super cool place in Red Hook, Brooklyn. The next morning I took the bus to the subway to the train station so that I could buy a ticket to take the metro line north to Bronxville to get in a taxi for a two minute car ride to campus. (Form=Content.) Going home I walked to the train station, took the train to 125^th, and then cabbed it back to LaGuardia. My point: today was the first time I’ve driven to SLC. Dad drove, actually, while I navigated. We did well, crossing the George Washington Bridge and all, but we were too mesmerized by the Skyline to notice that I-87 N turned off sooner than we though. So we took some other parkway. It was fine.

I thought the ant hillaffect was only relevant near the city, like Harlem and south, but to my surprise, it has its impact on Bronxville. I like the anthill feel of New York. I come from a family of urbanite-wannabes. I love Columbus, since it’s the city I’ve “grown up in”, but I also love Columbus’ highways; they make sense. 315, 70, 71, and 670 make a nice, accessible square around the city. I don’t know NYC’s highways yet. I have a feeling I won’t get acquainted anytime soon, since I don’t have a car or anything. The train line: now that will hopefully be my good friend after four years.

The trip to the anthill was lovely. We drove through Ohio’s amber waves of grain; I’ve always had a vague appreciation for it, especially in August. Pennsylvania was lovely with its big skies and green, tree lined mountains. Through the trip we drilled through dad’s CD collection, rehashing his favorite artists through his upbringing. CDs included ELO, Mary Chapin Carpenter, Louis Armstrong, Elton John, Jimmy Buffet, Lou Bega, Ace of Base, Jackson Brown, and Jim Croce.

About that last one, Jim Croce. At some point on the CD the song “New York’s Not my Home” came on, as we were driving closer and closer to our east-coast destination. Ironic.

When we finally saw the skyline in New Jersey I put Billy Joel’s album in and put on “New York State of Mind”. Counteraction. I gotta work on that, my New York State of Mind. More on that later.   

Dad and I sauntered around Bronxville, where we discovered banks, restaurants, and my roommate and her family of all people. We’d met once before, so she recognized me from a coffee shop called Kafe Haus. I’m glad she did; it was cool running into them.

After Bronxville we drove over to the very anti-anthill campus. We enjoyed the tranquil, green campus while it wasn’t overrun by new families moving in. I gave my best tour that I could, remembering buildings as I came across them, but for the most part we embarked on our own serendipitous exploration. I confirmed which building was my dormitory. I had to resist the urge to climb the trees and exposed boulders. I only sat on half of the benches. Walking around campus, even if I didn’t totally know where I was going, made me feel like I had some credibility, and like the adventure was officially underway. I felt like a little kid who is let loose for recess on a playground; I wanted to go play on campus. We’ll see how long those sentiments last.   

Dad collected acorns on the trails. “They’re for the farm,” he claimed, saying that he’d take them home and plant them in Ohio. I wanted to hug him and say how much I’d miss him, but I was too worried about looking cool at hipster college. In retrospect, that was stupid because I was walking around with a map and guided tour packet wearing a Sarah Lawrence College shirt. I’ll grow out of it with time.

So, Bronxville, West Chester County, New York, USA, North Western Hemisphere: I’ve arrived. Another ant for your intellectual, artsy, hipster anthill. Hopefully you have a need for a little, blond, blue-eyed, writer-wannabe like me.

So much for too weary for a long explanation.

P.S- I had my first black squirrel sighting: SLC’s so artsy that even the squirrels wear black. That corny one liner is printed on a t-shirt that, at least at one point, was available in the college bookstore.  

The Eve of the Move

I always thought Eve would be a nice name; it’s certainly not one you’d see on key chains or Coke® bottles, but I don’t know if that’s necessarily a bad thing.

But anyway, as I told my  aunt on the phone today, this is the eve of the end of my quotidian life in Columbus, Ohio. How do I feel about that?

Fine.

[The next five paragraphs are a summary of the eve of moving off to college. If that is uninteresting to you, as it understandably may be, jump ahead to…wherever.] 

I spent today tying up some last minute strings; maybe that’ll be more so tomorrow. I got up to take my sister and brother to school for the penultimate time in a while, I assume. The loop, if you know Columbus at all, is basically down I-71 to Broad St. to the all-girls school in Columbus to drop my sister off, and then across I-670 west bound to Upper Arlington to drop my brother off at the school I attended for 13 years. I haven’t been a graduate for more than three months and I’ve already been invited back for alumni events. No donation requests...yet. 

