After just four weeks of my first term at Dartmouth, I was overwhelmed with the prospect of homecoming night. Socially anxious and usually disposed to take a quiet night in, I found myself in a state of panic when my UGA messaged everyone on my floor saying we would go to the bonfire together. It wasn’t required, but I worried that if I didn’t go, I would stray further away from the path that the rest of the first-years seemed to be taking. I needed to fit in—at least a little—to survive here.
I put on a sweater—one of those heavy pull-overs from the Dartmouth Co-op—and followed a group of people that I didn’t know or talk to all the way to the Green. When they began to run, I veered away from the group. No way was I getting through even one lap without feeling sensory overload and needing to end the night early.
I only spoke to one person then, and it was someone I’d met at the pre-orientation for Native American students. Skyler is from an Ojibwe tribe based just two hours away from my own. Having lived on a reservation my whole life, she was the only person I trusted. She was wading through the same culture shock that I was.
We arranged to meet at the corner of the Green furthest from the fire. We couldn’t feel the warmth of it that far away, but there were fewer people, so we braved the cold in exchange for a little bit of quiet.
I won’t lie: I was still scared. I was scared of the people, the classes, my professors, and walking into new buildings. I was terrified of the lines at Foco. Stepping out of my room made my heart pound and for whatever reason, the girls on my floor liked to make small talk while I brushed my teeth. Nothing was easy.
I didn’t have a lot besides a daily phone call with my mom. That day, though, I felt like I had someone on my side.
Leaning against a tree with Skyler and talking about the nonsensical tradition happening in front of us was the easiest interaction I’d had since I’d left home. We’d spent time together before, but there’s just something about chatting with someone while you watch muddy, tired white people run their 32nd lap around a dying fire. We watched until the fire burned down to a pile of embers and went back to our respective singles in the Choates. I think someone was still running when we left.
I was still very reserved for a long time after that. My transition into Dartmouth life wasn’t easy. It was exactly like riding a bike, except my tires were flat and the handlebars were twisted all the way to the left. I needed support—someone I could talk to who wasn’t a Dick’s House counselor. Homecoming night was the first time I felt like I might have that.
Thank you to all the people who do 200 laps in banana costumes and silver leggings, but mostly, thank you to my best friend for taking the time to know me a little better that night. I appreciate you so much.