In May, I graduated from college. But I didn't leave. I worked
at the Brown library, the Rock, where I had held a student job since the summer
after my freshman year. So I continued to walk to work every day from my
apartment, a week after graduation, although all my friends had gone home, and
I continued to work at the University. And once my lease was up, I drove in to
work half an hour each morning from my parents' house, continuing to haunt that campus like a ghost, feeling both insider and outsider, ready to move on and
nostalgic like no other. Finally, I left for Guatemala (albeit to work on a
Brown-funded archaeological project under the supervision of Brown grad
students and a Brown professor). Once I came back, I attempted to avoid
Providence altogether. I was living in northern RI with my parents; the weeks
following my return to the States were very centered on that town, especially
because of my sisters' wedding, and my quick process of readaptation to
State-side living.
And then I found myself with this job, located in the heart of
the East Side (but, I should emphasize, an East Side that I had never really
explored, an East Side that was not Brown campus-oriented). So I do drive
through Brown campus everyday still; I hold my breath as I careen down Waterman
past Thayer and Brook until, not a moment too soon, I reach Hope, and it's all
behind me. And that's the defining feature---that's the point. It's all behind
me. It needs to be. And that's what letting go is about.
So when September 25th came and went, and I didn't transfer my
four years of thousands of emails (academic correspondence, letters over breaks
with friends, letters to and from boyfriends and friends and family while I was
abroad during the summers), I was forced to confront this truth. The emotional
pack-rat that I am, it made no sense that I wouldn't put aside the time to
transfer my digital library of years of correspondence. I have been busy,
certainly, but this is a priority, isn't it? Why didn't it matter enough to me
to make sure I did it?
I don't know.
All of this remind me of a line from one of my favorite books,
Janet Finch's
White Oleander
, in which the protagonist Astrid, when
discussing the nature of her incredibly strong, demanding Viking of a mother,
cites this example:
"My mother used to love fire season. She made me decide
what I'd take if we had to go. She said if I were brave, I wouldn't take
anything."
I like to think that's what this is about, that I'm launching
bravely into a new phase of life while
letting go
of certain
unproductive components of a general, overarching nostalgia that defines the
way I tend to view my past. I remember all of the ‘crucial’ information—the
professional contacts, and even particular lines of advice or information from
certain mentors, professors, advisors. I have a few emails saved in various
places (the ten most important ones, certainly). And I love my friends dearly, but
know that going through old correspondence will likely depress me, while
photographs, stories told over cups of tea or bottles of beer, or a couple of
minutes of recollection will serve better.
But when I tried to log in today to my Brown email, finally having a few minutes to spare, I was almost surprised when my username and password
were denied. I felt no panic, no flow and ebb of regret. Just an, “Okay.” And I
took the link out of my bookmark bar. And it was done.
I let time make the decision for me, didn’t I? I just let the 25th
pass without intervention--just let my opportunity to digitally pack my stuff
and move out pass me by. And that reminds me of a line from a book I’m reading
now by David Ebershoff:
“Isn’t that how it works sometimes – the big decisions, I mean.
You don’t actually make them, you just roll into them once they’ve become
inevitable.”
Letting go was inevitable. And I’m waiting for the real waves of
loss to wash over me, to be destroyed by it, to spend a day in bed on account
of it, to call my mother or [friends] to be consoled. Another timeless
question—is it better to be wrecked about it, or to feel nothing?
I don’t know.
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