by Carol
Schaal '91M.A.
One morning I drive past a young man perilously perched on a
unicycle. That same afternoon I drive by a man pedaling a recumbent
bicycle. "Hmmm," I think. "Must be one of those ride-your-bike-to-work
days."
As I head from the parking lot to work, a couple speaking what
sounds to be Mandarin Chinese waits with me for the walk light,
while shrieks can be heard from the playground of a nearby day-care
center. Later that afternoon, a co-worker shows slides of his
recent trip to Africa while another recommends a new restaurant
that specializes in Jamaican cuisine.
No, it is not New York or L.A. or even Hoboken. It's not even
my hometown. It's a place, as the PR material likes to stress,
that is only 90 miles from Chicago. It's my Notre Dame.
"You're not from around here, are you?" an exercise classmate
says to me at one of our monthly post-workout dinners. I give
her a questioning look. "Well," she says, "you just seem more
like someone who grew up in a big city."
"You've spent a lot of time here," a new administrator says
to me at a get-to-know-you session. I give him a questioning look.
"Well," he says, "do you feel that your horizons are too limited?"
Somewhere between what I took as a compliment and what I took
as a put-down is where I feel at home. Only a wink from South
Bend, a family-friendly, rust-belt Indiana city still trying to
find its identity; only 90 miles from Chicago.
Dell, a reporter in a small city where I once worked, had a
favorite story. While at a conference in Texas, she would say,
a rather haughty woman asked her where she was from. "Fort Wayne,"
Dell told her proudly. "I love Fort Worth," the woman gushed.
"No, no," Dell corrected her. "Fort Wayne -- Fort Wayne, Indiana."
The woman sniffed. "Oh," she said. "One doesn't get to Fort
Wayne very often, does one?"
But one does get to Notre Dame, just 90 miles from Fort Wayne.
Kofi Annan, U2, the liberal Michael Moore and the conservative
P.J. O'Rourke, presidents and poets, economists and ethicists,
physicists and football fans. Even Regis Philbin and Julia Roberts.
And for the ones not flying over, Notre Dame does offer something
in return. I've been to poetry slams, Chinese spring festivals,
contentious political debates, cutting-edge movies and plays,
jazz fests and beer busts and lectures either eye-opening or boring.
I can hear languages I can't even identify -- Czech? Yemeni? --
when I go to lunch at Greenfields and eavesdrop on two people
arguing over the financial soundness of the Euro.
After earning her doctorate at Notre Dame, my friend Margo returned
to her northern California home. "I was standing in the middle
of a grocery store here," she told me, "and I just burst into
tears." For on the shelves she found the food she'd been missing
-- the food not normally stocked by South Bend grocers. She also
found the stunning ocean scenery and the breathtaking mountain
backdrops that soothe her soul.
Yes, at Notre Dame, I won't find the latest in fashion or food
or yoga classes. And I won't see the lush green acres I saw in
New Zealand, or, for that matter, the nude beach. And at Notre
Dame, I won't find the 24/7 bustle of Manhattan or the energetic
young men who sing for their supper during intermission at Broadway
shows. And I certainly won't find the plaques so ubiquitous in
London that tell me a famous personage stood here in 1432.
But thanks to a living wage from Notre Dame, I can hop on a
plane and visit those places. Or I can take a 30-minute drive
north and revel in the vastness of Lake Michigan, or I can drive
90 miles to Chicago and party on Rush Street or see the newest
exhibit at any number of museums, from stodgy to scintillating.
Notre Dame can be like the museums. The guidance of the Congregation
of Holy Cross keeps it steady; the four-year turnover of high-spirited
students keeps it fluid. Society here, like most, has a definite
class structure, and the culture can be a bit whitebread. Professors
don't often socialize with staff, students don't hang with townies
and almost no one is into hip-hop.
It's not all here for the taking. But what is here, in this
small town of 12,000 -- give or take a homesick freshman or two
-- is what I can make of it. It becomes, as much as I want it
to, my town.
When the father of one of my dearest friends committed suicide
in a faraway state, there was no funeral service for me to attend.
And so, for him and for my friend and for me, I went to the University's
grotto and lit a candle. As I bowed my head, crying quietly, I
felt comforted. That's my Notre Dame, only 90 miles from Chicago.
Carol Schaal is managing editor ad webmaster of this magazine.
(January 2006)
