My home is Dunkin’ | Things I’ve Learned From Strangers

I am a Massachusetts native. Actually, that’s not true. I was born in Rhode Island and lived there for the first two weeks of my life. 

My mom’s side still lives in Providence. But my dad’s side lives in Massachusetts. Southie, Melrose, Cape Cod, the South End, etc. Well, not etc. That’s the full extent of the list.

Let’s just say that I am a New England native. I care adamantly about the changing of the seasons and I feel strongly about the Red Sox and Patriots even when the disappointment they cause sets a curse of silence on my household.

Most importantly, however, I care about Dunkin’. This is not sponsored, but what a dream that would be. Freshman year of college, my roommate and I started a podcast and tried to get sponsored by Dunkin’. Shame we had, like, 25 followers.

Dunkin’ has been an essential part of my being since I was a child. There is a photograph of me sneaking a sip of my dad’s iced coffee while he talked to someone in the another direction. That photo proves two things: I often prefer iced coffee to water, and I am an extremely stealthy individual.

The pieces of Dunkin’ that out-of-towners might think help it maintain its popularity are often misinformed hypotheses. It is not the intense sugar-rush that their syrups provide, nor is it the way they keep us on our toes as we gamble whether the first sip will be sweet, sweet paradise or like licking the butt of a cigarette. What is the home that your local Dunkin’ makes for you?

The Dunkin’ locations in the town I grew up in –– Wellesley, Massachusetts –– were defined by the random kids from my school that worked at them. One of them was the Smith Dunkin’, one of them was the Jones Dunkin’. Last names only because it would be impossible to tell the difference if we used their first names –– both Ryan, coincidentally.

Whether the Smith Dunkin’ or the Jones Dunkin’, the pink and orange oasis of a Dunkin’ at seven in the morning before a six-hour day of high school was just what the doctor ordered. Hypothetically, I guess a doctor would never order a patient to get a medium iced regular with caramel swirl every single morning –– but I’ve never been one for hypotheticals.

It is interesting to me how many fond memories I have of those Dunkin’ in Wellesley, Massachusetts. 

I have been living in Boston for going on four years now, my family moved out of Wellesley altogether about two years ago, and I actually can’t remember the last time I stepped foot in the town since then. Sitting here now, in my apartment in Allston at my desk from my childhood bedroom, it seems that the memories in Wellesley Dunkin’s might be the only moments there that stay with me for the rest of my life.

Maybe you think that sounds lame. But I don’t care. I mean, who uses the word lame anymore, anyways?

Funnily enough, even though I am still in college, I can guarantee that the Dunkin’ locations surrounding Boston University will be places I look back on with extreme nostalgia and respect when I am old and gray.

Luckily, my apartment is situated just a few doors down from a Dunkin’. I guess it’s not so lucky, as there is one on nearly every corner. The city planners did a great job with that.

My Dunkin’, or should I say, “our Dunkin’,” has the same power of community that all the ghosts of Dunkin’s past had. There are groups of men that gather outside it every morning with their drinks. It is impossible to know why –– they are from all walks of life, varying ages and dressed in anything from construction uniforms to pajamas. I know nothing about them, and yet at this random Dunkin’ in Allston, we are friends –– family, even. Sometimes one of the guys gets the door for me. Sometimes I hand out some hash browns if I order extra. 

You scratch my back, I’ll scratch yours.

And the employees at this Dunkin’ are something out of a superhero movie. Being a food service chick myself, I always tip. But even if I didn’t work at an ice cream shop, I would still throw all my cash into their tip jar. 

And that “cash” I’m speaking of is usually about three loose bills and change. But, seriously, at this particular Dunkin’ the customer service skills are off the charts. The people there

have never once looked me up and down on a Sunday morning –– even when my hangover has taken a clear physical toll and I am wearing the most abominable assortment of clothing anyones ever seen (including a pair of slippers and only one sock).

It is very possible that Dunkin’ is one of the only safe havens that our world has to offer. It is a place for freedom of expression. I can feel free to drop first and last names the morning after, the old man can feel free to ask for five sugars in his small coffee and the people making the coffee can feel free to roll their eyes at you when you say you ordered oat milk, not almond.

There’s strength in the community. Camaraderie. Belonging. Memories: Dunkin’. Damn, that’s good. Forget “America Runs on Dunkin,’” slap my slogan on a cup and sell it. If they don’t sponsor my sorry butt after this they’ll seriously be hearing from my lawyer … once I figure out how to get one.