on graduation

(Thanks to Shehz for the pic & for letting me steal his identity)

I’m sprawled comfortably on the grass, head propped on my backpack, while a fat squirrel noses suspiciously around my legs. I don’t linger here often, but Associates Park is one of my favorite places on campus: it’s a pretty, grassy little area with trees and benches and a convenient diagonal path that I always use for shortcuts. It’s Squirrel Central as well as a human thoroughfare, and its bushy-tailed residents make pleasant company.

As I gaze up at the patches of blue between the foliage, I have an overwhelming sense of déjà vu, and it only takes me a second to realize why. A memory surfaces in almost perfect clarity, a reel in black and white. I close my eyes as I think back; it’s been a long time since I laid here like this. Four years ago. Same trees, same path, same wildlife.

And one entirely different person.

Four years ago, I collapsed on the grass and drop my backpack to the ground. I had just left my Introduction to Cinema class early. I felt a little guilty about skipping out, but back then I was miserable, and my unhappiness gave me a mixed sort of apathy-claustrophobia. I couldn’t sit in that class a moment longer. So I escaped to this little oasis, which was thankfully almost deserted as the sun began to set. I was a Critical Studies major, I was depressed, and I was convinced that I’d made a huge mistake by coming to USC. I had been intimidated by the ambition of the other cinematic arts majors and alienated by what I saw as a university environment where I’d never truly belong. More than anything, I was intensely lonely. It took a while before I was able to put that feeling into words: “It feels like no one knows or cares where I am.” Meanwhile, like most freshmen, I was convinced that I was the only one struggling. Some of you may know that I tried to transfer to another college near the end of my first semester at USC; I tried desperately. I was convinced that I was a failure, and hoped that starting anew at another school would give me a chance to fix everything.

The other school had originally offered me a full scholarship, but at this point in the semester, their office confirmed that the offer was null and void. I found myself fiscally prevented from transferring away. My window for escape had closed.

Once I was past the initial panic, I opened up about it to a few dear friends and family members. Slowly, I began to come to terms with staying at USC. I tried to convince myself I could figure it all out: change my major, get involved, and find friends. I was still fighting crippling self-doubt and homesickness, but at least I was fighting. So that day in Associates Park, lying on the grass in the fading light, it was the first time I began to see the light at the end of the tunnel. I remember looking at myself with my phone camera as a mirror—noticing the hollows under my eyes, the paleness of my skin, the unhappiness in my features—and pushing myself to smile. I remember distinctly, determinedly thinking: I’m going to be all right. I am going to be all right.

And I was. Four years later, I can barely remember the person I was. This ground connects me with that girl across time, but it feels like I’m invading someone else’s thoughts. She is me, but I’m not her. Needless to say, despite false starts and no small amount of hurt, I ultimately found my place. I grew to love college and more importantly, I grew to love myself. I found kindred spirits who high-fived my bad jokes, passionately discussed science fiction, and called me a breath of fresh air. I spent some late nights dancing to cheesy music videos, and others on a bed of crumpled tissues with my head in my hands. I tumbled headfirst into relationships, foolishly believing that sandwiches and sympathy spelled out love, that infatuation entitled me to reciprocity, and that hugs could fill the vacancy that confidence left. I finally realized that no matter how many hours I spent taking care of the friend throwing up in my shower or talking to the girl who desperately missed her family, no matter how much I chose to support others, it was no substitute for loving myself. So I grew to love my compassion, my stormy emotions and sarcasm, my uncertainty, my grief and my joie de vivre. There were always ups and downs, and I often wondered if emotional connection was worth the requisite pain that accompanies it, but I choose to believe that it is. I made many mistakes, but I did my best to learn from the aftermath and live as the kind of person I want to be. I did so much growing up here in the grimy, gorgeous metropolis of Los Angeles. And now it feels like I’ve lived in this place forever. The coral bricks of these buildings look like home, and their names slip from my mouth as easily as my own.

“Excuse me?” My reverie is interrupted as a female student veers off the diagonal path towards me.

I sit up quickly. “Yes?”

“Do you possibly know where NCT is? Norris Cinema Theater?”

I pause for a moment, caught off guard—then stand up to direct her. “Yes, actually I do! Straight ahead, right there. The entrance is on that side.”

She thanks me and hurries away. I lay back down. Embarrassingly, without warning, I feel tears pricking at my eyes. Norris Cinema Theater is where my Introduction to Cinema class met, the class I snuck out of that day to sit on the sun-dappled grass and convince myself I’d make it. This stranger could be me, though she walks toward the building as I walked away from it. I can’t quite articulate it, but there’s an eerie sort of symmetry to this experience, and it makes me emotional for the girl I used to be. I swipe at my eyes and smile, thinking how ironic it is that now I am as afraid to leave USC as my freshman self was to stay.

People used to tell me that college is the best four years of adult life. Adults would lament that their glory days ended when they graduated. I didn’t believe it then, and I don’t believe it now, but not because my undergraduate years haven’t been incredible. Do I love it here? Yes, unquestionably. This time will leave an indelible mark on me. Don’t think I underestimate its impact, because I feel the weight of its impending loss in every bone of my body. Don’t think I’m not worried about the future, because I’m terrified of the unknown. I’ll miss the comfort of navigating through Trousdale at midday, dashing back to the dorm for RA duty, grabbing a bite at the dining hall, hearing the marching band on game days, and half-jokingly telling my friends to “fight on.” I’m going to cry after graduation, and probably be mopey for a few days. But I’m also the kind of person who believes that the future is limitless, so I know there’s a million more adventures to come. The “best days” are not ending.

This has become a refuge for me, the first place I felt I belonged beyond the walls of my childhood home, and it’s frightening to step away from its safety. But somewhere between late nights and first loves, I grew up from a brutally insecure teenager to a young adult who loves life and herself with a wry sort of equanimity. And that newfound wisdom is what tells me that I can leave college and hit the ground running, that I can force myself to defy inertia and move forward, that even if I fall on my face, I’ll just eat some chocolate and watch some Netflix and then eventually get my ass back up. My time at USC has strengthened me. And I wouldn’t trade my experience, warts and all, for any price. These four years have been a stunning, painful, joyous, exquisite roller coaster of a preamble to the rest of adulthood, and I will always hold them dear to my heart.

As I lie on the grass and let the breeze cool my skin, I feel connected and content. I feel grounded, anchored to every breath of a life that drifts nonlinear and boundless around me. I speak in unison with the memory of my past, this time with a dazzling smile: I’m going to be all right.

Because this is not where the best days ended. This is the place where the best days began.

~