On the way home I stopped off at Starbucks for coffee and CVS for some toiletry stuff. Back at the house I packed; I was probably about 60% packed already. A lot of what I accomplished this morning involved finalizing lists of stuff to do, acquire, and pack, as well as sorting through winter clothes and telling myself that I didn’t need to take all of the scarves that I set aside from when my family moved earlier this summer.

Other random things happened, too; I finished a book that I borrowed, I finally faxed my medical forms to SLC (the woman on the phone seemed overly thrilled to receive them), and my dad and I went to Skyline Chili before embarking on a considerably extensive shopping trip. I still have lots of random stuff to get, like snacks and mace (or pepper spray).

My sister had a cross country meet this evening. It seems like when she has meets they’re out on the far outskirts of the city. The thing about Columbus, which I actually like, is that one doesn’t have to drive more than 15 minutes away from the city to reach farm land. It was a lovely drive down and back; I passed the city skyline, drove through a storm and under a rainbow,  through the classic Ohio country side to Canal Winchester High School to watch my sister run with (a personal estimate of) 150 other girls.

I’ve only been to two cross country meets, but they’re probably my favorite sport to watch. First off, they’re brief; they last only about 30 minutes. Second off, it’s just people running, which makes me want to run, but then I remember that I’m a terrible runner. Third off, there’s lots of energy as a spectator, unlike my high school sport (softball). Despite the storm and baking sun, the weather was great, which adds lots to meets. Grace PRed with a way better time than I could ever imagine myself running.

On the drive home Grace read me sarcastic dating advice. I don’t really remember any of the things that well. Basically, don’t brag about your high school self because nobody cares. I’ll follow up on that sometime.

So then, home again, I packed up the newly obtained supplies and figured I should write a blog post because, hey, the eve of me leaving home is kind of big.

Or is it?

I’ll be back around Thanksgiving. That’s soon, right?

Wow. I just now had the urge to cry. But I’m not going to.

In my head I’ve been thinking of songs that would work for this instance in my life. Here’s what I’ve come up with:

            -She’s Leaving Home by The Beatles

            -Little Boxes by Pete Seeger

            -New York, New York by Frank Sinatra

            -New York State of Mind by Billy Joel

            -Leaves that are Green by Simon and Garfunkel

            -Empire State of Mind by Jay Z and Alicia Keys

            -Cool Kids by Echosmith  

            -Good Life by Onerepublic

            -These are Days by 10,000 Maniacs

If my life were a sitcom, hypothetically since I’m not sure it would be a successful sitcom, I think my opening credits would be to the song “The John Wayne” by Little Green Cars. I figured this out while walking around D.C. It’s a song that makes me feel “charged,” metaphorically, like I’m a cellphone or an electrical appliance that requires a wall charger.

But I digress.

The plan: Tomorrow afternoon I’m taking off with my stuff, packed up in our gray SUV, and my dad. We’re stopping in Cleveland for the evening and Dubois, Pennsylvania for the night. We’ll finish up the journey on Friday. I’m hoping to get to Bronxville by 14:00 so that the two of us can take a tour of campus. I’ve visited the bookishly-nerdy, supposedly hipster campus; dad has not. Hopefully he'll be as charmed by it as I am.

Move in is Saturday.

Hipster College, here I come.  

One Week 'Til SLC

Is it bad to say that I'm sick of saying goodbye?

I don’t remember when these more-than-temporary-but-not-necessarily-permanent goodbyes started. Those are the, “I’m not going to see you again before you leave for college” goodbyes, often coupled with “good luck.” With every time someone wishes me well, I feel like my response grows less and less sincere.

"Thank you so much! I'm really going to miss it so much here." 

"Thanks so much! I'm really looking forward to it."

“Yeah, I’ll be around over Thanksgiving break. That’s just a few months, right?”

“Thank you! You, too!”

“Thanks! I appreciate it.”

"Yeah, thanks."   

“Take care.”

Those were for my high school teachers, my cello teacher, some friends from school, people from work, distant relatives, and friends in Delaware, OH.

Then the other category of goodbyes suddenly started. The ones for my best friends, all of who have moved into their dorms, met their roommates, and eaten dinner in their cafeterias. OSU. Kenyon College. American University. Science-Po. NYU. Macalester. Case Western. Wright State. They've all moved in. Those goodbyes felt like goodbyes to my closest friends as they embarked on their new life, almost, but not at all really, like I was being left behind. I have to keep reminding myself though that, no, I’m not getting left behind; my ship just hasn’t sailed yet…

…and that’s almost scarier than being left behind. Because I know I’m next.

