My Walk
Hi everyone, welcome to my blog/platform for sharing my thoughts and experiences. I'm going to be traveling around the world for the next year beginning sometime in July, and so I figured having a blog would be a good way to communicate to my friends and family what I'm doing/learning/thinking about.
This story isn't about my Watson year at all, but I wrote it for one of my classes and the more I read it over the more I feel connected to it. I hope that you find something in it that connects with you.
Rob Kolb is leading choir rehearsal tonight. He hasn’t stepped foot into the choir room for almost 2 years, so when he does, all of my memories of freshman and sophomore year come flooding back. As we rehearse the Towards the Unknown Region piece by R. Vaughn Williams, speeding through certain areas and pausing to listen to another one of his witty stories, my jaw gradually grows tense and I have to continuously swallow to keep myself from crying.
The moment rehearsal lets out, I gather up my belongings and speed out into the hallway, down the stairs, through Opus, and out onto Martin’s Way. From there I commence my walk, the same route I’ve taken since the beginning of freshman year. I put on my headphones and turn on the playlist I made during the fall of freshman year, affectionately titled “Hamily”. Heading towards the bridge, I think of how excited I was to have Rob Kolb direct the choir again, even if for just one day. I remember the songs we worked on with him, how the Alleluia by Randall Thompson was my mom and dad’s favorite song when they came to Hamilton for Parent’s Weekend freshman year because they had learned it in college. When I hear those songs, I cannot help but remember how my dad got to experience them with me, which makes them all the more special. I can picture my parents sitting in seats at the top right of Wellin Hall from the stage where I sung my first concert at Hamilton.
I step onto the bridge, remembering my dad and I walking very slowly along it as my mom walked behind and took pictures. She knew, I think, that that would be the only time he would see Hamilton. She wanted to take so many pictures, and now when I look at them all I see is the pale, sallow face of a man exhausted. I watch from the bridge people eating in the diner. I used to go to the diner after choir rehearsal with my friends during those first two years, as a “reward” for us trudging through two hours of intense rehearsal. Choir ended at 9, then we’d go to diner, and then we’d stay up and do homework until midnight or so. Now I go directly to my room after rehearsal because I can’t stand to do work past 9 pm, and besides, most of my friends have quit choir during the last few years.
I cross College Hill Road and think about how many times I’ve crossed this street and how many different feelings I’ve had on Martin’s Way. Too many to count. I think of eating breakfast at Fat Nat’s back home in Minnesota with my dad the morning that I left for Hamilton, when he cried as my mom and I drove away. There are couches in the Sadove living room that I still can’t sit in, because that’s where my parents and I sat when my dad needed to rest while I showed them around my campus. My parents. I haven’t said that in a long time-- it hurts to say, it hurts to think. Now it’s just my mom. The silent whack in the gut I get whenever someone asks “Tell me about your parents,” or “what do your parents do?” doesn’t get easier, and I reply with, “well, my mom…”
From Martin’s Way, I take the path that cuts in front of CJ. I remember explaining to my dad how I wanted to be a philosophy major, and he was fine with it as long as I kept my psychology major. Or applied to law school. I lead a grief peer support group in the Reading Room of CJ, because I wish there had been one for me when my dad died. Sometimes it’s a rewarding, emotionally cathartic experience. Other times it feels futile and embarrassing.
I walk along the street in front of Root, all the way to the library. One night during my sophomore year I fell directly in front of Root, and two guys asked me if I was okay. I angrily replied, “I’m fine” but just sat there crying. I cried for my dad, I cried for feeling lost, I cried for feeling exhausted. That was one of the rare nights where I actually asked for help, texting my friend John and telling him I couldn’t stop crying and would he please come find me and be with me. I relocated to a classroom in Benedict (didn’t wanna freak out passers-by) and soon heard John’s feet sprinting up the stairs, and he ran into the room breathless. The look on his face was strange to me, his eyes were wide-open and crazed, watery and searching. I hadn’t had someone literally race to take care of me before. John knew he couldn’t take away my pain, but he was there to bear witness to it.
Next, I turn right and head towards Eells. Sometimes if I’m feeling like it it, I go inside Eells and sit in the study filled with old yearbooks and encyclopedias. I decide tonight calls for more nostalgia, and I take a seat inside by the window. I think of a fall day and smell the crispness of leaves, the mild chill in the air that’s perfect for sweaters and hot apple cider from the cider mill. Freshman year smells different in my memories than all of the other years. It tastes different, it sounds different, it feels different. I leave Eells.
I turn right, then turn left towards Wertimer and the cemetery. My favorite spot on campus is the tree that sits in the middle of the cemetery, with nice sturdy branches to climb. Sometimes while I do this walk I sit in it for a few minutes, remembering how many hours I spent climbing the oak tree in my front yard in Minnesota. My parents called me a spider-monkey when I was younger, because I climbed everything with ease. I’d even bring books into the tree so I could both read them and spy on the neighborhood at the same time. My neighbor told me once that because the tree was technically in her yard (it was split between our property and her property) that I was only allowed to climb up to a certain point. I hated that, because her limit was about ⅓ of the height I enjoyed climbing to, but I listened, and pretty soon afterwards I stopped climbing the oak tree. I walk past the cemetery tree this time, feeling restless.
