Andrea

I met Andrea* near midterms during her first semester of college. She and her mom were escorted back to my office by a student worker, desperate for a room change on a Friday afternoon. What they didn’t know — they couldn’t have known — was that the day they walked into my office was only my fifth day in my job. As Andrea’s voice quavered with insecurity, I tried to still my shaking hands under the table. Andrea told me about her roommate, accepting some responsibility for the failed living situation, and also told me how her mother’s breast cancer diagnosis was causing her stress and anxiety. A new living situation, she told me, would be a place to start over. We left my office together to look at a handful of rooms with available beds. As we walked across campus, I learned more about Andrea, her major, and how her freshman year was going. Her parents were in the process of divorcing, something that surprised her, and her relationship with her father faltered.

After her room change was complete, I saw Andrea on campus periodically and would offer a nod or smile. She acknowledged my greetings similarly. For a time, I doubted whether she remembered I was the person who helped her with that room change request. We didn’t meet again until her senior year when she came into my office hours.

“I need a place to stay during winter break,” she said. “I can’t go home.”

“Tell more more,” I urged.

This part of the story isn’t mine to tell. Andrea’s story is her own and what was happening with her family is part of her journey. We sat together in my office, watching the sun set in the gray December sky from my office window, as she broke her own heart open to tell me to what was going on.

“Of course you can stay,” I told her. “I need to get permission from the dean, but that won’t be an issue. Plan as though you’re staying.”

As anticipated, the dean quickly gave permission for Andrea to stay, and I passed the message along to her. She responded to my email to thank me, and I expected that would be the end of our correspondence before her graduation. Instead, I heard from her again only a few days later, asking if she could come in and see me.

She went home for a day or two during break to spend the holiday with her mom and sister, but things hadn’t gone well. She was back on campus and struggling. We talked through options to get her through the balance of her time as a student. A few days later, I slipped a pre-paid cellphone in her campus mailbox. Her phone was collateral damage in the holiday break incident. As graduation neared, she was fearful of not having a phone number to list on her résumé. More significantly, though, she was concerned about not having a way to stay in contact with her younger sister who was enrolled at another college in the area. It was evident that the two relied heavily on each other for support.

I didn’t see much of Andrea that semester — she was student teaching at an area high school — so the next time I saw her was at her graduation ceremony. My job at graduation has been the same for years. I stand at the front of the venue and help seat the graduates, making sure they stay in alphabetical order and don’t leave gaps in the seating. Later in the ceremony, I release the students by row to stand in line in the stage wings before crossing the stage.

As Andrea approached me in the single file line of robe-clad graduates, her face turned red. I briefly wondered if she was okay, and then realized she was crying. I smiled at her as she took her seat, and she wiped away tears with the back of her hand.

The ceremony progressed and, at my cue, I started moving the students toward the stage. Most rushed by me, blurs of swishing black fabric still smelling vaguely of the beer they drank the night before. Andrea paused at the end of her row and reached out to hug me. As I embraced her, she whispered, “Thank you for everything.”

I never expect to be thanked. Working with college students can be thankless for a lot of reasons. In the moment, they don’t realize that you’re helping them (trust me, I get my share of drunken apologies at homecoming and reunions to test that theory) or they’re embarrassed. I haven’t kept in touch with Andrea. Knowing, though, that she’s out there teaching high school, I’m hopeful she’s paying it forward and providing assistance and care to a new generation.