Flashback

An excerpt from my personal university journal. Entry from August 19, 2012, four years ago, my first weekend as a University of Iowa student.


When people say that college was the best four years of their lives, it really puts on a lot of pressure. Pressure to be perfect, pressure to conform, pressure to pretend.

I moved away from the one place I’ve known one week ago almost to the day. I was forced to say goodbyes I had dreaded for years. I was set free, let loose into this wild and untamed atmosphere I wasn’t sure I was ready for. That I’m still not sure I’m ready for. With that additional pressure looming, it’s even harder to avoid the pounding anxiety that permeates each new moment.

Convocation was today. I sat there on the thick lawn, looking up at the imposing Capitol and feeling the doubts creep up. As the speakers droned on, the sky darkened with rainclouds. One speaker caught my attention.

“If you are having any doubts,” the balding man said, “please listen carefully.”

It was as if he was speaking directly to me. I sat up a bit straighter, focused my attention on that podium.

“You belong here.”

Just like that, with those three words, I felt something akin to pride stir within me. The line of professors looked down at us in their robes from the stage, the thunder boomed and the trumpets played a stately tune, and at once I knew that a journey unlike any other was beginning.

The rain fell, and for once I started giggling, giddy in my reminder of home and proud of everything: where I’d come from and where I now was.

The night passed with frivolity; a sunny, lighthearted block party, then a quieter, more intimate fellowship in the hall below mine. There were introductions, conversations, possibilities.

And suddenly I knew that I would be able to get through this.

So began my college life.

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May Dipping

Although it hardly seems possible, the event that came up on my Time Hop this week that happened one year ago was the St. Andrews May Dip. I remember it so vividly I wouldn’t be surprised if you told me it happened yesterday—in fact, I got an involuntary chill just looking at the photos from the day.

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Our faces say, “I want to die.”

I can’t remember (or perhaps was never told) how the tradition started or what significance it holds, other than the fact that it remains one of the only ways to cleanse yourself of academic sins (linked to other St. Andrews traditions like not stepping on the letters “PH” on a sidewalk or participating in academic families) or have good luck on end of year exams. And, like any good tradition, there is generally a lot of drinking involved. Typically, students across campus will host all-night parties in dorms or on the beach itself to prepare for sunrise, at which time hundreds of students will charge forward into the freezing waters of the North Sea.

I didn’t participate fully in the tradition—meaning, I considered myself sane and went to bed at midnight to prepare. I woke up four hours later, reluctantly put on a bathing suit, and trudged out with friends for the beach.

From my dorm to the beach in question, it was about a fifteen minute walk, and in that short period I could tell that the morning would not be pleasant. Although the May Dip happens on the first of May, this is Scotland we’re talking about; the temperature remains stubbornly 45 degrees on any given day, so a 4:30 am walk through town did nothing to make us feel better about the temperatures we were about to be experiencing.

What can I say about the beach, though? Walking down to the sand in a throng of people, I could see why it might be fun to try the whole all-nighter thing. Though it was freezing outside and dark, bonfires were set up down the entire length of the beach, and people sat around laughing, drinking, entertaining. One guy juggled flaming torches. Another set up a boombox. My friends and I hung around for a bit, watching the sky lighten incrementally, listening to the revelry, waiting.

Sunrise was less of an event, and more of a feeling. There wasn’t a particular shift of sound or movement, just a general sensation in the air that the time had come. Like members of a telepathic community, students across the beach began stripping off outer layers, revealing bikinis or swim trunks underneath (or, unfortunately, sometimes nothing at all). The first into the water were a group of streakers, their screams of exhilaration cut short as they hit the frigid water—but that was replaced by enthusiastic cheering from everyone else on the beach. Then, with the tension cut, all hell broke loose.

All doubts I had about the May Dip were dispelled once I saw the pure joy erupting along the shoreline. Instead of chatter, the air was filled with screams of delight, shouts of triumph, laughter. People threw off towels, bolted for the water, came back with arms held high.

I looked to my running partner and we agreed, mutually. Barefoot and in bikinis, we held hands and sprinted across ice-cold sand into water that was even icier. Rollercoasters have proven that screaming somehow makes terror more exciting, so I screamed along with everyone who had already hit the water. I let go of my friend’s hand, took a breath, and ducked my head under the wave, experiencing more brain freeze than would ever be possible with a wimpy cold drink.

