Photo courtesy of Grace Neale ‘22. Harkness Memorial State Park ‘17.
I hope I am not alone in having the whimsical dream that my parents would drop me off at college where I would lean against a random oak tree, open a book with absurdly small print discussing the thing of the thing that is the thing, and happen to be invited to a secret society by an attractive youth whereupon we dress up as bourgeois members and jump off buildings with umbrellas in hand. Oh, silly me! I confused reality with season five of Gilmore Girls.
If I were to rate my first year at Connecticut College on a scale of the dorm bathrooms on a Sunday evening (pre-COVID) to Boatweiler singing “Teenage Dream” at the Barn (pre-COVID), I would categorize it as an overcooked piece of bow-tie pasta from Harris. Not the worst, but certainly not ideal. I was fortunate enough to crawl through my first year without COVID-19 as an antagonist, which makes me empathize even more with the class of 2024.
Needless to say, I was not particularly happy my first year at Conn. During Fall Weekend, I hid my tears in a bowl of spaghetti and meatballs at Paul’s Pasta, and when I went home for break, I considered not coming back. “Maybe college just isn’t for me”––words I actually said, the epitome of a Ravenclaw. There were solitary study sessions at cubicles on the third floor of Shain. There were dishonest camel chats where I sunk into my floor governor’s butterfly chair in an attempt to fly away. There was googling of “how to know when you should transfer colleges” and nightly phone calls with my parents while sitting on a bench outside Branford, watching herds of students passing by. I was upset and angry that I couldn’t just be happy and take shots of…blue Gatorade…and post about said activity on my Instagram with a strategically placed flower emoji. I felt guilty because I had the privilege of access to a liberal arts education and I wasn’t in the mindspace to make the most of it.
But in the backdrop of my homesickness and existential crisis, was The College Voice. Even if I wasn’t vibing with Camel spirit, bi-monthly pitch meetings in the Alice Johnson room in Cro became my safe space: a place to escape my dorm room and Voice topics I wanted to cover for the Arts and Opinions sections. I looked up to the Editors-in-Chief and fangirled over the section editors. There was Maia Hibbett ‘18, Dana Gallagher ‘19, Sophia Angele-Kuehn ‘20, and Jozette Moses ‘21. There were interviews with students involved in Sprout Garden and the WCNI radio, investigative pieces on student housing and the Barn, as well as reviews of student curations in Cummings and performances by OnStage. Even though my introverted self was too afraid to talk to peers while grabbing for a banana in Harris, sitting down in Blue Camel to interview students felt safer. Talking with inspiring juniors and seniors convinced me that there must be something over the hump that is your first year at any college. As Mrs. Potts so wisely puts it: “There may be something that wasn’t there before.”
The summer after my first year I had the opportunity to study abroad in Perugia, Italy for six weeks. I came back to Conn my sophomore year with a “make it worth” perspective. One could say abroad ~changed me. I began to say yes to opportunities that daunted me before and was possessed by the Knowlton ghost to overpoint both semesters (don’t do this). I dreamed of becoming an Arts section editor so I could be what the editors were for me my first year. Since orientation, I had been searching for my camel moment, and I have arrived at the conclusion that it was being elected an Arts editor my junior year. And here, I invite you to let those tears fall and stain this virtual newspaper. Writing pitches on the whiteboard in Cro in blue Expo marker or reading off a list over Google Hangouts became the highlights of my week both pre and post COVID.
To be completely honest, TCV got me through the moments when I doubted Conn was my home. When I studied abroad in Bologna last spring, I curled back into a shell of myself, feeling homesick not for my hometown but for Conn, an ironic discovery that slapped me in the face almost harder than receiving an email at 2 am in a dimly lit bar that my study abroad program had been canceled due to COVID-19. I felt guilty for craving Knowlton’s wooden floors, cranberry walnut bread from JA, and spilling the college tea in the Voice’s office while I was studying at one of the most prestigious universities in Italy, surrounded by Tuscan neighborhoods that made Under the Tuscan Sun seem plausible. When I returned home from Italy, last year’s editorial team welcomed me back into that (virtual) space and I was able to find a sense of normalcy in writing for the arts section once again. Everything else felt disjointed and disCONNected but joining Google Hangouts for TCV didn’t add to my burnout. And here is the pun you have all been waiting for: I felt CONNected.
Of course, I wish that my last year writing and editing for the newspaper mirrored the semesters before where we met in-person to pitch, write, and edit articles. But I am grateful for the work of current editor-in-chief Moses and managing editor Amanda Sanders ‘22 have done to establish the environment we once took for granted. In the spring semester, section editors have been able to edit articles in the Voice’s office on the second floor of Cro. Sitting in rolling chairs that are probably older than us seniors, I felt like I had entered a parallel universe where I was a junior once again, sipping a Bee’s Knees on Saturday mornings while musing with Moses about having our own Winches senior year (irony).
In this former universe, I was happy at Conn. There was admiring from afar (difficult when you are near-sighted) and unfortunate love triangles. There was dancing on the armrest of a sunken coach in Winch 6 screaming along to “Mamma Mia” (don’t try this at home). There were late chats while holding a Build-a-Bear and sleepless nights laying on my floor debating whether CISLA was the right path for me. There were quesadillas from Harris, and that awkward moment when a boy in Coffee Closet mocked my article on EEE: “can you believe she changed her sheets just because she thought she saw a mosquito on her bed?” Unbeknownst to him, I was sitting right behind him, but I stand by my decision and deem him unworthy of the Life and Death Brigade. And if you are reading this now, kind sir, you owe me a latte with freshly squeezed oat milk and organic honey.
Joining The College Voice my first year at Conn was simultaneously the most intimidating and rewarding choice I have made as a Camel. Of course, there were moments where I doubted if I was a good writer and if journalism was a career I wanted to pursue. But reading student journalism has humbled me to the point that while I still struggle with comparing myself to others, it has become easier to celebrate beautiful reporting, rather than fall down a rabbit hole of self-loathing. Those darker moments of self-doubt and anxiety are still there, and I am sure they will remain after graduation, but those thoughts no longer feel all consuming. If you are where I was four years ago, know that you are not alone and happiness is possible.
Rory and I both survive on coffee and fine food establishments. Our bookish-selves evolved during our four years as undergrads thanks to student journalism. But the difference is, she is a bulldog and I am a camel. And so are you.