Yes, I suspect that this is the impending-doom feeling that I was warned about. Sorry to be dramatic.

Most of my panic derives from the fact that I haven’t even seriously gone shopping for the “stuff.” Sheets. Soap. Boots. Poster hangers. Pens. Sticky-notes. Etc.etc.etc.etc.etc. It seems like the list gets longer and longer and longer with every college-packing-advice source I read. A week from tonight will be my first night at SLC and I don’t even have…well, the stuff. Working my summer job in retail has turned me off of “stuff.” But that’s an adult-thing that I’ll need to face: buying washcloths, among lots of other “stuff.”

You know what’s pathetic? I’m freaking out about buying things, but I live down the street from one of the biggest malls in the Columbus area. And if that’s not enough, I live even closer to Target, Old Navy, and BED BATH AND BEYOND. Somebody with the a master-plan set this up for me so that it would be too easy, and yet I remain at my kitchen table, typing my stress away.

So there's the packing stress. But the overarching stress is definitely the goodbyes to people that matter to me. I calculate the last time I'll see certain people, recognize that it is in fact nearly permanent, execute the appropriate action ("goodbye" "see you soon" etc.) and then move through my list. Teachers from school, one by one: check. People I volunteer with: check. My best friends, one by one, either in person or over the phone: check. My boyfriend: check. And the latest one, my Grandma: check. That was the first close-family-member-who-lives-in-Ohio farewell. She bid me au revoir with towels and money "to buy things that I discover that I need for my dorm after I've arrived." I recognize the sadness, but I'm relieved (two less towels to buy). Goodbyes to come that I may cry over: my three other grandparents, my sisters, my brothers, and my dad. But let’s not get ahead of ourselves.

Hello, hello, hello, hello. Goodbye, goodbye, goodbye, goodbye. 

That's all there is.

And the leaves that are greeeeeeeen turn to brown. 

I’m sick of writing about goodbyes. I’m gonna write about my new lawyer.

Okay, I don’t actually have a lawyer. I’ll explain.

This summer I worked at the Columbus Zoo; my last shift is days away. I assure you, I’m not a Zookeeper. The closest  come to working with animals is when I get to sell dead fish at the Stingray Exhibit (feeding stingrays, by the way, is so worth two dollars). Anyway, the Zoo’s credit card policy is as follows: if the back of the card is unsigned, cashiers, re: yours truly, must ask for an ID. I accidentally just typed “idea.” I’d love to ask a customer for an idea sometime; maybe tomorrow. I enjoy carding people because it’s fun to see where people are from. Most guests hail from Ohio, Michigan, Pennsylvania, Kentucky, West Virginia, or Indiana. I’ll get the occasional foreigner (that’s always cool), and from time to time, a New Yorker, like in today’s scenario.

The cashier next to me, Patrick, carded a woman with a New York driver’s license. I noticed and asked, as the rules of small talk say, “Where in New York are you from?”   

“Tarrytown; it’s about 30 minutes north of Manhattan.”

Funny. That’s the exact same way I describe the geographical location of Bronxville.

“Anywhere near Bronxville?” I ask, trying to manage my excitement at the coincidence.

“Yeah, 10 minutes away. You from there?”

Patrick bagged up her “stuff” and we idly talked about Westchester county, the area, and I joked about crashing her place if things went wrong.

She gave me her card. Seriously. She’s a lawyer with an office on East 42^nd Street who lives in Tarrytown, just north of Bronxville. She said to contact her if I ever needed direction for stuff to do in the area.

What if I need a lawyer? I guess I know one now.  

So yes. There are goodbyes. But there are also hellos to come. And a new autumn. And goodnights. [Time for bed so I can clock in at 8AM tomorrow chez Columbus’ Premier Tourist Attraction.] 

Some exposition. An introduction. A plan. Maybe.

I'm sitting here, attempting to start my "college blog" on my floor-bound mattress in the bedroom I’ve been sharing with my younger (by a mere two years and three months) sister for the past few weeks. She's peeling sales stickers off her new school binders, and lightly chatting about her college application plans. “What’s a low acceptance rate for college?”

I think about the University of Chicago, which had been my first choice. “Four percent.”

