Thank you, Kenyon.
A year ago today, I was spending a lot of my time speaking to many of the Kenyon 2020 kids, thinking I knew what was to come. I loved our Facebook group and group chat, talking to other people as passionate as I was, whether it was about music or theater or soccer or whatever. I had friends already, and an idea as to what my first year of college was going to be.
I wasn’t wrong, but I wasn’t right either.
Kenyon, you don’t really let people stagnate, do you? To try to remain as you are when you first walk down middle path is somewhat fruitless. I have seen people dig in their heels, trying to avoid the change the hill inevitably brings, but they have changed too.I thought I knew who I was and how I thought when I arrived here. I saw myself as developed, decided. But, the reality is not that I am a different person; rather, that this place has brought about another version of me. I am more self-assured, more patient, more empathetic and more kind than when I started. I am not who I thought I was going to be a year ago, but I think I like who I have become much better.
The pastoral romanticism we attach to you, Kenyon, isn’t exactly misplaced. You are in a bubble of your own, a microcosm of both academics and youthfulness. Kenyon life is contained within itself, and it defines itself. Who you are here is not quite right anywhere else, but we are aware of that. We appreciate that. Well, I do.It is difficult not to be nostalgic about you, Kenyon. Maybe it’s the old architecture or the sweet smell of the air. Maybe it’s the sense of change that envelops you. Like I said; it’s hard to be stagnant here. Thank you for that. Thank you for forcing me to be uncomfortable, for making me upset and angry. Thanks for making me look myself in the eye. Thank you for changing me, Kenyon. It’s hard to imagine something else doing it as effectively as you.
I could talk about friends and teachers and classes. I could talk about laughter and parties and nights spent doing nothing at all. But you know I’m grateful for that. I don’t need to write an ad for you; you can do that on your own. This is personal, Kenyon. There are so many things that you’ve given me that won’t make it onto the brochure. At night, when I’m coming back from a meeting or rehearsal, I’ve taken to staying outside for a few more minutes than I need. I like to be outside, feeling the wind pull at my hair while I listen to a song or two. When I do this, a feeling inevitably will wash over me. It’s ineffable—a sort of longing and satisfaction mixed together to create the bittersweet tinge of a day and year coming to an end. I’m never sure if I want to shout with joy or cry. All I know is that I feel full.
Thank you Kenyon. I’ll see you in August.
Image Credit: Gabrielle Ivanier