The In-Between of College and Home

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My college journey so far has brought an influx of new experiences, bitter truths, and enlightening moments.

It’s safe to say that the U.S. college experience that everyone raves about — high schoolers with dizzying anticipation, parents with wistful chuckles — is unique even compared to those of similarly structured institutions in Western Europe. Above all, my time in college unveiled it as a certain distancing from the real world, a bubble-like environment that shapes and hones values outside of our former selves.

This weird, ethereal quality did not reveal itself to me while I was strolling through the perfectly symmetric quads of Johns Hopkins. It was my first weekend home during this fall semester and it had been about two months since I last slept in my twin-sized bed. At around midnight, my parents and I entered the house. Miniature pumpkin decorations watched me from the kitchen counter and dining room table. The white fur carpets in the living room had replaced the black ones in the main corridor. These minor changes — some, like the Halloween decorations, strictly seasonal — made me suddenly aware of my being away.

For better or worse, college was my world now. The hustle and bustle of home — of grocery shopping, weekend excursions, and cliche Route 4-at-sunset drives — continued regardless of where I was. I think, subconsciously, I wanted college to function like a weekend getaway — refreshing and elucidating, but inconsequential as far as “home” was concerned. What I realized was that time did not stop in college and however illusory the whole experience may feel, its progression coincided with everything else.

Funnily enough, the aforementioned trip home was my weekend getaway. The sun ran its cycle twice, I blinked, and there I was again, carrying my overnight bag through campus. I suppose that my mood for the subsequent couple of days could be characterized as existential. Not necessarily in the teenage angst sense, but I felt out of place – both at school and, I solemnly admitted, at home. I was left questioning what “home” would mean by the time graduation rolled around.

A few days ago, reflecting on this topic and the meager chicken I had just eaten in the cafeteria, I walked on the paved path leading back to my dorm. Multi-shaded leaves spilled in from the surrounding lawns and sun rays pierced through the naked branches above. The air was brisk, pleasant. Fall had quietly settled in. For some reason, long-buried memories of home came to mind, memories of trick-or-treating and skateboarding in empty parking lots, six or seven years earlier.

And then I just had to grin, stupidly, because I somehow found comfort in the ubiquity of seasonal change, its telltale signs. Ultimately, my understanding of “home” was left for the future to solve.

In the meantime, the annual leaf piles and mom’s carved pumpkin statuettes would suffice.