Nostalgia

Once upon a time, about eight years ago to be exact, I left home for college. I packed all of my worldly possessions into the back of a Ford F150 and drove the long 45 miles from home to what all the grown-ups in my life happily termed "the rest of my life." I left everything I knew behind me and, for a few days at least, wondered around this new place totally alone and despondent. The food was terrible, orientation was grueling and the heat was unforgivable for a small city in the northeast at the end of summer. My boyfriend at the time helped me move in, then left for the hallowed halls of Harvard, where I was sure he'd meet someone cuter and definitely smarter than I was (because Harvard rejected me, so in the end, I knew I wouldn't be good enough anymore). To make a long story short, I spent the last four months of 1996 totally miserable and mostly alone except for the two or three girls in my dorm that actually liked me. It was awful.

Most college graduates never have to go through an experience like the day you move into college again in their lives. Oh sure, moving out for good is tough (or so I've heard) and the first day at a new job always brings scary new "adventures" and people to go along with them. But nothing will ever equal the concoction of emotions churning in your stomach on your first day at college. Nothing, that is, unless it's the first day of college for a whole new class of students and you get to experience the adventure/disaster all over again from your office window.

I have both the misfortune and fortune to work at my alma mater, which I ordinarily love. I take classes for free and enjoy the somewhat laid-back attitude that surrounds academia. I meet incredibly interesting people and occasionally hear a famous person or two speak on campus.

But when the penultimate Tuesday in August rolls around, my job stinks more than cheese you leave in the refrigerator for a few months. The fun begins in the morning, trying to actually make it to my designating parking lot. Then, once I finally pull in (after sitting in traffic for quite some time because no one knows where they're going), I find that all the spaces are taken--a problem I've never really faced before because I pay to have a spot. Once I finally squeeze my car into a spot designed for a moped, I run to my office and turn on my computer about 30 minutes after I arrived on campus, completely sweaty and ready for some high-octane coffee.

Then the guilt sets in. From my window, I can see the lines of cars. SUVs, minivans and U-Hauls that stretch from stoplight to stoplight and probably beyond. Fathers already look stressed, daughters and sons part fearful, part annoyed. Moms are all overdressed for a hot day like today. These parents have come to my corner of the universe to say goodbye to their children. The last thing they need is these kinds of parking hassles. The last thing they need is attitude from employees like me.

Even though I try to focus on my work and block out the freshmen moving in across the campus, I can't keep my brain on task. I remember the afternoon that I moved in and all the fear comes rushing back: Do I really deserve to be here or did they need a short white girl from a small, rural area to complete their demographic? How long will it be until I fail out? Will I make friends or will people think I'm not smart enough to talk to? If something happens and I can't cut it here, will everyone in my high school and town--the people who were so excited when I chose this school--be the first to say I wasn't good enough for the place in the first place? And will the boyfriend find the rich, brainy girl his parents want for him in Cambridge? Will his life become so different from mine that somehow, someday, he just won't care about me anymore?

Looking back from eight years, I realize my worries were unfounded. But at the end of August 1996, I didn't know that I wouldn't fall on my face, that no one would laugh at me. I didn't know that I'd meet some of the nicest, most caring people in the world who have grown into my best adult friends. I didn't know that I'd eventually return here as a writer, making decent money for someone my age and working on a master's degree. I didn't know that I would be OK. Because when you're scared and frustrated and nervous (with very little hopeful in between) it's hard to ever imagine being OK again.

So when I look out my window on move-in days, the emotions overwhelm me--so much so that I want to run into the middle of the street and shout, "You'll be OK! You really will! That boyfriend? You'll miss him, but you're better off without him because, really, the 4.0 you earn won't be because you 'took classes like aerobics' and you know it. And you'll meet someone just like you who thinks you're a riot and won't care if you throw a hissy fit in her room at 2 a.m. because you're roommate is more hideous than human. You'll really, really be OK!"

(I didn't do it, though, because I didn't want to be hit by a bus.)

So as my day continues, the weird nostalgia/empathy continues. But it hits its peak when I walk to my car around 6 p.m. I've worked late because of the hectic morning and mothers and fathers are leaving their kids in the hands of a university whose president assured them earlier that their children would be well taken care of. And as I approach my car, wedged into the tight mopedesque spot, I see a scene that makes me bawl like a baby. (See, Bill, you're not the only one.) A first-year student steps out of a car with people I assume are his mother and father. He's standing with his roommate, but he grabs his mother in a bear hug that lasts longer than most 19-year-old boy-mother physical contact. She pats his back and lets him go. His dad grips him tightly, quickly, and releases him to the warm northeastern air. And he turns around so no one can see him, wiping his eyes discretely with his pinkies. He reminds me so much of myself, eight years ago, watching my parents leave me all alone in the city. My mom hugged me and barely let me go. My dad hugged me and they both got in the truck. I watched them leave, then turned around and discretely wiped the cascading tears from my bloodshot eyes.

The boys' parents left and he and his roommate made their way toward the university center for a bit of exploring (I'd assume) before their first floor meeting. When I passed him, I saw the fear and sadness--and a little bit of hope--in his eyes. I looked and him and thought "You'll be OK. I know you'll be OK. If I can do it, you can too."

Then I took out my phone and called my best friend from freshman year, and reminded her again of how glad I am that once upon a time (about eight years ago) our parents left us alone in the city, scared and frustrated and nervous. But we were OK.

Hmmm. Maybe it wasn't such a bad day after all.