By Victoria Mescall
We lived in a dorm divided.
It was furnished with exactly two twin beds, two dressers, two desks and two closets, but it wasn’t the furniture that divided us.
Instead, it was the age old tale of two friends from rival cities.
We started off as acquaintances, as all friends do. And once we got to talking we realized there was a difference between us.
I was Red Sox. She was Mets.
I was sub sandwich. She was hero.
I was dog and she was dawg.
The first time we stayed up late and talked about missing home, home was easily identified as being two different states. But overtime, home became our shared on campus address.
Going to college out of state can lead to a bit of a culture shock. When you are suddenly surrounded by people who were raised in communities that differ from yours, that talk in a different accent and who have never visited your favorite places, you start to feel isolated. The shock factor is intensified if you happen to be particularly partial to where they come from, as I happen to be.
Some people can’t wait to grow up and get out. They wait eighteen years to be able to be on their own. While that is the case for many, it wasn’t the case for me.
Going to college is one big adventure, but the point of going away to college is leaving the place you call home.
I didn’t grow up within the Boston city limits, but growing up in a neighboring area I was a frequent visitor of the city. Boston is what I classify as the city, and my city. None of the New York nonsense.
In true Bostonian fashion, I have no problem telling you that Boston is the greatest city in the world. It’s similar to New York City, but it is smaller and cleaner and all around better. And for those reasons the city reminds me of home.
When I was younger, my teachers would tell our class how lucky we were to go on field trips in Boston. We attended some of the world’s most well renowned museums, cruised the harbor and even walked the Freedom Trail. We grew up experiencing America’s history in our own backyard.
But when you go away to college, your backyard changes. Sometimes your new backyard is hundreds of miles away from your old one.
We were two girls placed in a typical Sacred Heart freshmen dorm. We are, as were then and still are now, pretty darn proud of where we came from.
Living at Sacred Heart has taught me that the city in which you were born and raised isn’t the only place you can call home.
Everyone is partial to where they come from. It becomes a part of who you are. In a way, your geotag becomes part of your genetic makeup.
You know it exists when that mid-summer withdrawal starts to kick in and you can’t wait to move back to college. That is when you know you miss home.
Over the last year I have come to realize that I call home a tiny sixth floor dorm room full of 3 a.m. laughter, ramen and a lot of native city rivalry.
Recently, I have begun to identify myself as a part-time
Connecticut-native. And even though I’ll root for Massachusetts until the day I die, I’m proud to call Connecticut my part time home.
So the moral of the story is that it doesn’t matter what divides you, as long as you both find a place to call home.