Three Highlights of My Wonderful Week

ONE.

“Going to California, a suitcase in my hand”; “Another sunny day in Cali-forn-I-A”; “California! Here we come!”; “Dream of Californication.” These songs actually apply to me now: just a few months down the road, I’ll be living in California. This week I was accepted to Teach for America as a Bay Area corps member. Wow. Wow. Wow. I’m still in shock. I know what I’m doing after I graduate, a problem that so many of us seniors dread solving.

And I’m grateful—profoundly grateful—to know. But I’m also shocked. And scared. And nervous. And shocked. And overwhelmed. Soon I’ll be a real adult. Part of me questions if I’ll feel less or more disconnected then than I do now. I feel like a constant in-betweener, starting over and leaving and starting over.

It’s what I’ve always wanted. But it’s the opposite of what I want too. I mean it’s exciting to have these opportunities to cross the country and the globe, to meet new people, to start new phases of life. But I want to slow it down and immerse myself in the familiar. I’ve invested myself in these people, these Washingtonians, New Yorkers, New Jersians, Pennsylvanians. And I’ll be leaving again soon. Leaving them, it feels like.

Can you picture me there, in California? I’m struggling to do so. Of the ten cities I listed as preferences when I applied to TFA, I somehow thought I’d end up in Memphis or New York; I don’t know why. California was one of my first choices, and yet I kept saying, again and again, “But California. Really?” I question if I’ll love it there as much as I hope I will.

I picture the beaches, wonder if it’s really sunny all the time, if I’ll ever feel like a West Coaster as I now feel like a pseudo-East Coaster. From the middle of the country, to the east, and now to the west. I’m not sure if it’s progress or just confusion.

My mental image of me in California, of my life there, is only beginning to form. But I know it will take shape and grow in the space sitting between me and my future there.

And I also know that soon that space will cease to exist.

TWO.

The leaves fell like rain around me, red, gold, orange, yellow, brown, tinged with hints of green, swirling, dancing, dropping to kiss and graze my shoulders, hands, pooling around my feet. It was an undeniably beautiful, beautiful fall day—one might even say the perfect day to see Mt. Vernon. It’s been sitting there, waiting patiently, on my DC bucket list, and the months are quickly slipping by. It was time, the right time, to go.

Visiting these country homes, whether it be in England, France, DC or wherever, makes me feel patriotic, like I’m crossing between different worlds and different eras, walking the rooms and paths of people I’d never have the power or influence to meet today. I learned a few things about Washington at his house, and not the typical read-the-plaques-at-the-museum-listen-to-the-tour-guide-droning-on things about his presidency and the Revolutionary War and American history.

I feel like I connected more to who he was, who he really was, in wandering around the estate he constantly dreamt of when fighting battles and forming the United States of America. He wrote repeatedly that he just wanted to go home to Mt. Vernon, and there I was only yesterday, wandering around the home and lands he longed for. I saw the giant trees that had to have been planted in Washington’s time or earlier. I enjoyed the view from his massive back porch, overlooking our beloved Potomac. I strolled through the brightly colored blue and green rooms of his home, that he personally chose the colors for. Lafeyette’s key to the Bastille prison given as a gift to the new leader of liberty, exotic hand-chosen china branded with his seal, his desk chair with an overhead fan operated by foot pedals, his pristine and cozy white bedroom shared with Martha.

I know that this is the whole point of going, to bring history alive, to learn more about the man behind the presidency and the renown and the legends. And I fully realize that I don’t really know who Washington is, today any more than two days ago. Nonetheless, I feel like I learned something important about him in his taste for bright colors, his beautiful porch, and his magnificent land. I could have lived there happily, and he did live there happily. Somehow that seems important to me.

I wandered around and thought about how good it was that I had taken a little alone time, a little retreat time for myself, off campus. It made me feel so connected to the past, to DC, to America, to the fall, to this time in my life. It made me feel like I was once again connected to something so much bigger than myself.

THREE.

Banana Grams on a Friday night—perhaps not the college norm. But it’s definitely one of the highlights of my week. My roommates and I started a tradition at the beginning of the year to fix dinner once a week, rotating cooks and inviting friends to join us. The staples are the roommates, delicious food, and a game of Banana Grams after dinner. Perhaps that in and of itself says a lot about who we are—a group of dorky college students.

But I think it says so much more too. Every single dinner surprises me with how delicious it is, how comfortable I feel with these people of mine, how time can fly by just sitting at home and doing “nothing.” We talk and laugh and eat and eat and eat and laugh. In that order. By the time Banana Grams rolls around we’re usually full to the point of exploding and sleepy with contentment.

We sit around the table, nibbling on leftovers, clashing elbows, sipping wine, mixing the little scrabble-like squares on the table, picking letters, making designs, laughing. Someone proclaims “Split” and we start scrambling to form words. Everyone asks random questions about spellings and seems to compete in forming the most ludicrous of made-up words. “Peel.” Laughter. “Peel.” Someone squeals at getting a Q. “Dump.” Really? I just got rid of that letter. Fabulous. “Peel.” Are you sure bro doesn’t count? “BANANAS.” The rest of us glare at the winner with resentment. Then we laugh and celebrate the most creative words. Repeat.

It’s so simple. Why do we do it again and again? Why is it still so fun? We played for two hours this Friday after dinner, and I was wondering if someone would start yawning and suggest we quit playing, but it was beautiful to look around the table and think that this was the perfect Friday night. There’s something weird about being a senior and realizing that precisely when we can go out so easily, we don’t have much time left; there’s something to be said for the best use of time being spent with those one loves. Undoubtedly my Banana Grams partners are people I love, and I can’t imagine a better Friday night than this week’s.