coming home
on returning to school for the first time
“Honey, I’m home!” I call into the room, finally remembering what it’s like to see my friends and not be surrounded by exams. His hair is shorter, his room is messier, and his eyes are brighter than when we last hugged, right before he got on a plane to New York and I returned to Atlanta. He opens his arms, the question “do you want a hug?” on his lips before I throw my keys on the bed and let myself relax, finally, around the people that I love.
“How was break?” The question I will ask for the next week fills the air between us, the mandated small talk before we return to teasing jabs and long conversations. We exchange stories, mine embellished to the point of humor, his quietly satisfying. We relax into the people we know, the college students who make bad jokes, apologize for terrible puns, complain about professors and parents alike. I tell him what bothered me over the break, that my name was changed, that I definitely didn’t miss him at all; he apologizes, high-fives me, says he didn’t miss me either.
It’s comfortable, and easy, and safe. It’s home. And I’m glad to be back.
When I went back to Atlanta, all of the younger students asked, “How’s college?” I got into the routine of the standard answer. “It’s great! I love everyone there. It’s good to be back, but I can’t wait to go back home.” The seniors in particular dug deeper, desperate to know what would await them in half a year. They asked about roommates and housing, what I liked about Duke, GPAs, how to handle professors and friends and clubs.
I told them what I knew- that a year ago, Duke wasn’t even on my radar. I applied at 11:53 on the day essays were due on recommendation from a friend, thinking that the decision wouldn’t matter because I would get into MIT. Now, as I’ve said a number of times, I’m so glad I ended up at Duke. That they would find the right place.
College is all about fit. It’s all about finding what you love and the place that helps you love those things better, faster, more. It’s about finding the people who tease you incessantly for your inability to insult them, but understand that your over-confidence is not an acceptable joke. Finding the professor who makes cookies every week and the suitemate who helps you clean your fridge. Finding the roommate who just accepts that you’re an absolute mess (as long as its not on their side) and dyes your hair bright blue because it’s fun. Finding the people who will open the door at half-past midnight because you need a hug and the people who will drive you home from Central Campus at three am because the buses stopped running an hour ago and you were too busy talking.
I love Duke. I love so many parts about it- from the selective living group I’m rushing to the mandatory writing class I’m attending to the people who scream about Hamilton with me. I love that everyone is just as passionate as I am, that everyone has eight different things they want to do and only one of them is their major. I love being surrounded by excellence in every form; going to brunch with a physics major and talking about philosophy and being queer; driving back home with a mechanical engineer and summarizing our respective IB programs; discussing non-binary gender identities with the chem professor who makes cookies (I’m serious, find this person on your campus); grabbing dinner with the engineer who wants to be an EMT next semester. Everyone here wants to make a difference, wants to change the world.
As I told everyone all of this (because I really, honestly, do not shut up), someone commented, “Obviously, you love Duke. It feels like home. How do we get to that point?”
I laughed a little, because you can’t force somewhere to be home. It just happens.
“You can’t really control it. At some point in your college life, you’re going to be done with class and want to go back to your dorm. Someone is going to ask you what you’re going to do, and you’ll say, ‘I’m going back home,’ and you won’t correct yourself, because it’s true.”
“I really did miss you,” I remind him before I head downstairs. It’s almost two in the morning, and we haven’t stopped talking since I saw him at ten. It’s late and we’re both exhausted, but I need to make sure he knows, need to make sure he understands that despite all of our taunting, how much his presence means to me. How much I missed having him upstairs, how much I value our friendship.
“I know you did. I missed you too,” He mumbles, half asleep and leaning against the bed frame. “It’s good to be back.” We hug, because it’s been too long and because I’m an affectionate person and because life is short.
“It’s good to be home,” I correct quietly, and he grins and (nicely) shoves me out the door.
This will happen for the rest of the next semester, and it is so, so good.
if you enjoyed this, you may also enjoy: to the high school seniors