Then we were running back, across cold sand, feet already numb, throwing on towels, shielding each other as we scrambled to get the wet bathing suits off and pull on the sweaters we had arrived in. We didn’t hang around long, already too cold to bear. Even with thick socks (in my flip-flops—classy), sweatpants, a sweater, and a winter coat, the fifteen minute walk back was unbearable. My numb feet were no longer numb, they sent bursts of electricity up my legs with every step. Halfway back to the dorm, I was genuinely concerned I was going to need to have them amputated.

In the wee hours of the morning, we parted ways again, too chilled and too tired to say much, but still utterly thrilled at what we had just done. Still, even after a warm (not hot) shower, with two sweaters and two pairs of socks, under a thick comforter, drinking a cup of hot tea, I could not stop shivering. I didn’t stop for a long while, but I watched that pink sunrise outside of my window and listened to hundreds of other students return to their dorms and felt completely, utterly satisfied.

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Today, a year and some odd days later, on this rainy Monday in Iowa, I turned in my last college assignment. Today, I am officially done with college. After four years of papers, readings, tests, and more papers, I have reached the end of the line and am finally at the tipping point into the real world.

In a way, this feels familiar. It feels like holding the hands of my friends, running wild with terror into the North Sea. It feels like that painful cold that takes my breath away as I submerge: the shock of it, the thrill like electricity. And it feels like finally letting go of their hands and running blind, with numbness at our feet and the sunrise at our backs.

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Revisiting the Highbrows

“Next time—next time, of course, we’ll be diving into Harry Potter!”

The class burst into excited murmurings, a few whoops, smiles. From my usual corner spot, I looked over the faces of my peers, sharing in their exuberance. And there, in the sea of excitement, one student rolled her eyes.


At the beginning of the year, I confessed to my undergraduate fiction workshop that the book that continues to inspire me to write is Harry Potter. I admitted it with the same apologetic tone that I use whenever I admit that I still read and write young adult literature.

However, my professor stopped me: “Harry Potter isn’t something to apologize for.”

It’s a lesson that’s been taught to me and my classmates in my Children’s Literature this semester. I took the class because it was being taught by one of my favorite professors, plus the reading list included such favorites as The Hobbit, The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe, and Harry Potter. The first day of class my professor assured us that this was going to be a “real class,” and she didn’t lie. Day after day, I have been impressed with how seriously, honestly, and academically we have approached these texts I love.

But still, even in a class like this, there are eye-rollers. There are those who make me feel like Harry Potter, or The Hobbit, or Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland, really are things to apologize for.


I have already written about my defense of YA literature, so I’ll try not to repeat too much. What I’ll say is, that here, at the end of my college career, I’ve learned not to apologize. I love Harry Potter. I love superheroes and Disney Channel movies and Tumblr posts about feminism. I put up lots of posters on my walls. I occasionally write fanfiction. I have a blog.

A lot of these things can be looked down upon, just as reading Harry Potter in an academic setting is. A lot of people call them “guilty pleasures,” but, honestly, things are a lot simpler when you take away the “guilty” part. You can’t help what you love. So why feel guilty about it?

This all has a lot to do with confidence and an appreciation of self-worth, I suppose, which you cannot acquire like you acquire chicken pox—but once you have it, even an ounce of it, it does wonders.

Take away the guilt and realize that your love is valid. I’ve found that these things become a lot more enjoyable when you let yourself enjoy them.


I watched her roll her eyes, and I knew. I knew she thought that the rest of us enjoying a piece of our childhood was childish, as many guilty pleasures are thought to be.

But I think she’s missing the point. As we’ve discussed time and time again in our class, children’s literature in particular is designed to transcend childhood—instead, it taps into what one scholar in particular terms “childness,” which is the essence of the pleasure and self-discovery that is inherent in childhood, yet which permeates our sense of self. When we lose our childness, scholars like C.S. Lewis argue, we lose a part of ourselves. It is important to diversify our reading even in adulthood, he claims. And, while he clearly has a vested interest in encouraging adults to return to childness in literature, I don’t think he’s wrong.

Harry Potter does inspire me to write. It connects me back with that childness. Believe it or not, there’s a lot of academic, literary merit to the series. And, most of all, it makes me happy.

I will read my Margaret Atwood and my Junot Diaz and I will enjoy myself. But I will also read my Rowling. And I will wear my superhero t-shirts. And I will drink chocolate milkshakes. And I will listen to Broadway soundtracks.

