I
visited The Evergreen State College with my dad today. I venture out of my home
town - the only home I've ever known - and temporarily trade it for a fresh,
idealistic, vast, shiny habitat. I plunge head first into the potential next
four years of my life and then drive back home and pick up where I’d left off
with my high school life. I try to figure out if I belong here within the maybe
two hours I’d spend walking around taking a tour with a spunky hipster gay tour
guide and asking vague and cliché questions to admissions counselors, which
subsequently ends up being remembered in a blur, especially if you do a Lightning Round of college visits like my mom and I did in Portland over Spring
Break. I enter a complex, scary state of mind whenever I visit a college, and
today it was the strongest it has ever been.
The
whole time, my mind was being stretched and contorted as the college forced me
to explore every dimension and realm of my brain and I swung in and out of
different dynamics of thought. I wish I could easily remember some of the
thoughts that passed through my mind, but they zoomed in so quickly and were
erased as a new idea took place, like a train car, hundreds before and hundreds
to follow, each filled with a different cargo, and one can remember random ones
but never hoping of remembering it all.
But
there was one phrase that was reoccurring: I am scared. I couldn’t quite put my
finger on what I was afraid of, and perhaps that was why I was so hastily
scrambling to find meaning and sense within Evergreen. I was both acknowledging
my thoughts and questioning if they were even real and/or valid at all,
considering that they may be merely a series of reality checks, lacking any
true relevance or depth after all. My thought pattern consisted of feelings,
questions, or ideas coming to the surface and then being contradicted by
another thought as I felt ashamed for thinking that in the first place, and
then moving on to a different idea. I kept questioning everything I thought,
wondering if this was a legitimate notion or just part of a greater hysteria to
which my mind retreats in times of confusion or fear.
It
is no doubt that visiting colleges is terrifying. When I was a freshman, I was
awestruck and easily enchanted by the upperclassmen, especially the senior band
drum major, who I had one of those unrealistic dream crushes on, the kind of
crush you have on your best friend's older brother. As the year progressed, I
got the dreadful reality check that I am going to be an adult in a matter of years.
And for the first time in my life I realized that when I graduate, I'm not just
leaving the school: I'm leaving everything I've ever known. The small town, the
people I grew up with, the house I grew up in, my family.... I was petrified.
And convinced - after a happy spring and an innocent, fantasy-like childish
love affair with the drum major and then seeing him go off to the very college
where my parents met - that I wanted to stay in high school forever.
Foolish
freshman me. Now, as a high school senior myself, it is quite the opposite. “Life
is a bitch” sums up the past three years of my life fairly accurately.
During
the whole tour today, I was not there. At least, I was not mentally present. I
was half at the tour and half here, at my laptop, writing this essay. I was
thinking in terms of fragmented sentences, typing at my laptop the thoughts I
thought on the tour. I actually began physically documenting these thoughts in
a random middle section of my diary on the car ride back home, seeing if I
could write an essay as powerful as the one in my head. I started with the
title, and then the first generic sentence: “I went to Evergreen today” and
then it picked up momentum. It is magical to the writer when that happens.
I
remember the last time I was in this confused, frantic state. It was after my
mother had continuously walked out of a conversation in anger and exhaustion
leaving my alone with my thoughts: scattered little loose ends that will never
be tied. In that moment I tried to write a poem but absolutely nothing came out
of me, and I concluded that I was not a good writer - I was just patient - and
that these feelings are nothing at all. I felt so guilty yet knew I was guilty
of nothing.
My
mind was racing, trying to make sense and peace in the world, while nestled in
a bed late in a summer evening, everything quiet count for an occasional bird
or erroneous commotion from outside my open window, the sun routinely setting
as it has done and will do forever, completely oblivious of man’s plights… and
the universe seemed to contradict itself. Thinking about it now, it sounds like
cosmic irony, except my fellow man is in on this: for even my mother was two
rooms down, her head presumably blank and satisfactory at my absence, being
free from my foolish and bothering quandaries. So maybe, I was insisting on
finding sense in something that isn’t even confusing to begin with; I was
feeling so much about something that isn’t even there.
