College Street

It's been twelve years, but I'll never forget my first time on College Street.

I was in the passenger's seat of Betsy, my mother's white 3-Series sport wagon that was a complete lemon. The fact that she had made the trip made the day seem slightly miraculous before anything had happened. We couldn't have been doing less than 45 (knowing my mother). Still, the sight of the morning sun filtering in through the canopy of trees, set amongst the late-19th century reddish brownstone and brick buildings of the campus, plays out mentally in slow motion. As my mother's manual transmission filled the quiet Massachusetts town with a sound reminiscent of the Grand Prix, I knew in my gut that I would go to the women's college on College Street.

I would spend the next four years on College Street, growing into a young woman as each season unfolded. The vibrant green humidity of late summer would morph into a fiery foliage display and an autumnal chill that started a few weeks into the semester. That chill gave way to bitterly cold nights that ruined every Halloweekend and a downpour of leaves carpeting campus. To this day, the sound of crunching leaves underfoot transports me to College Street. By the Christmas Vespers concert, white twinkle lights illuminated the copper-colored stone and ornate wrought iron of the famous gates, the centerpiece of College Street, a soothing nighttime sight during the stress of final exams. For most of the spring semester, a walk down College Street was unpleasant. Heaps of snow, darkness at 4:00, and freezing wind that howled so fiercely it broke off fragments of the barren trees and sent them flying across campus. Paired with the clanging of the bell in the spindly clock tower, College Street in February felt like home to a witches' coven (pause for sexism). But by April, the cold miraculously melted into tepid warmth. Fresh buds on bushes and trees along College Street were the backdrop of lazy afternoon drinks and cigarettes in Adirondack chairs and chatter about weekend parties and summer plans.

My summer plan would be to remain on College Street; I had a summer job as a tour guide. People who worked for Admission were usually considered campus "leaders." They told us it was harder to get hired than to get admitted. You also had to walk backward. I'd had a crap GPA, and my "extracurricular activities" list was not robust, but I was accepted based on my writing and charisma. That charisma and natural articulateness also got me the job. I was not a "campus leader." I snuck my phone into my choir concert folder so I could text boys between performances. I snuck alcohol into everything. I abandoned my thesis; and quit crew, improv, and the newspaper. But I was an excellent tour guide, and not just at the walking backward.

Sure, staying at school during the summer was partially to spend every evening sitting lakeside with friends, getting drunk and stoned, having the most incredible conversations; and dating strange townies. But in working in Admission, I'd found my first advertising job and developed skills that would shape my professional life. Since then I've learned the hard way that the real world is nothing like College Street, which caused bitterness and regret for a while. Now I realize that the point was never that the world would be like the one I encountered riding in Betsy that morning in 2009. The point was to take my time at that weird, wonderful little school on College Street into this complete shitshow of a world and do my best. At nearly 30, I am no longer the optimistic, well-spoken, hungover girl with comically vague dreams of "being a writer in New York." But she is always with me, walking backward up the memory of College Street.