I walk counter-clockwise through the cemetery. I begin talking to my dad as I walk, catching him up on what’s going on with my life. I tell him about how afraid I am to go on the Watson year, but how I know I’ve made him proud. I tell him I wish he’d told me how proud he was of me when he had the chance, how he should have given me some sort of wisdom about life before he died. My dad was stubborn, it becoming a family joke when we heard that when a nurse was trying to keep him from walking too soon after surgery at the hospital he was in, he yelled, “I’m in charge of my own destiny!” His stubbornness persisted until his death-- he refused to believe he was going to die until the very end, at which point he’d already lost his ability to speak.
Back to the path in front of Bristol, I walk along Campus Road until I reach College Hill Road. I can’t remember how many times I’ve done this walk, but when I’m feeling alone or confused, my legs seem to naturally take me there. My playlist finally reaches the choir songs. Alleluia by Eric Whitacre plays, beginning with a soprano soloist’s lone voice calling out.
I turn right and walk behind Benedict. I get to the benches between Commons and Benedict and sit. As the rest of the choir joins in, Alleluia picks up momentum, approaching the peak of the mountain. My high school choir director taught me about musical mountaintop moments, the point in a song where you reach the summit and look around and every hair on your arms stand up straight. I haven’t had many musical mountaintop moments since coming to Hamilton, but the choir songs from freshman year strike a chord within me. The soprano solo melts into the sky, and I sob. In this moment, crying is the only possible authentic expression of my thoughts. I often get frustrated trying to form the swirling mess of thoughts inside me into something that makes sense and is palatable to others, and those mountaintop moments provide a brief moment of respite from the desire to verbally express how I’m feeling.
I continue to sit and watch for when the headlights of the cars illuminate the exterior of Benedict. The next song comes on, Cantate Domino by Josef Swider. There’s a point in this song where each individual singer in the chorus alternates between two different pitches at their own pace, the amalgamation of which is eerie and terrifying-- a true cacophony of voices and emotions. I brace myself for the 15 seconds of overwhelming noise, and then listen for what I know will be the basses joining together in singing the melody. They come up from the depths of nowhere, so faint that if you weren’t looking for it you might not notice until after the tenors join them, followed by the altos and sopranos, when order is regained. The noises form patterns, which stack on top of each other until I’d forgotten there was ever any confusion. What goes on in my head often feels like those 15 seconds of cacophony. Constant new thoughts traveling at paces that don’t line up with the other thoughts, no singular rhythm or pattern. They cut in and out. They overwhelm me. I’m still waiting on the moment where the melody emerges again.
This story isn't about my Watson year at all, but I wrote it for one of my classes and the more I read it over the more I feel connected to it. I hope that you find something in it that connects with you.
My Walk
Rob Kolb is leading choir rehearsal tonight. He hasn’t stepped foot into the choir room for almost 2 years, so when he does, all of my memories of freshman and sophomore year come flooding back. As we rehearse the Towards the Unknown Region piece by R. Vaughn Williams, speeding through certain areas and pausing to listen to another one of his witty stories, my jaw gradually grows tense and I have to continuously swallow to keep myself from crying.
The moment rehearsal lets out, I gather up my belongings and speed out into the hallway, down the stairs, through Opus, and out onto Martin’s Way. From there I commence my walk, the same route I’ve taken since the beginning of freshman year. I put on my headphones and turn on the playlist I made during the fall of freshman year, affectionately titled “Hamily”. Heading towards the bridge, I think of how excited I was to have Rob Kolb direct the choir again, even if for just one day. I remember the songs we worked on with him, how the Alleluia by Randall Thompson was my mom and dad’s favorite song when they came to Hamilton for Parent’s Weekend freshman year because they had learned it in college. When I hear those songs, I cannot help but remember how my dad got to experience them with me, which makes them all the more special. I can picture my parents sitting in seats at the top right of Wellin Hall from the stage where I sung my first concert at Hamilton.
I step onto the bridge, remembering my dad and I walking very slowly along it as my mom walked behind and took pictures. She knew, I think, that that would be the only time he would see Hamilton. She wanted to take so many pictures, and now when I look at them all I see is the pale, sallow face of a man exhausted. I watch from the bridge people eating in the diner. I used to go to the diner after choir rehearsal with my friends during those first two years, as a “reward” for us trudging through two hours of intense rehearsal. Choir ended at 9, then we’d go to diner, and then we’d stay up and do homework until midnight or so. Now I go directly to my room after rehearsal because I can’t stand to do work past 9 pm, and besides, most of my friends have quit choir during the last few years.
