This story was written by my homie G, Damia. She and I were roommates this past semester at Rhodes College. She decided to leave and not come back this next semester, seeing as she found the "system" of Rhodes unbearably oppressive (and no counter-arguments here). To visit her website, go here. And to read more about the oppressiveness of our college, visit tummyache.com.
I went to eat breakfast this morning. Like it was something I did every morning. Cereal, eggs, and milk. It wasn’t good, but it was church. It was a Sociology experiment for me. She just thought she was converting me. Times and intentions change.
I’m about to leave Rhodes now. Not right now, but soon. It’s only my Sophomore year, but I can’t do it anymore. Eve has already taken her stuff off the walls. She’s almost ready to move out. She will be glad to be rid of me, I’m sure. I’m going to miss her a lot. I’ll never know anyone like her ever again. I’m glad she convinced me to keep the pictures. I never take enough pictures. I don’t like being reminded of all the things that I used to be.
They got me a present: my ex-roommate, my soon-to-be-ex-roommate, and Brad. It’s a picture of all of us. All of us being 12 people I know and 13 vaguely remembered names with faces. But it’s special to me because those three hid it from me for so long. I’ve taken myself out of the social picture this year. Knowing that I was going to leave, I didn’t want to be hurt. Looking back, I know I was wrong. It’s hard to admit that you wasted an entire year of your life, but I did. I didn’t gain any new insights, learn any new things, or meet any new people. The only thing I did was become more and more acquainted with my boyfriend. What a strange word. Boyfriend. I don’t believe it should be in the English language. We should have some term that properly described the guy that you’re seeing, but haven’t declared anything for yet, without sounding either wishy-washy or evasive. It would have been easier to leave if everyone had forgotten me. It would have hurt initially, but lessened in the long run. I can’t deal with abandoning people. And if they just didn’t care it wouldn’t be abandoning. It would just be leaving. Changing. Moving on. It wouldn’t be . . . quitting.
I’ve never actually failed at anything before in my life. No, that’s not true. I never really tried at anything. I didn’t really try at this. So to say I failed would intimate that I’d actually done something to prove myself or my situation. I hadn’t. I don’t want to pack up the room. I don’t want to leave now. College would be wonderful if it weren’t for the classes. I should sleep, but every time I close my eyes, I have this horrible dream that someone asks me to marry him. Either that or I’m a nun with this huge puss filled nasty thing on my face. Hmm.
I hate the withdrawal process here. It takes so much time and energy. So much planning and doing. I hate planning. If I think things through, they won’t work out. I’ve proven it to myself often enough. I thought through stopping my schooling. I had reasons and rhymes. I could answer the questions I knew my father would ask. That was what was important: answering to my father. I don’t know what I’m going to do now. I’ve answered all the questions, and I’m going to get my way. And I’m scared. I’m frightened out of my mind. I’m so afraid that everything isn’t going to work out. That I’ll never see Jennifer or Eve or Brad or Ginny or Dave ever again. I almost cry every time I think about it. I’ve never been good at good-byes. I always feel abandoned… or that I’m abandoning someone. It’s never just a postponement of sorts. It’s always forever in my mind. I always take a mental photograph. So I’ll never forget.
I always give my life theme songs, too. It’s really sort of disconcerting to realize that the last two years of your life are thematized by the Weird Al Yankovic song, “Jurassic Park,” except for the ‘in the dark’ part. Rhodes isn’t scary in the dark. It is the only time I really know this school. Everyone is asleep, or holed up inside, and the campus belongs to my companions and me. Except that I generally walk around campus by myself . . . at least at night.
Since I decided to go public with my despondency, I’ve had a lot of feedback on it. People are telling me why I should stay in school at all costs, no matter how I feel about it. People are telling me that breaking free is the only way to go, and I’ve done the only thing worth while. My grandparents are telling me that I’m going to ruin my life and all my decisions are stupid. But the only feedback that I’ve gotten from my parents is, “Have you thought about it?” I say, "Yes." They say Fine. I’ve learned more about my family in this last week, since I decided something for myself, than I have in the 19 years I’ve lived in the family.
This person never actually graduated from college. This person never actually graduated from high school. This person was kicked out of the military academy for smoking pot. This person spent 10 years in prison for stabbing a screwdriver through one of her professor’s eyes when he refused her proposal of marriage, although she was already married. This person had a mental breakdown while she was a clerk at a bank and started handing out $100 bills to people who smiled at her. This person, while the Under Secretary General of the League of Nations declared open war on the Afghanistan because they refused to change their country name to something he could pronounce. Stories upon stories of the screw-ups in my family, and everyone was just trying to make me “feel better” about my decision.
The thing is: I’m not Upset about my decision. I’m outrageously happy that I’m not going to be chained to a computer screen writing ditherings about somebody I don’t know anything about. It’s nice to know that not everyone in my family has had a good childhood. And if you’d heard the whole stories for any one of those, you’d know that those things happened between the ages of 16 and 24 for everyone included. And by the time they died at the ripe old ages of 50-108, they were just humorous stories of what had happened when they were younger. (except for the bank clerk…. She’s still schizoid. The first woman on my mother’s side of the family to actually have a working job [other than prostitute or seamstress], but not the first to go insane. In fact all of my mother’s female relatives went insane…. All of them as far back as we could trace.) I know I’m going to grow out of this. I know I’m going to be ok… And I think that’s the most important thing that I’ve learned in the last few weeks… I don’t need what everyone else tells me I need in order to be happy and productive. I just need to be me. And Rhodes was never me. Rhodes was what my grandmother thought that I should be. Not what I was raised as. Or what my family could possibly produce. I’m real. I’m human! And I’m only 19. I don’t have to be what everyone else thinks I should be. Or what magazines tell me I could be. I don’t have to be Artmurder--or Macprikle--or anyone else. I just have to be Damia and be happy with it.