“Oh. Well, Lewis and Clark is, like, 44 percent, I think. That’s relatively high, right? I think Middlebury’s acceptance rate is, like, 16 percent? Does that sound right? I think I wanna go there. But you didn’t get in, so I’m kind of worried that I won’t get in.”

She’s starting her Junior year of high school tomorrow. College is definitely on her radar, but she hasn’t even gone on a campus tour. The SAT book waits to be studied. Her transcript is only half finalized. While she’s just starting her first steps on the long, arduous college search and application process, I stand on the other side of the road, pennant flag in hand, relieved that that is all behind me; college starts in 11 days (but who’s counting?).

The reasons behind my college selection is probably another post; this is supposed to be an introduction, right? Isn’t that what I typed in the title? I’m the boss here, aren’t I?

So, assuming that the above is true, hello!

I imagine we’ve met in real life and you’re reading this blog post because you’re interested in keeping up with this next little bit of my life (or maybe you’re just being nice? That's cool, too), but in case I haven’t gotten the pleasure (right?) of meeting you, I’m Em,¹ I’m from Columbus,² and I’m going to be starting my first year at Sarah Lawrence College³ in 11 days⁴. There’ve been roughly 6,898 days of existence that have shaped me into a slightly more complicated individual than that information may provide, but for the intents and purposes of this paragraph, that’ll suffice.

I have about a dozen topics that I could cover in the next few moments of your attention, but most importantly here’s the scoop about this blog:
1)    Whether I’ve truly realized it or not, I’m going to be off on the next “big adventure” of my life, partially because I’m moving 590-some-odd miles from home, but mainly because I’m specializing in some sort of academic field (I try to tell myself), I’m moving into a dormitory, and I’m going to get a taste of independence⁵. There are a gazillion more reasons why this is a big adventure, lots relating to lifestyle changes, but is that what adventure is all about? Changing your life? Over the past few months my life has morphed and altered but I didn’t have to move states to make that happen. That’s probably another discussion. BUT, I am leaving behind a lot of friends and family. They’ve said to keep them posted with all of the things going on during my “big adventure.” So, voilà. What more effective means of mass communication is better than social media/blogs?        

2)      I’m interested in studying creative writing; that’s one of my foremost reasons for picking SLC. I really enjoy writing about my thoughts, experiences, travels, family, friends, emotions, and what have you (or I), but it has predominantly been in the confines of a bound journal. As for a writing…resumé, for lack of a better word, my crowning, written achievement was a short play that was produced in 2013 as part MadLab Theater’s Young Writers Short Play Festival held in Columbus, Ohio. If you look deep enough in the layers of Teen Ink, you may find some fiction written by yours truly (I will not, however, point you in any particular direction). I’ve written a few other short plays for an annual high school show called The Playwright SLAM! And…I did keep an epistolary blog when I spent six weeks in Toulouse, France. This isn’t to brag or say, “SEE! I COULD BE A CREATIVE WRITING MAJOR IF I WANT! HAVE SOME FAITH IN ME!” But I digress. My point is that, given my interest, starting a written, electronic blog seemed like a reasonable step.

So, now that I’ve established my why for this blog, I’ll explain what I mean by “Hipster College.”

First off, Hipster? What does that vague popular-culture reference mean? I actually wouldn’t totally know; I don’t think of myself as one. In fact, I’m sort of the title of this blog is intended to be tongue and cheek. Maybe I’ll become a hipster in time. Maybe I’m a hipster and I don’t even realize it. The ever reliable Urban Dictionary defines hipsters as:

 (noun) a subculture of men and women typically in their 20's and 30's that value independent thinking, counter-culture, progressive politics, an appreciation of art and indie-rock, creativity, intelligence, and witty banter. The greatest concentrations of hipsters can be found living in…neighborhoods of major cosmopolitan centers such as New York, Chicago, and San Francisco respectively. Although "hipsterism" is really a state of mind, it is also often intertwined with distinct fashion sensibilities. Hipsters reject the culturally-ignorant attitudes of mainstream consumers, and are often be seen wearing vintage and thrift store inspired fashions, tight-fitting jeans, old-school sneakers, and sometimes thick rimmed glasses. 

You get the gist?