And you will roll your eyes. And I will smile.

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Diaries

We’ve officially hit the one-month mark before graduation, which is uncanny and, frankly, sounds fake. I should not have one more month. I should have one more year, right? Or four? Sometimes I picture myself as a member of the political rally, shouting at the incumbent president—“Four more years! Four more years!” Part of me still feels like that high school senior standing on the edge of a new life that I couldn’t know would be great. Part of me looks back at old pictures and writing from that time and knows I am distinctly separate from that person.

I’ve been thinking a lot about documentation, actually. The way I document life; or, specifically, the way I’ve failed to document it.

I started out freshman year with a college diary, so to speak, in which I wrote every other night. Over the course of freshman year, every other night turned into once a week, every other week, once a month. By the end of my sophomore year, I had almost dropped off completely. I keep telling myself that I will go back and fill in the gaps as much as I can, but at the same time I am weighed down by hundreds of clocks that tick out lost days and lost memories.

The same problem haunts this very blog. I started out sophomore year with a goal to publicly “diary” my thoughts in order to produce more readable writing, keep myself on a schedule, and create something to look back on after college. Seeing as this is my first entry in three months, obviously the goal has disintegrated over time.

It’s frustrating, honestly, but it also feels like an exponential problem; the more time passes, the more guilty I feel about not recording my time, and the more I am resistant to catalogue the months I’ve missed. I’m not sure why documentation feels so important to me. College will have happened whether or not there are photos and words capturing it. But college is a large concept. College will exist, but will the smaller moments? If I don’t capture the moment stranger hands me a red rose, or the night a friend buys me beer and junk food, if I forget these things, did they exist?

Because I will forget them. I’ve already forgotten so much. As a writer, I am obsessive about recording, always recording, so that I may remember—and I’m worried that the freshest moments and authenticity of surprisingness have already begun to crystallize in my memory.

My new goal is to write one of these posts every week until I leave this place, so that, if nothing else, my last month here exists in writing somewhere. Maybe it’s futile to try snaring living moments as they pass, but I feel like I owe it to myself to try. Hold me to it.

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Democracy Is Not like Football

I’m going to start out with a story you’re probably already sick of hearing after only two days. But I can’t help it.

This weekend, I had the immense privilege to sing with Vampire Weekend at a Bernie Sanders rally—in front of thousands of my fellow students, professors, and members of the Iowa City community. If we thought the days leading up to the performance were nuts (we received our music Wednesday night and spent hours losing our minds in a tiny rehearsal room), we were unprepared for what Saturday would actually be like.

Twelve hours of music is wonderful and terrible. Wonderful, because we had the incredible opportunity to rehearse with Vampire Weekend and perform twice with them. Terrible, because (despite drinking about a gallon and a half of water over the course of the day) twelve hours of singing actually destroys your voice.

Despite feeling like my vocal chords were shredded, it was a blast, more than a blast, to take that stage at the end of the day. It was actually indescribable. There’s a reason people always use electricity to describe the thrill of adrenaline—every nerve ending in my body was alive, and I honestly couldn’t stop smiling. The added bonus of backstage hangout time with Vampire Weekend, the Lucas Brothers, and Josh Hutcherson certainly didn’t hurt, either, not to mention the fact that I shook Bernie Sanders’ hand on stage.

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Pictured: me, losing all of my chill, seconds before shaking this old man’s hand.

Which brings me to my main point, which is Bernie Sanders. Well, more accurately, the election in general.

I’ve spent a lot of time purposely not talking about the election on social media. Why? Because I hate this time of year. I think politics brings out the some of the ugliest sides of people on social media, and even things that everyone agrees on (“Trump is literal trash”) get repeated so often that they become meaningless. I don’t want to feel anxious about posting my political views on Facebook, so I generally don’t.

I will come forward now and say that I support Bernie Sanders. Even if I hadn’t been performing, I would have gone to the rally on Saturday, because I, like so many others, find him to be an attractive (symbolically) candidate. I know that you may disagree with my choice, but that’s fine. That’s your right.

My point is, barring Trump, I think you should support who you want to support. And you should let me do the same.

