When I first walked into my Duchesne dorm room, it smelled like someone else’s laundry. Its prison-like walls were marked scratches that promised a story, and so did the dented door. I had inherited just half of it for a year. But I pretended like it had been mine all along.
When my parents reminisce over moments long, long ago, they always mention how they feel it had happened just the day before. I’d always assumed that was a hyperbole. But now, I think back to one of the final days of 10th grade, and it truly feels like yesterday.
I’ve always loved bubbles. But maybe my fondness for them isn’t just because of their seemingly magical qualities—it’s because I live in one.
Puerto Rico, the island in the Caribbean I call home, only has a little more than three million inhabitants within its 3,515 square miles. Everyone I know knows each other, looks alike, and holds similar values and beliefs.
In my town specifically, every student goes to one of five schools and will eventually live right next to everyone they have ever known. I loved it, and I still do, but within the beauty of my innocently iridescent bubble, I never saw the world for what it truly was.
At Boston College, the visions of a typical college—Maruchan ramen and red solo cups—quickly fade to something out of a Pinterest board. When I visited as a high school senior, I was not only left gasping at the staggering gothic architecture and perfectly manicured lawns, but also by the seemingly perfect students. They were abnormally attractive. Like the grounds, they didn’t have a hair out of place, and if their puffer wasn’t Canada Goose, it was Moncler.
This memory didn’t turn out to be an illusion
“Who decides what comfort is, anyway?” I find myself asking this when one of the students from Upper makes fun of my current living situation.
3 p.m. on a Monday marked my first ever class at Boston College, and as it turns out, the same went for professor Maria Bejan. She stood before nearly 300 eager students in her smart pants, boots, and statement necklace, introduced herself with a smile, and dove headfirst into her Principles of Economics course. Huddled in my second-row seat, I felt a wave of admiration and sympathy for my new teacher.
Don’t get me wrong, I adore our campus, worship its magnificent architecture, and feel at home in its welcoming community. But sitting in the same chair at O’Neill Library for the umpteenth time, walking down the path that toes the line between familiar and repetitive, I find myself seeking something new.
