My attention was diverted to an oversized map of the United States glued to a corkboard hanging on a brick wall. Colored pins stuck to the map showed the places where the new students were from. Color was dotted all over the States, and I was excited to meet people from these representative pin markers.
“I’m going to bring in everything and get in line for the elevators,” Dad announced. Mom hung in the background watching the commotion only female freshman could make. She followed me like any good shadow, whether because of stress, anxiety, or the pending notion of leaving without her daughter and being in the car alone with her ex-husband. I wouldn’t have to be bothered by this behavior any more or to keep tabs on her feelings or inquire about her disposition. I wouldn’t have to handle parental duties when she yelled, “I can’t,” underscoring the negative tones directed at me instead of having a supportive discussion with her now-adult daughter.
My room was at the end of the hall.
“It’s a big room, a corner, roomier than I expected. I bet if we move these two beds against the wall, maybe, and the desks on opposite sides of the windows over here, we’ll have all this floor space,” I said.
“Well, sounds like you’ll be busy for a while. We’ll let you get started. It’s time anyway that we get going. You’ve got lots of unpacking and organizing to do and meeting your roommate,” Dad announced.
I was taken aback by his premature announcement. Couldn’t they stay just a little while, to help me settle, maybe walk around the dorm and campus so I could be comforted a bit? I wanted to share my new experience with my parents, but their prompt exit said they didn’t see it that way.
“Yep, I guess it’s time,” Mom said. She hesitated. I think she might have wanted to stay a while, but she was at the mercy of her driver’s wishes.
Dad stopped to read two names from a small cardboard square affixed to the door. “Another Nancy—and she’s from Texas. That’ll be interesting for the both of you come winter,” he chuckled.
I looked across the hall at a freshman’s room as we stood in the doorway. Her mom was unwrapping new bed linens and making the bed. She unrolled the comforter, gave it a fluff, and tossed it on the bed, spreading it flat with her hands to smooth the bumps. The throw pillows got plumped too. A home away from home was being constructed, right down to the details. I was envious of the attention and time that a mom spent with her new freshman, but I knew my parents were not like the others. They didn’t have a relationship between themselves, and they didn’t have much of one with Tim or me. The closeness of family members I witnessed from my dorm mate across the hall was not us.
I detached myself from a place that did not exist to enter a place that was real, in the present moment, where I saw my own place, my first apartment, really. I accompanied my parents to the front doors of the lobby, and then I hugged them goodbye.
“Enjoy yourself. You’ll be plenty busy,” Dad said.
“Give me a call when you get settled,” Mom added.
“I will.”
I had held hope, though, that their parting words would be personal, affirming. I had grown to be a good daughter of whom they were proud. Perhaps my expectations were too much, hoping for an admission, a mea culpa, a realization that maybe they hadn’t been as present and nurturing as they should have been. I had held out until this breaking point when I was no longer a child of Tom and Arlene, but my own adult self of Nancy. But no more time was necessary to linger and chat when all I needed to remember was to enjoy myself and call Mom later.
My parents, in effect, were good teachers. Admittedly, I’d had struggles and challenges growing up, but I had learned to be content with myself and that being alone didn’t necessarily mean being lonely. I had learned from a nonpresent father to put a value on being present and from my anxious, nervous mother to be calm, roll with whatever was to come my way, and accept what I couldn’t control. I consciously wanted to be the antithesis of both of them.
Beginning college was a turning point in my life, as if I had skipped ahead in years, growing to maturity and self-reliance, yet intellectually I understood I still had to live the college years ahead of me.
I watched them walk together down the sidewalk to the car. Just what will they say to each other, if anything at all? Cars were pulling up to the curb, and parents and students were getting out and unloading their belongings. Parents and their daughters interacted with conversation and animation. I witnessed the love and affection they had for one another as hugs and kisses and helpful gestures abounded. I heard parents talk to their children in new tones of adult conversation. Fathers took charge, and mothers wrapped their arms around their adult babies. I saw a life I hadn’t experienced, but I knew my feeling of being alone was temporary, because soon I would be busy with class schedules and meeting new people and having new places to go. There would be no time to think about something I’d never had.
I looked ahead as the tiny moving dots of my parents faded into the distance. I walked back into the dorm lobby with a smile on my face and tears in my eyes. I would make good decisions. I was empowered. I owned what was yet to come.
I walked to the map of the United States on the lobby wall and looked over my shoulder to see a couple of girls standing behind me.
“Wow, look at this. We’re from all over,” one girl announced.
“Yeah, and from Hawaii.”
“Look, there’s a lot from Wisconsin, not a surprise, Chicago, too, and look at the East Coast.”
I turned to the girl next to me and asked, “Where are you from?”
“San Antonio,” the dark-haired, dark-eyed girl said proudly.
“Would you be Nancy Jo?” I asked.
“Yeah, that’s me,” she said.
“Well, I’m the other Nancy, your roommate,” I declared as I introduced myself. “Do you need some help with your stuff?”
“Yes, thanks, but I really don’t have too much.”
“You drove from Texas? My gosh, how long did it take you?”
