Last Wednesday was move-in day for the first-year students at my university. This summer, I’ve been working an on-campus job in the psychology department, so I got to witness the new students’ first moments on campus.
Although only a year removed from life as an undergrad—and even less removed as a graduate student—I still felt a mix of nauseating nostalgia and excitement watching the new students arrive accompanied by their even more eager parents.
I swear a mom even leaned out of her shiny black Lincoln and took a picture of me on my way to the psych building. (Okay, it was probably a picture of the business building behind me, BUT she could’ve waited two seconds for me to get out of frame!)
Later, while bored at work, I looked out of a window and saw a boy and a girl walking down the sidewalk together. Maybe they’re hallmates who just met moments ago, and both need to pick up their student IDs, or maybe they’re going to their orientation group, where they’ll sit in a circle and share fun facts with strangers. His might be about his family’s summer vacation to Italy and hers about a famous distant relative—maybe it’ll be Lady Gaga!
Maybe they’ll fall in love (though it’s more likely only one will). Maybe they’ll be best friends, but everyone will assume they’re together.
Maybe they’ll hang out every day for the first semester. Their roommates will go home on weekends, leaving them behind since they’re both from out of state—perhaps Ohio and New Jersey, though I haven’t decided who’s from where yet. They’ll join and leave friend groups together, somehow staying above the drama. Then spring semester begins, and one of them (it doesn’t matter which) becomes good friends with their bio study group, and they’ll start drifting apart.
From then on, they’ll mostly just wave or exchange brief words in passing. Maybe during their senior year, they’ll reconnect over coffee. After catching up, they’ll revisit familiar stories about bad roommates, dorm parties almost getting busted, and that one girl from their orientation group who everyone thought was so annoying—until they later found out she was actually really nice when she offered to give them both a ride to the airport.
I turned away from the window and began unloading the dishes in the faculty lounge. The dishwasher is terrible, so I wash some of the mugs by hand.
Later that day, I went on a walk around my neighborhood. I usually call a friend, but today I was feeling pensive and kept my phone confined to my pocket. The chattering static of the cicadas was my soundscape for the evening.
I moved to the new house earlier this summer, but I’m still getting accustomed to this area. It’s farther from school, but after five years of living on college campuses, I’m enjoying the distance. It’s nice seeing ‘real’ people living their ‘real’ lives—walking their dogs or mowing their lawns. I don’t miss weekend afternoons when I’d sit out on my porch with a book, only to be interrupted by ‘Mr. Brightside’ blasting from the nearby frat house.
And yet, I can’t shake the irony that overwhelms me every time I nod and say “hello” to my neighbors, as if I am merely cosplaying as a resident of this street, while their smiles and waves seem more authentic.
Near the end of my loop, I was on the sidewalk of one of the busier streets. The road separates white Southern houses from a red-brick Methodist church. On the opposite side of the street, I saw a young woman approaching a two-story house with dark shutters. She had short brown hair, wore all black, and had a guitar case slung over her shoulder.
As she walked inside, I saw that the house was mostly dark except for a faint light coming from deep within—perhaps a kitchen light or the glow of a TV.
It wasn’t even 8 p.m., which seemed too early for her to be coming back from a gig. She had keys to the house, so it wasn’t guitar lessons. A new purchase? Or was she returning home after playing with friends?
The door closed behind her.
Thank you to the people who asked me about the August post! I had been trying to finish a different draft for the last couple weeks before giving up. Naturally, this one felt more complete after working on it for less than 24 hours.