A Red Sox ticket stub, a lei from a Northeastern frat, a Fajitas and ’Ritas menu, and a miscellaneous collection of posters and stickers all define my first year at Boston College.
Whether it was my quest to retrieve pieces of a personalized Jenga game, Stuart Hall holiday mugs, or a Cafe Sol Azteca pen, I somehow became a slight kleptomaniac after arriving on campus.
At the start of freshman year, I bought a pair of platform white Converse, shoes I convinced myself could be worn anywhere. They came with me to class, football games, and weekend trips downtown. They lasted through everything, but my favorite part was not the shoes themselves—it was the box they came in.
I kept that box next to my desk in my small Newton room and turned it into a time capsule. It became a place to collect the tiny artifacts that seemed insignificant in the moment but felt important enough to save.
Soon it overflowed with snippets of freshman life: Blue Book successes, photo booth strips, Campus Activities Board Christmas tree lighting flyers, ticket stubs from Fleabag, coasters, birthday cards, meaningful lectures, and everything in between. By sophomore and junior year, my collection only grew.
Retreat memorabilia, service trip photos, T tickets, recipes, Showdown pamphlets, and essay printouts stuffed the box to the brim. When I studied abroad junior year, I added postcards, charms, cafe receipts, and restaurant business cards. Each item was tied to a distinct and fond memory.
Some things were not intentionally collected at all—they were simply scooped up from the chaos of a typical BC weekend. A Marathon Monday necklace that somehow survived the day, stickers from cheering at Mile 21, and pieces of confetti from campus events that ended up in my coat pocket all eventually found their way into the box.
Most of these objects are items we tend to shove into pockets or purses and eventually throw away, but collecting them has taught me that my BC memories matter, and I will never regret preserving them in those small boxes.
Senior year brought a new way of documenting life. I bought a new pair of shoes, but kept my box at the foot of my bed. Now, my common room bulletin board has become a living scrapbook. Our “before we walk” bucket list, gamely crafts, a New York City Marathon bib, apple orchard brochures, pub golf scorecards, Nashville disposable camera photos, and even a ripped piece of denim all hang there as reminders of a year that has felt full in every sense.
I often sit in our Mod common room and take it all in. I feel grateful for these simple yet wildly iconic experiences with my roommates and friends. We come to college because we hope to walk away with a diploma, yet we end up collecting so much more than that. The little Converse box is a choice I will appreciate long after I leave BC.
I am nostalgic to my core, but my fondness for these items is deeper than a longing to relive freshman year or a semester abroad. It reminds me that the smallest things often hold the most lasting truths. We arrive in this world with nothing, and we leave with nothing, but the meaning we carve out along the way remains with us. The people we love, the places we have been, and the memories we have made are the things worth keeping.
Sometimes the best parts of college fit perfectly inside a shoebox.
