'Just give me moments'

I am currently having one of those out-of-body experiences. Sitting atop my uncomfortable wooden chair provided by Residential Life and crouched over my laptop with my failing vision, the tears are streaming out of my eyes almost to the point of breathless heaving. My rational self is currently looking at this poor heap of emotional crap and laughing, slightly disappointed that my stoic German heritage is not keeping me cool, calm, and collected.

Let's just say I had an overwhelming weekend. I spent a long mini-break within the sunny hills of Silicon Valley. The vast majority of the human populace would not pity me; I had sunshine, fresh air, and I was on an adventure. Granted, I was visiting my soon-to-be graduate school on the "Left Coast." I toured the campus, filled with the fresh scent of bloomed roses shaded pinks and yellows in the heat of the midday sun and stood awed in the midst of a great Mission Chapel. Not bad, you might say. Yet somehow, I felt like an intruder.

This was not my home. I was on the defensive, a prowling guard dog in front of my protected trash yard. I go to Boston College. I do not belong here. Look at those sweatshirts, they are not maroon and gold. They do not have a Baldwin, a fight song covered by the Dropkick Murphys, and they most certainly do not know what a Boston winter feels like. What was I doing here?

Hyperventilation began. I was brought back to sophomore year sitting in a cramped 4-man in Walsh with my roommates on our tiny futon. We were all feeling overwhelmed and needed to let it out - a good cry. The obvious answer was a stellar sappy movie. There we sat, four girls watching Stepmom, holding each other through sobs, through tears, through life. Four years of holding. Four years of memories. That futon, those girls, that moment of bliss stays with me. My running nose and heaving breaths were complemented by three beautiful people with red eyes and brown hair, however sappy we remained, frozen forever in the dreams sealed within the cemented walls of a moldy dorm.

A single memory threads the string for a quilt of an era. That day, as we watched Susan Sarandon smoke a "doobie" on her deck with my three roommates, schoolmates, and soulmates, helps me to recollect what has made BC my college experience.

In The Motorcycle Diaries, the character of Ernesto Guevara says, "What do we leave behind when we cross each frontier? Each moment seems split in two; melancholy for what was left behind and the excitement of entering a new land." I feel the sadness and I feel the thrill of the future. But right now, just give me moments.