In
this thought process today I came across multiple more perplexing paradoxes,
most of them lost, down the tracks in the train of thought that carried them
far away. The one I can remember is the idea that while it is important to be
accepted and to foster a sense of belonging, one also needs to be herself
despite others’ opinions or expectations. This idea scared me because I have
thought countless thoughts just to accept the former as fundamental truth, but
now I imagine a theoretical world where no one else exists and I have no one to
impress but myself, and I almost came to tears at the thought of how different
I might be. This suggests that I may have been living a lie this whole time,
but then again just how important people in one’s life in shaping the
personality, style, actions, appearance, etc. of any one person? If they are
not important in that, who says they are important in other respects? Surly
some people consider and value the respected opinions of a loved one. I was so
confused and frightened at the thought of this. I found slight comfort in the
theory imposed by Virginia Woolf that all truths are relative and subjective.
Speaking of inspirational authors, I
am in a sort of Michael Pollan trance from reading out loud to Dad on the way
here, the deep words of A Place of My Own resonating in my head. In Portland, I
did a similar thing: I read Women’s Bodies, Women’s Wisdom to Mom. I read that
true health requires an emotional release and not denying one’s feelings. This
was a monumental moment for me, confirming that I am not crazy for not only
wanting redemption for traumatizing events, but feeling these feelings in the
first place. But I know that no one will allow me to speak up about how I feel.
I ended up having an emotional breakdown, torn between my body’s natural need
to feel fully and my environment’s pressure to conceal my feelings. So I ended
up trying to drive around downtown Portland with tears streaming down my face,
my head burrowing into my shoulder thinking repeatedly “don’t feel” while Mom
obliviously yells directions at me, eventually drowning my unfelt sorrows in
green juice from Kure Juice Bar.
Going
somewhere with my dad brings to the surface unresolved troubles in our
relationship. It is kind of awkward talking to him after months of silence. He
said I’m fortunate for the opportunities I have, that when he was in high
school it was just assumed that he was not going to college because none of his
four older brothers did. But now everyone assumed that I am going to college. I
said it’s kind of annoying to be constantly held to this expectation, but I
told him that I am nevertheless grateful for the opportunities I have. He insisted that it wasn't that difficult, and
started talking about money and how his college was partly paid for because his
dad was in World War II so he got some sort of grant. But I was thinking about
something deeper than financial aid: I guess this was my meek attempt at saying
“thank you.” I am on the verge of tears at this because I want to embrace my
father but I also can’t abandon myself by pretending like he has never hurt me.
I’m the last person to support me and I am not going to give up my dignity for
him. This needs to be a mutually respectful relationship. He needs to recognize
that he has hurt me before I can be grateful for anything he has done. It
doesn't matter what I think and it’s not up to me where our relationship is.
Once, Dad and I went to Fairhaven. Vacations are always so terrible with our family –
we are all so different. My mom likes bird watching and hikes; Hilary, my 15-year-old
sister, likes amusement parks and concerts; I like college visits and foodie
farm-to-table restaurants; and Erik, our 11-year-old brother, just wants to
ride a train. Our mother is always extremely uptight, especially when
traveling. My dad says that he is ironically relieved whenever he comes home
from a stressful vacation and he needs to go back to work to relax. I don’t
know why we bother with family time – we can’t even watch a family movie
together or go out to eat because we all disagree on what to watch or where to
go - but if ever I question this unpleasant custom, I am condemned as a hateful
person who hates her family. So be it. C’est la vie. Maybe I do hate my family. But once I went to
Fairhaven, just me and my dad, it was ideal. It was just a few days, we visited
Western Washington University (where my grandparents taught before they retired), walked around downtown, shopped at the natural foods coop, and had breakfast and fro-yo with Grandma. He had a friendly conversation with one of the shop owners while I explored the bookstore next door.
I
went to a college fair a couple times with my mom. The first time I went, it
was July after sophomore year, and I was sitting next to a cute boy and I
couldn't pay attention to the speaker because I was distracted and all I could
think about was boys. I am so pathetically lonely in high school that at this
point the first thing I want from the college experience is a sense of acceptance
and belonging.