During his speech, Bernie left me with a lasting quote: “Democracy is not a spectator sport.” I am not bringing this quote up in support of Bernie. This quote applies to everyone in this country as we approach caucuses and the eventual election. Democracy does not work if you don’t vote. Democracy does not work if you make excuses because you “aren’t a political person.” As Bernie also said in his speech, everyone is a political person. The decisions being made in Washington affect you, so why would you stay silent on who is making those decisions?

I’m speaking specifically to young people, who have historically had a low voter turnout. A growing part of me truly believes that a lot of this has to do with our voices being silenced.

I am officially done with being told that my voice and my opinions don’t matter. I am done with being told that I will grow out of my opinions. I am done with being told that I am not qualified to have a say in a country that continually disenfranchises people who are close to me.

Maybe we will “grow out of our opinions,” whatever the hell that means, but that doesn’t disqualify the opinions that we currently have now. Often I feel that young people don’t participate in politics because they’ve been told that they can’t. They’ve been told that their opinions are invalid, and they’ve been told that they don’t have the experience necessary to make decisions for their future, despite simultaneously receiving orders to choose a college and a career path immediately out of high school.

Do you know why Bernie Sanders gives me hope? Because as I stood on that stage listening to him speak, I could look over the heads of everyone in the crowd, the thousands of young people who took hours out of their Saturday night to experience. I saw young people crying with joy and hope. I saw young people hopeful, and enthusiastic, and validated.

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That, among everything else that happened Saturday, was one of the most impactful things I’ve ever seen. Many people argue that young people are disillusioned with politics, but I would beg to differ. This political season has shown me just how vocal, dedicated, and passionate twenty-somethings can be, on both liberal and conservative sides, and it has been so special to watch. Now it’s just a matter of getting those people into the polling booths.

We are all political people. What we need now in this divisive time is some semblance of solidarity—we need to tell each other that our opinions matter, that our voices can make an impact, that voting is one of the few rights that are guaranteed to us.

Young person or old, Democrat or Republican, please listen to what’s happening in the world and listen to each other. Please encourage each other to vote.

Please, don’t be a spectator.

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Season of Lasts, Season of Firsts

We’re already halfway through the first month of 2016, and already I feel as though the year is going too quickly. 2016 is an important year for many reasons, not the least of which that it is the year I complete my undergraduate degree. As with everything, I naturally have a lot of feelings about this.

Funnily enough, as I handwrite this post, I’ve hit one of the pages of my journal that is illustrated with an inspirational quote. The one opposite my page reads, “I do not bring back from a journey quite the same self that I took.” Never before has that felt so true.

This semester I am entering a season of lasts, as I have already begun to experience—last winter break, last football game, last class registration. It is reminiscent of my senior year of high school, where a friend and I went to such extremes as to say “This is the last time we’ll be sitting on the couches in the green room staring at this baffling picture of sheep” during a final drama performance. Lasts are hard, but they’re also reminders of the things you have established as important, the things that define you in whatever adventure you are leaving (look, I spent hours staring at that sheep painting).

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I still see you, lurking in the background of photos.

However, I am also reminded that there are a lot of firsts happening in my life as well. I’m hoping this post can serve as a bit of a life update—partially because I’m dreadful at regular blog posting and fell off the wagon last semester, and partially because it’s easier to compile everything in one place. Here’s what’s happening this semester:

  1. I am graduating from college, which is scary and sad and exciting but is also certainly something I’ve never done before. I will be graduating with a BA in English, a minor in French, and a designation from the Creative Writing Track.
  2. My spider senses are detecting that your next question involves plans after college. My answer has been lost by the postal service.
  3. Although the semester hasn’t started yet, I am confident I have a perfect schedule, which includes no classes on Monday and Friday and a Children’s Lit class with a prof I had my first semester of college. I love parallels.
  4. Then, to completely destroy my perfect schedule, I am working two jobs at the Writing Center, going to the ICCA competition with my a cappella group, and assistant directing a play for the first time in my life. In addition, a ten minute play I wrote is being produced, and I’m acting in two short films.
  5. Almost my entire immediate family is coming to graduation in May, which is so exciting because I can finally show off this city that I’ve grown to love so much. Maybe I’ll take them to Union—that should impress them.

In short, thank you to everyone who has made these opportunities possible, everyone who has encouraged me to take chances and say yes to new experiences. I do not bring back from a journey quite the same self that I took, and I am so grateful that I am still adding to the list of things that shape who I am here at Iowa.

