Three years and nine months ago, I came to this place so excited that I had goosebumps despite the smothering humidity and so terrified that I could stop moving for fear that if I ran out of something to do, the reality of the change before me would smack me down like an elephant-sized cinder block, straight onto the Yale blue stone. I felt the weight on my heart as I feel it now, as I stare at the green couch that has amazingly made its way back into this suite after we gave it away sophomore year. And again, as I think about the adventures to come, the changes to come, I don't want to acknowledge the way I feel; I don't want to mourn the loss of the last four years.I wrote the words above as I was sitting in my common room on my very last day of college, rather, my first day of my post-undergraduate life. It was the day after graduation, and everything had been packed up, including my poor Alzheimer's-ridden computer that was trying so hard to boot up with a hard drive that kept deteriorating each time it did. I had spent the last night with friends, a celebratory drink at Rudy's, lying on the couch sprawled on top of one another, breaking the ceremonial clay pipes that marked the end of our Yale-hood. And yet, it didn't seem like it would be, could be enough. The trick behind graduation is that you're so busy with Baccalaureate, Class Day, Commencement, the ceremonies, the picture-taking, the standing, the sitting, the walking, and the cheering, that you don't have time to really say goodbye. Maybe it shouldn't be goodbye; after all, we'll probably, maybe, see each other again. But that way of life, the dining halls, awkward encounters at 3 AM in the bathroom, collective sympathetic sighs, are behind us now. Whatever we are, whatever we will become, we somehow became (if we weren't already) adults. And that's a scary prospect.
I can still remember the first time I walked on campus that summer, in the thick summer air, and I thought: "Wow, I could love this place." I remember moving in for the first time and thinking: "I wish the sky were clearer for my first day here," then when it got clearer, I remember redacting my statement. I remember meeting my first roommate for the first time, remember being only slightly disappointed that we wouldn't be BFFs, then finding those who really would be my best friends for life.
When I have a moment alone, I still find myself welling up a little. My heart still constricts and I don't want to just rush off into the summer yet. I don't want to let everything go, yet I don't want to keep remembering. If my poor laptop has taught me anything (besides backup, backup, backup) it's that memories don't last forever, and I don't want mine to go away. It's as if somehow, I can stop them from dissipating by keeping them in my brain-box forever. If I don't pull them out, they can't get ruined, right?
It's not that I'm not ready to move on. Well, maybe I'm holding back just a little. But can you blame me? Sentimentalist here! But I suppose I wouldn't want to be a sleep-deprived, anxiety-ridden, perpetually-hungry, food-driven being forever. Oh wait, I'm going to grad school.
Congratulations to everyone who has gone through the motions and crushed their proverbial (or literal) clay pipes. Good luck and may your futures hold everything you want them to (and some stuff that you don't know you want yet).
Cheers,
This Graduate
Jonathan Edward College
Yale Chemistry 2012
