home(from)dartmouth, part III

This morning, just as every morning I've been home, I've woken up to sunlight streaming through my open windows, lighting up the pale blue of my sheets, illuminating bright patches of grey carpet, catching hold of the folds and shadows cast by my yet-unpacked suitcases. It's peaceful, I think -- there's no difference between you and the day, no moment of deciding to let the world's stage present itself upon drawing back the heavy curtains; just you, slowly waking, the sun softly shining as it does over everything.

I got used to waking up this way at Dartmouth -- it was so hot in May that it was impossible to shut your window and live through the night. So, everyone kept their windows perpetually open; since the sun never shined directly through mine, I kept the shade up, too. And just as every morning I would awake to the warmth of the sun on my face, every night I fell asleep shrouded in the orange glow of a distant streetlamp, the inconsistent hum of traffic and the periodic shouts of frat-goers punctuating the night's silence.

Waking up in your own room is like waking up in your own world, one that slowly expands as you begin your day. First your room as you get ready, then your dorm building as you walk outside, then the strange, ever-changing sidewalk-world that blurs past on your bike, then the frisbee-throwing, sun-tanning Green, the chatty, moved-outdoors dining halls, the saying-hello, the thin, icy air of the library, the view from the windows to the people moving infinitesimally below... and as the day ends, so the world closes again; folding in to smaller and smaller spheres until the sidewalk is a ribbon fluttering behind your bicycle as you fly arms-outstretched through the warm, ruddy evening, and the light from the windows above means that soon, again it will be only you and the hum of the traffic as you sleep.

The strange thing about being home is that your world is fixed: you are not a part of every place you go -- you are a visitor. Stepping outside doesn't mean stepping into a place where you can find someone you know, link arms with and go on a walk; going to a public place doesn't mean that everyone is aware of the common, unifying culture, like walking into the library or a dining hall. Being home is like a series of tiny trips into other people's worlds; only a part of your own, but a welcome guest elsewhere. Being at Dartmouth was always being welcome; it was knowing that every place was yours, in part, because if you didn't share it in name, you shared it in spirit. We operated under a culture that was understood -- one that allowed you to always feel like a part of something, like your actions were a reflection upon the other members of this unique, communal world.

Which means, I think, that the thing I miss most about Dartmouth is the feeling of waking up and knowing that I'm surrounded by friends. That whenever I wanted during the day, I could find someone to keep me company, to eat a meal with, to study with -- and that here, at home, that's not necessarily true. So now I have to learn a different kind of self-sufficiency; I have to re-integrate into this world where I'm a guest in those of others; I have to remember how to be a part of a different kind of family than the one I lived so happily with for the last nine months.