Now it’s time to step into the fray. And the -25° wind chill.

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Breaking up Is Hard to Do

I really need to delete pictures from my phone once I’ve uploaded them to my laptop.

Because I’m terrible at that kind of thing, I keep running across photos from last semester, from the summer, from last month—from things that make me nostalgic.

I happened across an innocent picture tonight, just a photo of the breakfast I would make for myself every morning in Scotland. A few weeks in to the semester, I got settled into a very specific pattern: one sausage, one piece of toast with blackcurrant jam, one bowl of porridge with honey, banana chips, and sunflower seeds, plus currants if I was very lucky. And, of course, a rotation of some kind of coffee or black tea.

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The incriminating photo.

Though I’ve never personally gone through a break-up, I think this is what it’s like. Finding old pictures on your phone. Remembering things that you likely won’t have again, at least not in the same capacity. I can have porridge with honey anywhere, but I can’t recreate the way it stuck to the edges of the huge silver barrel in the morning, or how my tray was always slightly wet from the wash when I put my bowl on it, or how I would have to sometimes sit with it for a few minutes before the kitchen staff arrived with a new tower of mugs for coffee.

I’m still learning how to put this experience into words, and I’m finding it hard to say exactly what I want to say in just a few blog entries, so pardon my repetition, my incessant need to put it to the page. I’m sorry that I’m not over it.

This is my first break-up, after all.

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Comfort Zone

The first time I was told that I needed to kiss someone on stage, I was mortified. In my last year of high school, I felt as though I had not had enough preparation, enough experience, in order to incorporate that kind of thing into my acting. It was high school and anything vaguely risqué was met with titters from cast members, and stage kisses were accompanied by exaggerated “ooohs” from snickering students. A stage kiss was a mark of Real Theatre™, and I agonized over it for a month.

Two years later, in college theatre, I was asked to kiss a girl for the first time. That, too, seemed new and scary. It was, until I realized I had been taking my heterosexuality too seriously and that kissing a girl is literally no different from kissing a boy.

Two years after that, I find myself in a play which features a thoroughly bizarre, stylistic, uncomfortable sequence we’ve dubbed the “sex ballet.” There’s a line in the play which states: “We all must get uncomfortable now. It’s our civic duty.” While this is an apt description for the play—our intent for the audience and our experience as actors—I think it’s also an apt description of theatre in general.

If you've never been uncomfortable in a theatre before, try seeing Rent with your parents.

If you’ve never been uncomfortable in a theatre before, try seeing Rent with your parents.

The blessing (or curse) of the Timehop app has allowed me to trace my development through my high school years, which were characterized by vague Facebook statuses and encouraging comments by theatre directors, saying, “This is just one step toward getting you out of your comfort zone!” “We’re going to bring out the sassiness inside of that shell!” “This is the perfect opportunity to break out of that ‘quiet girl’ persona!”

And while I can neither confirm nor deny that I’ve unearthed the fabled sassiness or discovered the secrets of a “loud girl” persona, I find personal pleasure in juxtaposing those comments with some from a year later: “Look at how far you’ve come.”

I like that phrase. “Look at how far you’ve come.” It helps to look back once in a while and observe the impressions of your footprints in the earth. Until you do, it’s easy to forget exactly where you started.

Now, for a brief moment, I want to thank theatre for giving me footprints so huge I can see them for miles. I want to thank theatre for the little impressions it’s made in my life, the way it has stretched me and molded me and forced me into the sunlight outside of the comfort zones I’d established for myself. While I will likely (hopefully?) never experience anything entitled “sex ballet” in my actual life, I will experience again the opportunity to say yes, to try new things, to set aside my apprehensions and embarrassment and self-consciousness and actually engage in the act of living without reservations.

It has helped me differentiate between what I consider my limits and what I now recognize as walls I’ve put up—the walls, fortunately, can be broken down.

Thank you, theatre, for helping me break down those walls. Thank you for teaching me to love and explore my creativity, my fears, my body, my mind, myself. Thank you for giving me the opportunities to develop as an artist and as a person, and thank you for giving me the tools with which to trace those identities.

Getting out of your comfort zone is scary—often utterly terrifying—but, in my experience, it’s so worth it.

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100% Whole Wheat

In Walmart last night, I stood in the bread aisle and stared. There is nothing quite as uniquely difficult as picking out bread from a bread aisle.