Go google “America’s most hipster colleges.” Kenyon will be on that list. So will Brown. And Oberlin. Probably Vassar, too. Alongside all of those lovely, artsy liberal arts colleges will be SLC. Huffington post [electronically] published a photographic article about these schools. To help illustrate my point about SLC:

Sarah Lawrence gives its students an amount of academic freedom that is unusual: the school eschews grades, majors, and even exams. The lack of structure encourages a kind of self-reliance and individuality that students say allows a Sarah Lawrence attendee to satisfy theirintellectual curiosity and allows them the free time (if they can manage themselves well) to delve intotheir quirky non-academic interests as well.

Yes, it’s true that SLC takes the phrase “liberal arts” very seriously. It’s true that there are no majors (that’s fun to explain to people when they ask “what’s your major gonna be?), therefore I don’t have to “fulfill” a major. My graduation requirements include taking at least one course in three out of four academic categories: creative and preforming arts, humanities, social sciences, and the good ’ol science and math. There are other constituents that make it slightly more complicated, like if I want to be a “theater third” or a “language third,” but I don’t totally know how to explain them. I can get an acknowledged concentration along on my degree, like if I want to “concentrate in Creative Writing” or “Economics” or “Underwater Basket Weaving,⁶” but otherwise I get a Liberal Arts Degree for my undergrad. I think. Basically, there’s no core and no majors to fulfill, but I have to take courses in order to be a student (duh). As for quirky, non-academic interests? Does playwriting count? What about softball? Maybe Huff Post means artistic? SLC is pretty artistic; more on that later.

As for grades: I will still have grades for courses, but most of the feedback from teachers are written evaluations…so they said.

If any school has a motto that sounds like a hipster rallying cry, it's Sarah Lawrence: "You are different. So are we." 

It's a bit more off the beaten path than "Veritas." 

And while the school can find itself to be somewhat isolated in its suburban community, many students take advantage of nearby New York City on weekends, allowing them access to a larger hipster scene than most small liberal arts colleges can provide.

Suburban community: yes, but from what I’ve seen, it’s like Bexley in Columbus. I actually don’t know Bronxville all that well. I’ll keep you posted. For the record, yes, I’m pretty pumped about the whole New York City aspect, not that I'm sure I'll be in the city all that much.

But these are just anecdotes that set SLC aside from the thousands of other wonderful universities and colleges in the United States. I also like that SLC has a lot of quirky, flowery course names, such as:

            -Not by Fact Alone: the Making of History
            -Babies, Birds, and Bots: an Introduction to Developmental Cognitive Science
            -The Political and Cultural Work of Women Writers in the U.S.
            -The Computational Beauty of Nature

            -MIDI: Sequencing, Recording, and Mastering Electronic Music

            -Experiment and Scandal: the 18^th Century British Novel

            -The Playwright’s Gym

The list goes on for 157 pages.   

I also have to interview the professors of desired courses; the entire student body (all 1,400 of us…I think?) has to. I have an advisor, known as a “Don.” I don’t know a whole lot about that yet, other than the fact that my Don is the great Cassandra Medley. 

In the ongoing cultural phenomenon known as small-talk, I get asked lots of questions about SLC. The most common are...
Where is that? Bronxville, New York.
All women? Nope! Co-ed since the 60's. That being said, it's about 70% female.
How old? Established in 1928.
Alum? Barbra Walters went there; so did Yoko Ono. So did the mayor of Chicago.
It’s in Bronxville, NY; about a 30 minute train ride from the city.
Aren't you excited?!:Yes, I’m so excited to go, but it’s a very fatigued excitement, since I’ve known about this for nearly half a year now. Yes, I’m terrified, more on that later.   

To wrap things up...
My intent: sharing stories and experiences from college with people who care to read them. If that’s you, then thank you a million times over. I will do my best to be entertaining.

FOOT NOTES

1        1 That’ 11% of my name, anyway.

2 Columbus, Ohio, the Buckeye Capital of the world.

3 which I shall hereby refer to as SLC

4 Well, now 10. I like writing at night.

5 Independence in the sense that I live alone, except not even that really because I have a roommate.

6 How’s that for a quirky extracurricular? 

RELEVANT LINKS:

Huffington Post Article: http://www.huffingtonpost.com/unigo/top-10-hipster-colleges_b_1861977.html

Urban Dictionary's Definition of Hipster: http://www.urbandictionary.com/define.php?term=hipster

The Blog I kept while I was in France: https://digital-dirigible.squarespace.com/ems-france-trip
Cassandra Medley: http://www.slc.edu/faculty/medley-cassandra.html