The
second time I went to a college fair, it was a few months later, autumn of
junior year, and I left in a manner that was almost identical to that of Reed:
I cried as mom and I walked the streets of Seattle looking for a place to eat
dinner, and Mom, as always, tried in vain to hush me. I cried a lot during that
time in my life: May 2013 to January 2014 undoubtedly had the highest
concentration of tears per unit of time. Everyone dismissed my misery as an
inevitable side effect of my age - sixteen years old. I also spent a lot of my
time dreaming about life in the future: a small sufficient house, four
homeschooled kids, a reliable red-headed husband.... So I naturally assumed that when I go
to college I will magically be happy again. Going to this college fair woke me
up to the fact that I will still be me in college, and I can't just run away
from my problems. Thinking I will move to college and start life over is
foolish. I realized this in Portland too, but I phrased it like this in my
diary: "I fear that I am going to use boys, sex, food and having children
as a crutch, to fill a void in my life. The thing is, I don't know what that
void is supposed to be filled with. I just know it's there. I feel so empty
inside."
The first college I ever visited was Whitman College in Walla Walla. I fell in love with Whitman. It remained my dream college for months, until it dawned on me that I would have to pick from the list of majors, none of which interested me. The thing about Walla Walla is that it is surrounded by wheat fields for miles.
The first college I ever visited was Whitman College in Walla Walla. I fell in love with Whitman. It remained my dream college for months, until it dawned on me that I would have to pick from the list of majors, none of which interested me. The thing about Walla Walla is that it is surrounded by wheat fields for miles.
The
idea that I probably owe this essay’s success to Michael Pollan raises another
worry: I fear that I try to imitate others too much and as a result don’t
develop me own style. To what extend should one admire the work of others?
There is a line separating inspiration and impersonation. I fear that I may not
know my true self because I try too hard and that retards the growth of my
inner artist, or even worse, that I have little true artist in me at all.
I
just remembered an extremely important basis for this state of panic: I was
having subconscious flashbacks to when I was touring Reed College. How could I
have missed that? This was the origin of most of my anxiety at Evergreen. It
was one of the Lightning Round colleges in Portland: the most prestigious, most
expensive, and most hipster college I have ever visited. I wore jean shorts and
a hot pink long-sleeve shirt to the tour that day. At one point I made a
comment to mom that I felt like Elle Woods from Legally Blonde: I was
over-the-top girly compared to all the glasses, gauges, tattoos, trench-coat
kind of people in the famous thesis library. I was convinced that I would
finally attract attention and be desirable to my peers. High school had been an
utter failure of that.
My
mom was importunately and suspiciously asking me if I wanted to put on my
jacket - which was also pink. I know that voice: she talks as if she is telling
a secret, and when she uses that voice I know she thought I looked stupid. One
time over a year ago she asked if she could hold my hat. I loved that hat: it
was purple and silver tiger print and covered in sparkles, and I got it at a
hat store in Seattle after I saw Wicked live. When I got it, my sister made fun
of me and said I looked like Hannah Montana. I was okay with that, for I love
Hannah Montana, and so I decided to name my hat Hannah. People at school asked
me if I was dressing up for a theatrical play when I wore it to school the next
week, and I just shook my head no and said I wear it because I like it. It was
when I was dancing around the school auditorium - the place I used to call a
second home which I would very soon find out was not in fact a safe field of
daisies... but that's another story - a naive sophomore, that my mother confided
in me in a furious voice that Dad said my hat looked ridiculous.
So
after bugging me to put my jacket on, my mother pulled me aside and told me
"please fix your bra. I can see your nipple through your shirt." I
glared at her. "Sweetie, I just want you to be appropriate." I of
course acquiesced to putting my jacket on and we continued the tour. It wasn't until later that the humiliating, ashamed feeling hit me. And I felt like bursting out in tears.
There
was a lunch-with-a-real-student thing after the tour. Mom and I thought it was
going to be where I was partnered up with someone and we have a friendly lunch
together. But instead, Mom stayed in the admissions office while I chased after
the tour group alone heading for the dining hall (they had forgotten about me).
There was a table for the visitors, and one student was assigned to the entire
group. I put my tiny pink purse with the gold chain on a seat and zombied out
to the lunch lines by myself, and looking around me, nothing looked appetizing.
