Every morning, I wake up with the rising sunlight filtering into my room, the rays reflecting themselves onto the walls. On clear days, I can see blue all around — blue houses dotted along my view outside my window, a glimpse of the blue ocean past the rooftops of my small hometown and a pale blue sky wrapping up my simple life.
In my kitchen, I’ll make my coffee from a beat-up moka pot I’ve used for years. By my stove, I get a distant view of the city skyline. Later, I’ll hop on the Blue Line and then the Green Line to get to Comm Ave.
The commute takes me about an hour — give or take.
Like most of you, I’m a student at Boston University.
Unlike most of you, I’ve never lived on campus.
I have never stepped foot in Warren Towers, I’ve never stepped foot into dining halls with friends and I’ve never had roommates wake me up late at night. Despite the things I miss out on, I prefer my quiet life.
When people are heading off to college, we often have this idea that we must try to get rid of everything from our pasts. Some of us carry the weight of childhood embarrassment and regrets. It’s true — college gives us the chance to reinvent ourselves.
I’m no stranger to that idea.
I spent my freshman year at the University of Maine. It was as far away as I could get from my previous life. I lived in Aroostook Hall in a two-bed dorm room. I had a roommate who would return home drunk from parties with stories of wild encounters.
I’ll never forget him telling me there was a live goldfish in his stomach — right next to my fish tank.
Don’t worry, my fish was still alive.
I spent many nights there thinking about how I was reinventing myself. The more effort I put into my social life there, the more pride I felt. Other times, I realized that no matter how much I changed, I’d still be the same person I was before.
I didn’t change the way I viewed things until I realized I’d have to move back to Boston.
For different reasons, I couldn’t afford to get housing on campus, so commuting by the T became routine. I would begin my commute by starting at Orient Heights, transferring at Government Center, then waiting for the B train to head to my classes. While my friends went back to their dorms, I would make the trek home.
I hated it at first, but despite the troubles, I found that the distance from the city made me love it even more.
I’m a big supporter of the idea of taking yourself on dates. I try to do that most times when I’m headed home from class. I’ll stop by Central Square in Cambridge to grab food at my favorite cafe. Sometimes for a change of pace, I’ll walk down Beacon Street and grab books at one of my favorite bookstores or walk up Newbury Street and test perfumes from various stores.
I find that the distance between my home and the city allows me to romanticize the little things in my life. Something as simple as walking down Comm Ave — a street I’ve walked down since I was in high school — is fascinating to me.
I know that I’ve missed out on fundamental moments of the college experience. But oddly enough, I don’t regret it.
A complaint thrown at me is that once you’re stuck at home, you’re not growing.
But growing is inevitable, regardless of where you are. We have this mentality that we must evolve or die, but evolving doesn’t mean changing your life dramatically. We evolve in little ways every day— even if it’s in the courage it takes to live at home.
By the time I rest my head on the blue line train ride home, I know that my day is done. I go home to my rundown house covered in ice.
My dog, Chloe, jumps on me every day and gives me a hug—I wouldn’t trade that for anything.
