When I was a little kid, my older sisters told me I was never going to touch the bottom of the pool. I wasn’t “old enough.” It’s amazing how memory works. I forget so much of my early years, but I vividly remember swimming down those 10 feet, floatie around my waist, curling my fingers against the small white tiles—just to spite them.
I always seem to get the last word in, one way or another. So, as I write my last column for The Heights, I don’t know what that famous last word is going to be. At least not yet.
I’ve written about my favorite word, deipnosophist—just pretentious enough to stultify the hoi polloi, yet lovable enough to remember for its definition alone. A deipnosophist is someone skilled at dinner table conversation, something I’ve always aspired to be. I’ve become known for it among my friends, who make fun of me for having three to four lunches a day. Whenever we pick a date for lunch, I always get the sarcastic jab, “I’m honored you can fit me in your busy schedule.” Earlier this semester, one of my roommates even asked why he and I have never had one of the “famous Pat Connell lunches” he kept hearing about. I replied, “Well, what’s your schedule look like next week?” We ended up getting beers instead.
I’ve written about how my words have meaning. Frankly, I just wanted to one-up myself and my deipnosophist article for pomposity, but it’s true—words hold significance. I’m very precise with my language. Recently, I noticed a disconnect between how I express myself and how others hear me. When I say something along the lines of, “I don’t care for golf,” I am not saying, “I do not like golf.” I am simply saying,” I do not care for it—I don’t hate it enough to dislike it, nor do I love it enough to find it appealing. It’s a neutral good in my life.” This nuance is important.
I’ve even written fun articles, like my “anti last-first campaign” column, which was basically a jab at the people who were pissing me off that week. You should go back and read them—there are countless messages hidden between the lines. The golf example I mentioned? That’s my own little way of sticking a middle finger to my roommate who keeps lecturing me that “I need to learn golf appreciation for my future job.” Jokes on you, I’m an English major. I’m not going to have a job. Sorry, dude—it was either writing this or making you listen to me say, “And you’re gonna need to learn how to shut up.”
Call it crass, but it’s just something I’ve had since I was a little kid swimming with my sisters. I have always liked to see it as determination, as self-belief. And, it’s just the facts—I’m going to get the last word, okay?
This being my last column, everyone’s been asking me, “What BC norm are you gonna call out? What’s that last itch you got?” And that’s the thing. This is the last time I’m going to get a last word—at least for a while. But right now, I don’t have any queen bees or show-performers or Sisyphi to call out. I just don’t feel the need this time—and I’m pretty satisfied with that.
Sure, Boston College wasn’t all sunshine and rainbows, and I certainly wouldn’t let anyone’s Instagram tell you it was. But my time here has been great. The friends and relationships I have made, the lessons I’ve learned, the priorities I have taken—I wouldn’t change any of it, because I’ve realized it’s all leading me to what’s next. That’s true regardless of whether or not I know what that next step is—where I am going, who I’m going with, or what I’m going to do.
There’s a lot of uncertainties. In fact, I’ve only gained more here at BC. And, as much as it should pain me that, on top of everything else, I don’t even know what my last word is going to be, it doesn’t. Because I know this isn’t the end.
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