I cross College Hill Road and think about how many times I’ve crossed this street and how many different feelings I’ve had on Martin’s Way. Too many to count. I think of eating breakfast at Fat Nat’s back home in Minnesota with my dad the morning that I left for Hamilton, when he cried as my mom and I drove away. There are couches in the Sadove living room that I still can’t sit in, because that’s where my parents and I sat when my dad needed to rest while I showed them around my campus. My parents. I haven’t said that in a long time-- it hurts to say, it hurts to think. Now it’s just my mom. The silent whack in the gut I get whenever someone asks “Tell me about your parents,” or “what do your parents do?” doesn’t get easier, and I reply with, “well, my mom…”
From Martin’s Way, I take the path that cuts in front of CJ. I remember explaining to my dad how I wanted to be a philosophy major, and he was fine with it as long as I kept my psychology major. Or applied to law school. I lead a grief peer support group in the Reading Room of CJ, because I wish there had been one for me when my dad died. Sometimes it’s a rewarding, emotionally cathartic experience. Other times it feels futile and embarrassing.
I walk along the street in front of Root, all the way to the library. One night during my sophomore year I fell directly in front of Root, and two guys asked me if I was okay. I angrily replied, “I’m fine” but just sat there crying. I cried for my dad, I cried for feeling lost, I cried for feeling exhausted. That was one of the rare nights where I actually asked for help, texting my friend John and telling him I couldn’t stop crying and would he please come find me and be with me. I relocated to a classroom in Benedict (didn’t wanna freak out passers-by) and soon heard John’s feet sprinting up the stairs, and he ran into the room breathless. The look on his face was strange to me, his eyes were wide-open and crazed, watery and searching. I hadn’t had someone literally race to take care of me before. John knew he couldn’t take away my pain, but he was there to bear witness to it.
Next, I turn right and head towards Eells. Sometimes if I’m feeling like it it, I go inside Eells and sit in the study filled with old yearbooks and encyclopedias. I decide tonight calls for more nostalgia, and I take a seat inside by the window. I think of a fall day and smell the crispness of leaves, the mild chill in the air that’s perfect for sweaters and hot apple cider from the cider mill. Freshman year smells different in my memories than all of the other years. It tastes different, it sounds different, it feels different. I leave Eells.
I turn right, then turn left towards Wertimer and the cemetery. My favorite spot on campus is the tree that sits in the middle of the cemetery, with nice sturdy branches to climb. Sometimes while I do this walk I sit in it for a few minutes, remembering how many hours I spent climbing the oak tree in my front yard in Minnesota. My parents called me a spider-monkey when I was younger, because I climbed everything with ease. I’d even bring books into the tree so I could both read them and spy on the neighborhood at the same time. My neighbor told me once that because the tree was technically in her yard (it was split between our property and her property) that I was only allowed to climb up to a certain point. I hated that, because her limit was about ⅓ of the height I enjoyed climbing to, but I listened, and pretty soon afterwards I stopped climbing the oak tree. I walk past the cemetery tree this time, feeling restless.
I walk counter-clockwise through the cemetery. I begin talking to my dad as I walk, catching him up on what’s going on with my life. I tell him about how afraid I am to go on the Watson year, but how I know I’ve made him proud. I tell him I wish he’d told me how proud he was of me when he had the chance, how he should have given me some sort of wisdom about life before he died. My dad was stubborn, it becoming a family joke when we heard that when a nurse was trying to keep him from walking too soon after surgery at the hospital he was in, he yelled, “I’m in charge of my own destiny!” His stubbornness persisted until his death-- he refused to believe he was going to die until the very end, at which point he’d already lost his ability to speak.
Back to the path in front of Bristol, I walk along Campus Road until I reach College Hill Road. I can’t remember how many times I’ve done this walk, but when I’m feeling alone or confused, my legs seem to naturally take me there. My playlist finally reaches the choir songs. Alleluia by Eric Whitacre plays, beginning with a soprano soloist’s lone voice calling out.
I turn right and walk behind Benedict. I get to the benches between Commons and Benedict and sit. As the rest of the choir joins in, Alleluia picks up momentum, approaching the peak of the mountain. My high school choir director taught me about musical mountaintop moments, the point in a song where you reach the summit and look around and every hair on your arms stand up straight. I haven’t had many musical mountaintop moments since coming to Hamilton, but the choir songs from freshman year strike a chord within me. The soprano solo melts into the sky, and I sob. In this moment, crying is the only possible authentic expression of my thoughts. I often get frustrated trying to form the swirling mess of thoughts inside me into something that makes sense and is palatable to others, and those mountaintop moments provide a brief moment of respite from the desire to verbally express how I’m feeling.
I continue to sit and watch for when the headlights of the cars illuminate the exterior of Benedict. The next song comes on, Cantate Domino by Josef Swider. There’s a point in this song where each individual singer in the chorus alternates between two different pitches at their own pace, the amalgamation of which is eerie and terrifying-- a true cacophony of voices and emotions. I brace myself for the 15 seconds of overwhelming noise, and then listen for what I know will be the basses joining together in singing the melody. They come up from the depths of nowhere, so faint that if you weren’t looking for it you might not notice until after the tenors join them, followed by the altos and sopranos, when order is regained. The noises form patterns, which stack on top of each other until I’d forgotten there was ever any confusion. What goes on in my head often feels like those 15 seconds of cacophony. Constant new thoughts traveling at paces that don’t line up with the other thoughts, no singular rhythm or pattern. They cut in and out. They overwhelm me. I’m still waiting on the moment where the melody emerges again.
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