“Too long. I thought we weren’t going to make it. We got a flat tire, and I lost a piece of luggage.”
I recognized weariness in my new roommate’s eyes, an exhausted expression on her face, though I had never experienced such a grave situation. I knew I was lucky, arriving intact with all of my belongings accounted for, and how terribly unlucky my new friend was to have lost a piece from home.
My new roommate and I went to our room to connect in friendship. My new family slowly introduced themselves to me, just as I amassed the tiny colored dots on the map, only they weren’t dots anymore; they were real and counted, and I was among them. I had left home to start a new life in color; I had been set free.
big arms
At unexpected times during the day, I’d lapse into a desire to hear a reassuring voice tell me I was doing well and everything was going to be okay. I needed my own personal cheerleader. Now I think back to when Mom was faced with having to get a job. It was a new situation for her, a new place and people. She, too, needed a supporter, a personal cheerleader. Her experience and emotions at that time mirrored mine as a college freshman. We stood together on this one.
With any expectation comes a dose of reality that requires adjustment to the expectation. I faced my required adjustment early my freshman year when I yearned to be part of a social circle and make friends quickly. I wanted to join too, but I was having a difficult time, feeling awkward and socially immature.
I had an opportunity to meet new people and I was optimistic for the chance. A fruitful activities week was scheduled for the freshmen’s orientation. I went to a party at my freshman advisor’s apartment, and when I got there I studied my surroundings to teach myself essentially how to be at a party. I witnessed how others mingled and met new people with ease, laughing and smiling. The camaraderie was evident as both sexes enjoyed each other and fed off each other’s interactions. No, they weren’t like me, or I, them. I was stuck. I couldn’t move; my hands and my legs were s
tiff like wooden boards, and my breathing was shallow. My awkwardness silenced me, and I knew that standing near the door blocking intermittent gusts of wind when it opened and closed was not my purpose for the evening. But at least I had something to do; I mirrored what I saw. I smiled constantly and laughed at nothing. I put one foot in front of the other and stepped into a vociferous group who appeared to have always known each another. I started yelling too, raising my voice above Bruce Springsteen’s coming from stereo speakers strategically placed in each corner of the front room.
“Hey, great turnout,” I yelled reaching the ear of a frumpy, redheaded, sweaty guy.
“Thanks! Glad you’re here. How’s your orientation going?” he asked.
“Just great, very busy, the schedule … the stuff we need to do, it’s all been helpful,” I was challenged to maintain conversation above the competing noise because I don’t have one of those voices you can hear in a crowd. The tone of my voice blends in with the rest of the sounds, so I change the pitch when shouting in return, hoping to be understood.
“Well, I gotta give some stress relief to the incoming freshmen. I’m one of the GDLs this week.”
“Oh, you are? I didn’t know.” Dumb mistake. I should have known.
“It’s okay. I’m having just as much fun as you are, even though I have to be a ‘group discussion leader.’”
I’d done it. I’d joined the crowd. I was part of something, even though it was just a party that lasted a couple of hours. This was an accomplishment; I had learned to be just like the others, working toward being a part of the university family.
And this is where I was not like my mother. My courage to break out and assert myself separated me from her. The party was an opportunity, a positive, to show my openness to others in order for connections to find their way to me. And I didn’t have to answer, “You really want to do this?” when Mom would ask.
I sought relief from the heat and humidity during that September from flung-open windows in my dorm room where I encouraged the compressed air to stir. Retreating to my room in the evening after dinner, I’d see the curtains waving in warm breezes in rhythm with the new air, forcing the stale breath out. I sat on my twin bed, one of two beds that sat perpendicular to the wall closest to the door. The dimness of low light from two desk lamps made the room look and feel cozy, casting a golden glow upon the wood trim. The room was defined by twos, with two closets and two desks, which resembled shrines displaying trinkets from home as well as functional items related to our major area of study. For me, my two houseplants from my bedroom at home were thriving, and I noted their progress whenever I would sit to study or to write because it gave me a benchmark that I, too, had grown since leaving home. Maybe this idea developed from the birch tree planted in the front yard of my old home. Though my plants were no birch tree, they filled my need to have a growing thing, a reminder of home, nearby.
Reference books stood predominately on my bookcase where Nancy, my roommate, had framed pictures of her family grouped on hers. I didn’t have any pictures of whom I had left behind. I didn’t do it on purpose; it just happened.
I believed I would always have that homey feeling from Carlisle because I could not have imagined anything different. Living in the moment was innate back then, like referring to my birch buddy every time I looked out the living or family room windows as a reminder of my buddy’s protective nature. The thriving foliage provided a way of life for me that was as much a part of my home as the ground it was rooted in. The bunnies, included. And now I was learning how to live in new, present moments.
I wondered how my tree was doing. I envisioned it well-grown, spread out in its space with mature branches hanging in arc shapes from its trunk with little leaves rustling in the wind orchestrating a whoosh. I measured my growth against my tree’s stature as I imagined it. I had come far. I hoped my tree was still there and it had come far too.