No one wanted me. I wasn't hungry. Everyone else was going about their day,
perfectly content without me in their life. I picked up my purse and made my
way to the bathroom where I practically broke down crying. No one noticed I was
gone. I remember I saw at least two flyers for a LGBT Support Group on the way
to the bathroom and that's when I realized that I don't belong at Reed. I used
to be hard-core supporter of gay rights because I had friends who were gay. But
then I realized I didn't have any friends, they don't need me, and they certainly don't
need my support. The gay band geeks were the ones with the friends and
relationships. The girly cheerleader is the bullied outcast. No one is impressed
by a girl who looks and acts like one. There's no support group for that.
This
was what happened right before I cried my way around Portland, stopped at Kure
Juice Bar, and left the city for home. I couldn't even write this in my diary
afterwards. Even writing this now makes me feel sick to my stomach. I got as
far as writing two weeks later about everything but the shirt. Somehow I had
forgotten about that part.
But
still the shameful feeling stayed with me. It stayed with me today.
And
yet, I felt some degree of cleansed and peaceful at the same time. Just like at
Reed, I was wearing a pink jacket. But this was for me: not for others. Actually, I had just bought it that day, at a
cute boutique I stopped in earlier. It was Barbie metallic pink and it just
called my name. It was on the sale rack outside the door and was only ten
dollars! It worked out because I didn’t anticipate it being so cloudy and I
hadn’t brought a jacket with me. It was a perfect find.
As
I walked around campus, my intent was to take advantage of the resources
available to me for learning about furthering my education. It was not to try
and attract the attention of the boys in the tour. If they happen to notice my
pink jacket and find that attractive, I would be flattered. But it has to
happen organically, not forced or planned. I cannot expect it. I am here for me first, and romance will follow.
Nearing
the end of the tour at Evergreen, I realized that I was not finding
satisfaction no matter where in my mind I looked, for this isn’t up to me.
There is nothing for me to do. I cannot change my disposition on my own: I need
to react to others. After all, I’ve been standing here just thinking: and I
ultimately get back to the same place every time. Then I imagined being here,
attending Evergreen, and someone coming up to me, and I felt happy just
thinking about it. Friends and lovers and mentors will find me; I don’t have to
do it all by myself. This thought took a lot of my anxiety. Just the fact that
it took until now to ever really think about things in that light says a lot
about how I view the world. I guess am better at reflecting than actually
doing. If I’m truly happy, I would know it. It would not be questionable. Times
in the past where I was happy are testimony to that.
Sometimes
I would wonder how I even got to be thinking so much. Was I born a philosopher,
or is this just a product of my environment, pulling me one way like a pendulum
so that I may harshly swing back to the other side, holding fast and with
slightly anxious pride to my radical liberal views, in a time when they are all
I have and are even used as a defense mechanism in desperate circumstances—when
I feel so isolated and alone in the world?
I
had no idea going into this essay how it was going to turn out. It could have
gone either way: it could have rocked - which I believe it did - or it could have
ended up like that poor poem I tried to write that one time. To me, success is
often times left up to chance and not necessarily hard work or talent. I've
thought before that I am not a good writer; I just have patience enough to try
to be a writer. Right now I am afraid to put my pen down because I am afraid
that if I come back later I will have lost my spark.
So
this is my college tour experience, being bombarded with information in a new
place preached as a nearly utopian environment, combined with being in a
supposed environment of a liberal arts school: new thinking, innovation,
thinking outside the box. One thought I had was that after seventeen years I
have finally come up to the surface to see and experience the real world for
what it is, and that for my whole childhood/adolescence I have been numb and
submerged in a pond of innocence and ignorance and oblivion, but I immediately
disciplined myself for having such an immature, pessimistic view and an
attitude of always blaming others, complaining and throwing rocks at the
mainstream just for being mainstream. Maybe I was just thinking these things
because subconsciously I wanted to be a “hipster.” I ultimately wanted to be
accepted here and therefore I needed to reject traditional ways, i.e. my life
as it has always been.
But
then I decide, no, I truly think I should have been brought up differently: to
ease into the college experience so I wouldn’t be so intimidated by it like I
am now; to live life in the present, in the “real world,” from day one instead
of stalling until I’m officially an adult in college to live real life.