Excerpted from an essay I authored in 2007, Maroon & Orange:
April 17, 2007: In August 1993, my parents dropped me off at the West Ambler-Johnston residence hall, the same freshman dormitory where the violence began. That summer day on campus was thick with heat and that vibrant anticipation unique to youth. Hundreds of students flooded the halls and stairwells, eager to begin their first offi cial day as college students. The throngs of parents were less eager, as evidenced by the lingering hugs, reddened eyes, reminders to stay out of trouble and to call home.
The elevators in my dorm were broken, so my father gamely lugged two minivan’s worth of luggage up four flights of stairs. My mother, ever the perfectionist, had obtained a list of recommended supplies from the university. She had spent the preceding weeks in a manic consumer scavenger hunt to ensure that I began college with every single item on that list including, to my new roommate’s amusement, a personal-sized fire extinguisher for our dorm room. As my father finally unloaded the last item of luggage and said farewell -- until Thanksgiving -- we began busying ourselves with the important decisions. Who got which closet? Where should we hang all of our 90210 Luke Perry posters? Our entire lives stretched out in front of us, full of promise and hope. Maybe one of us would marry Luke Perry?
During my time at Tech, I met and befriended people from all over the country, from all walks of life. There was the girl who would become my roommate for the next two years, kind enough to overlook my obvious lack of housekeeping credentials, funny enough that I hated to turn off the lights at night because we were having so much fun talking and laughing. There was the shy, freckled boy, an initial romantic prospect, who after many joint study sessions fraught with tempered flirtation, grew to become a close friend and confidante. There was the girl who enjoyed incense (wink) and listening to the Grateful Dead, she spent virtually all her waking hours designing and building otherworldly projects for her architecture classes.
College was where I studied hard (and conversely, at times, hardly studied), fell in love (and then out again, and back in, and ... repeat). Where I crossed the threshold from teenager into adulthood. Tragedy in my circle meant a lower grade in a course than anticipated, breaking-up with a boyfriend, or saying good-bye to a beloved grandparent who passed after a long life. My friends and I grew up, some went on to jobs, some went on to medical or law school or graduate programs. Now, many are married and have children of their own ...
... As I watched the media images of the massacre, my heart shatters for those who have been deprived of these simple and wonderful memories by one horrific act of violence. My heart breaks further for the parents who sent their children off to learn, love and grow up, in a place whose tranquility befits a Norman Rockwell painting, only to learn that their children will never be coming home again. I state the obvious when I say that there are few things more cruel than a parent burying a child ...
... Last night, I unearthed a decade-old sweatshirt from that cardboard box in the basement tattooed with the black Sharpie VT. I sorted through Tri Delt formals glasses, Phi Kap baseball caps, report cards (Organic Chemistry derailed med school plans), and reams of photos of young people I once knew, now legitimate adults with mortgages and 401ks, many of whom I am still fortunate enough to call friends. The shirt is faded, the sleeves and collar are frayed from repeated wearing. I haven’t put it on in years because -- let’s face it -- maroon and traffic-cone orange are not exactly a girl’s best colors.
I asked my four-year old son for his opinion. “So, how do I look?” He surveyed me solemnly before answering, “You look very handsome, Mommy.”
I couldn’t agree more. Go Hokies.
April 17, 2007: In August 1993, my parents dropped me off at the West Ambler-Johnston residence hall, the same freshman dormitory where the violence began. That summer day on campus was thick with heat and that vibrant anticipation unique to youth. Hundreds of students flooded the halls and stairwells, eager to begin their first offi cial day as college students. The throngs of parents were less eager, as evidenced by the lingering hugs, reddened eyes, reminders to stay out of trouble and to call home.
The elevators in my dorm were broken, so my father gamely lugged two minivan’s worth of luggage up four flights of stairs. My mother, ever the perfectionist, had obtained a list of recommended supplies from the university. She had spent the preceding weeks in a manic consumer scavenger hunt to ensure that I began college with every single item on that list including, to my new roommate’s amusement, a personal-sized fire extinguisher for our dorm room. As my father finally unloaded the last item of luggage and said farewell -- until Thanksgiving -- we began busying ourselves with the important decisions. Who got which closet? Where should we hang all of our 90210 Luke Perry posters? Our entire lives stretched out in front of us, full of promise and hope. Maybe one of us would marry Luke Perry?
During my time at Tech, I met and befriended people from all over the country, from all walks of life. There was the girl who would become my roommate for the next two years, kind enough to overlook my obvious lack of housekeeping credentials, funny enough that I hated to turn off the lights at night because we were having so much fun talking and laughing. There was the shy, freckled boy, an initial romantic prospect, who after many joint study sessions fraught with tempered flirtation, grew to become a close friend and confidante. There was the girl who enjoyed incense (wink) and listening to the Grateful Dead, she spent virtually all her waking hours designing and building otherworldly projects for her architecture classes.
College was where I studied hard (and conversely, at times, hardly studied), fell in love (and then out again, and back in, and ... repeat). Where I crossed the threshold from teenager into adulthood. Tragedy in my circle meant a lower grade in a course than anticipated, breaking-up with a boyfriend, or saying good-bye to a beloved grandparent who passed after a long life. My friends and I grew up, some went on to jobs, some went on to medical or law school or graduate programs. Now, many are married and have children of their own ...
... As I watched the media images of the massacre, my heart shatters for those who have been deprived of these simple and wonderful memories by one horrific act of violence. My heart breaks further for the parents who sent their children off to learn, love and grow up, in a place whose tranquility befits a Norman Rockwell painting, only to learn that their children will never be coming home again. I state the obvious when I say that there are few things more cruel than a parent burying a child ...
... Last night, I unearthed a decade-old sweatshirt from that cardboard box in the basement tattooed with the black Sharpie VT. I sorted through Tri Delt formals glasses, Phi Kap baseball caps, report cards (Organic Chemistry derailed med school plans), and reams of photos of young people I once knew, now legitimate adults with mortgages and 401ks, many of whom I am still fortunate enough to call friends. The shirt is faded, the sleeves and collar are frayed from repeated wearing. I haven’t put it on in years because -- let’s face it -- maroon and traffic-cone orange are not exactly a girl’s best colors.
I asked my four-year old son for his opinion. “So, how do I look?” He surveyed me solemnly before answering, “You look very handsome, Mommy.”
I couldn’t agree more. Go Hokies.
2 comments:
Bittersweet the memories of college, now punctuated with something grim. Your writing is powerful.
Such a tragedy. College was one of the best times of my life. How sad that some kids and families will forever be haunted by it!
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