Figuring out how to say good-bye
JOANNA MIKULSKI
Tuesday Voice
I didn't know how to say "hello" to college on that first weekend of freshmen year — my 18th birthday weekend. Now I don't know how to say "good-bye" to it. I'm not going pretend that I do.
It's silly to be reminiscing, as I have almost everyday this semester. After all, I'm only 21, and I'm pretty sure that as of yet, I know little about anything that really matters.
So I'm not going to dwell on imminent farewells, attempt to impart wisdom on underclassmen or speak wistfully about life-changing late night discussions, football victories or adventures while inebriated. Instead, I'd prefer to enjoy my real life right now in all its unreality.
On Friday evening, a white stretch limousine pulled up to our apartment. Fourteen of our friends, dressed in formal attire, poured out of the oversized vehicle, parked in the Solo cup-littered lot between the two rows of townhouses. They came to celebrate "prom"— our prom at our apartment— and were taking the event as seriously as we were.
At that moment, my roommates and I knew that we had succeeded.
Lesson learned after four years of college: We are all in this together — theme parties included.
Our prom party was complete with all of the trappings of an actual high school prom. We had purple and silver decorations, a song, a picture corner and — like any event that seniors partake in these days — the feeling that the last moments have arrived. I suppose they have, but like I said, I'd rather not dwell on it.
Crowned prom king and queen were perhaps my most regal of roommates and a guy in a brown tuxedo. I'd tell you where both of the honored individuals are headed next — like they do in high school — but I can't, even though both the king and queen have plans.
Another lesson learned after four years of college: A job or a school or a service project cannot explain "where someone is going." It's only a small part of the person that we are all becoming.
I'm not sure whether celebrating prom again means that my friends and I are regressing or just coming full circle. I'd like to think that the weekend demonstrated that finally, we all have our priorities straight. Now in the last days of class with finals approaching, we weren't anxiously studying, diligently finishing papers or visiting professors for last minute advice on assignments.
None of the stuff that we are supposed to worry about — the exams, the résumés, the projects or the applications — seems to matter anymore. We've survived the end of the semester seven times before, and we will again.
At this University amidst the 10,000 overachievers who experience college here every year, it's easy to lose perspective — to get what matters to you tangled in the idea of what matters to other students, professors, advisors or the campus community in general.
What matters to me right now are the people with whom I have spent the last four years. My roommates who stood beside me every day this year. My best friends from a year abroad who kept me sane as we explored the world together. Professors who gave me ideas, concepts and beliefs to latch onto and become passionate about. My family.
Everyone who taught me to have faith. In a Higher Power. That I won't leave here lost. That I'll be ok.
So maybe I am in danger of reminiscing, dwelling on approaching good-byes and speaking longingly about four years past. I know it's ridiculous, but maybe it's unavoidable.
Next fall I will be in Austria again, teaching grade school children English. I'll probably spend a lot of time looking back, remembering the rhythm of my life here, my year in Innsbruck, summers and beginnings and breaks and finals. I imagine that the pain, the arguments, and the annoyances will all fade away, allowing me to become hopelessly, honestly nostalgic. I might even think that I have some wisdom from the experience to share, but I still won't.
On Sunday I spent all day wondering what I should write for today. When I went to Mass at 10 p.m., less than a paragraph of this column was composed. I wasn't worried; at the end of Mass, I still had 13 hours before deadline. So I did what anyone in their right mind would do.
Final lesson learned after four years of college: When in doubt, go to the Boat Club.
Joanna Mikulski would like to express her gratitude to her family, friends and everyone else, who put up with her column writing during the last three years.
She'd also like to say "thanks" to her "prom date," who is pretty sure that she and all of her friends are insane. Contact her at jmikulsk@nd.edu.
The views expressed in this column are those of the author and not necessarily those of The Observer.
All Viewpoint Stories for Tuesday, April 29, 2003