One evening in October, my dorm mates were leaving for O’Donohue’s Pub, but I wanted to stay in my room to feel the warm breeze and to smell the stale, sour air of the stockyards nearby combined with the yeast from the hops from the breweries across town. They weren’t distractions; they were inspirations. I recognized how the aromas, whether unappealing or pleasing, could be a connection to my new home in a new way. I think it was a tap on my shoulder from God telling me he was with me and that I was in the right place, and I was just fine. My cheerleader had spoken.
That first year, I fed off my fellow journalism students and their creativity, fun attitude, outgoing spirit, and intellect, to the point of intoxication. I spent my spare hours at the J-school, loitering around the basement where, among classrooms and other offices, the newspaper office and photojournalism lab kept me curious.
I walked into the newspaper office one afternoon during the paper’s looming deadline and saw Chris busy at the typewriter. I usually would never see my friend around campus without a camera around his neck, a pencil behind his ear, and a reporter’s notebook sticking out of his back pocket, and here was no exception. He busted my “seen and not heard” approach.
“Hey, Nanc, thinking of doing some writing for the paper?” he asked.
“Me? No, nope, don’t think so.”
I picked up and read some copy Chris was working on.
“This is good, Chris. You’re really good. And this is why I’m not a newspaper person. You’ve got a feel for this; it comes naturally for you … and not for me.”
“It’s really not hard,” he said, as he looked up at me, grinning.
It didn’t matter if it was difficult or easy—what he didn’t realize was that my focus was on advertising.
In the fall, the J-school picnics were held on the last Friday of the month. Students congregated outside the classroom to celebrate a long week with beers and cheers. This was an opportunity to meet with other journalism students, and it was also a chance to make new, likeminded friends.
“Hey, you’re in that mass communications class, the one we’re required to take?” Ellen said with a smile. “And that professor … he wears …”
“I know where you’re going with this,” I said laughing. “He seems to have just two pairs each of pants, button-down shirts, and sport jackets in rotation. Though he does mix it up with a different tie …”
“I’m reminded of what day of the week it is by …” She stumbled over her words in laughter.
“What he’s wearing.”
I remember how the sharing of our stories of difficulties with a class or being in one with a really good professor brought us together. We studied hard and never stopped asking questions, whether in a media law or theology class. I was enveloped by happy people in my journalism world who made me happy as well. I loved being with my new family and living in my new place. Connecting to new friends was exhilarating, and because of them, I had found more of myself, enlivened.
But my slate of life was inconsistently dotted with remnants of social lagging from my teen years. I was confused when I met boys because I didn’t know if I should view them as friends or as potential love interests. I hadn’t had any experiences with them in high school, except my crush on Bob, where we never did get past talking about the weather and swimming pool traffic; I simply didn’t know any boys. The boys I started to meet at school became my big brothers, friendships I relished, but which later created unrest because maybe I wanted them to be more. I wanted my social experiences to catch up with others—to be just like them.
The Gym, a campus bar, was a regular hangout for undergrads, including me, on a Friday night, with occasional graduate students filling in the bar stools. Male dental students appeared to be checking out the young ones as their glances and stares revealed their identities.
“Hey, how are you?” a dark-haired guy with a wide smile said one night.
“Me? I’m good. Fine. How are you?” I asked. I stood stiffly with an elbow resting on a sticky narrow shelf.
“Good. I’m Jim; this is Dave. We cal
l him the ‘kid doctor.’” I noticed how they looked like twins, both dressed in button-down shirts, zip-up jackets, and slip-on shoes.
“Hey, I’m Nancy. I don’t think I’ve seen you here … do you go here?”
“I’m in dental school here,” Jim spoke up, “and Dave goes to GW in DC for med school.”
“Oh, I see … okay. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to keep staring at you, but you just … you … don’t look like the rest of us … I mean, you look older, more reserved, I mean … you know?”
It was awkward. I was awkward. I’d been inviting attention with my stares and when I was called on it, I didn’t know what to do.
But it was Dave whom I was stuck on at first sight. We talked about undergraduate school and graduate studies with the conversation evolving to a two-way encounter between Dave and me.
The final-call bell rang.
“Well, I guess it’s time. It’s still kind of early. Let’s get something to eat. How about Angelo’s?” Jim asked. I was thrilled to be escorted to the campus pizza joint by two graduate students.
I sat opposite Jim and Dave at a sticky wood table. Their direct eye contact from across the table intimidated me.
“So, what are two graduate students really doing with a freshman undergrad at one in the morning eating pizza?” Dave asked.
“I don’t know,” Jim said. He looked at Dave. “We’re just out having a good time and found someone special to spend it with.”
I didn’t know what I was doing there. I was a young, naive freshman with a sudden crush on a medical student who didn’t even go to my school.
“So, why’d you pick journalism?” Dave asked.
“I wanted to go into advertising, and the courses I needed to take were in the College of Journalism.”
“What about it do you like?”
“I like the creativity; I like to ask lots of questions …”
“I noticed. Well, I have a hunch you’re going to do very well in your field,” Dave said.
“How can you be so sure?” I asked.
Under the Birch Tree Page 9