An squat older man with a black mustache also stood there, contemplating. When I moved, he moved, both of us considering the same brand.

“Which is better, Whole Wheat or Honey Wheat?” he asked me.

Wary as I always am in these situations, I smiled nervously and looked away. “I’m not sure, sorry.”

“Honey Wheat sounds pretty flavorful. I’m thinking Whole Wheat might be drier, though. That’s what I’m looking for.”

“I’m not a connoisseur of bread.” I glanced at him, and he was smiling to himself. “But yeah, you might be right. Whole Wheat sounds pretty healthy. Grains and all that.”

“Sometimes they just say that to make you feel better about yourself,” he said. “But I guess it can’t hurt.”

I looked back at the packages. “I can’t decide what to get,” I admitted.

“Try the Butter Bread,” he said. “Trust me, it’s delicious. Kind of a paragon of bread, if you know what I mean.”

“I do,” I said, laughing. It looked the same as all the others, but I grabbed it and tossed it in my cart. “Thanks.”

He grinned and tucked his Whole Wheat bread into his own cart. “You have a nice night, okay?” he said.

“You too.”

With that, he trundled off to whatever destination he next had in mind, if he had one at all. Maybe he was just wandering, as I was.

I smiled to myself, that little smile you get when something has unexpectedly, inexplicably made your day. Funny how you can meet a person like that in the bread aisle and laugh at something like Whole Wheat bread. Funny, too, how soon you’ll forget them.

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Begin Again

“This isn’t heaven, it’s Iowa,” read the Snapchat filter when my plane landed two weeks ago. It’s a nice sentiment, although looking deeper into that phrase can be a wee bit problematic. I’d tend to agree with it—I prefer to think that heaven is devoid of muggy, ninety-degree weeks and hordes of drunk frat boys.

Part of me warned, early on, against becoming too attached to this place. A place is, after all, just a place. I knew I would only have four years here, and, by the way, I had a gorgeous city like Seattle to come home to.

It's not terrible.

It’s not terrible.

If you’re new here, you should probably know that I just completed a semester in Scotland. This is important to know because a) it is relevant to this blog post and b) I will probably never shut up about it for the rest of my life. The point is, in my third year of college, I made the move across an ocean to a place I’d only seen in pictures. Part of me thought, “Why are you doing this to yourself? You have stable friends, stable activities, stable residency in Iowa City.” But the appeal of starting over, starting fresh, was also scarily tantalizing.

When I returned to Iowa two weeks ago after that semester, standing at the cusp of my fourth and final year, I found, unexpectedly, that the same feeling overtook me. After being gone from the city for nine months, after exploring the Scottish countryside and working a summer at a frighteningly professional job, Iowa City was new again. In my last year, I’m still starting over. I don’t think we ever really stop starting over.

Being here and re-discovering this Iowa life has taken me back to that first time I stepped off the plane, eager but anxious.

Also probably sweating a lot.

Also probably sweating a lot.

Two weeks ago, the cornfields were raked orange and yellow, a sunset guiding me home. Everything quintessentially Iowa wrapped up in a drive from the airport–I could practically smell the sun-baked earth and humidity.

These two weeks have been full of these images, these reminisces. They’ve also been full of surprises, bittersweet confusion. The construction that we’d so heartily complained about is gone–giving way to a refurbished basement to the student union and an entirely new residence hall–but part of me feels the absence of those grievances a little too much. There is a gap in the transition from fond complaining to new convenience. Everyone is already over the novelty of these new buildings. Everyone has already started treating them as normal, while I still wander the new halls and wonder when so much change happened.

Classes, too, are different than those in Scotland, and while I’m starting to unearth the plow-tracks of my old Iowa routine, the practice feels hollowly uncharted.

I could go on: friends, activities, and traditions seem to be rediscovering me just as I’m rediscovering them. I never imagined that in my final year of college, I would be introducing myself to new roommates and auditioning in front of panels of people I barely recognized. I’m still learning, even as I watch thousands of people in gold shirts roaming the ped mall after a football game, welcoming me home.

Like I said, we never stop starting over. I know that in May, I will have to do it again; I will have to leave this place I’m beginning to call home again and fit myself into a new identity as a post-graduate. But that is still eight months away. For now, let me walk old paths and lose myself in remembering. Even more, let me walk new ones, and give me time to re-carve my name into this changing world.

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