New Comm Ave

Coming from Nebraska, I never thought that a Xeroxed paper of instructions entitled “How to Eat a Lobster” would carry much significance in my college life. It’s funny to think that this set of directions has come to roughly symbolize my first couple weeks at Boston College. Looking at it takes me back through the daunting process of reestablishing myself in a new atmosphere. It served as a barrier-breaker between me and the other girls on my floor, and essentially began the basis of our relationship with one another. We were all given this set of instructions at our Freshmen Lobsterbake, one of our first socially-awkward outings together, and me being the lone Midwesterner, was given extensive guidance on the proper steps to eating this seafood. This experience didn’t only prove to be one of my countless new undertakings of college life, but also provided me with closer relationships to girls who I now consider almost as close as family.

Upon entering my dorm room in early September, I didn’t fully realize that that moment was the start of my new life. Duffle bags in hand, I stepped into what would be my new home for the next year. The room was empty, and smelled nothing like home. I dropped my bags, boxes of picture frames and old memories, an industrial size carton of Ramen Noodles, and looked around. Two beds, two dressers, two desks, and overhead shelving stared menacingly back at me. The room was uninviting, and exactly the same as the other fifteen on the floor. I wasn’t worried though. The Welcome Wagon team finished helping me unload my stuff and I headed back downstairs. Boxes and bags scattered the hallway. My entire life had been crammed into several plastic containers large enough to comfortably fit a few small children. “Alright,” I exclaimed, more so to myself than my parents who stood in my doorway. I was at a loss of words, and didn’t really know what to say to express my jumping emotions. I slowly recognized my small dorm room’s potential, and decided that once I unpacked it wouldn’t feel as sterile. Within a few hours, my purple and green striped sheets lay crisply stretched across my mattress and the TV was hooked up. I strategically stacked my new books and large boxes of sugar cereal in each shelf, and hung pictures of friends and family on the once empty walls. “This is more like it!” I breathed (again, talking to no one in particular). I turned to my parents, who tightly embraced me. Moving into college dorms had become a yearly ritual for them. Years of assisting Nick and Meghan had made my mom and dad college move-in veterans. I figured that with more experience, letting me go would be a breeze; from the strength of my mother’s hug, however, I knew I was wrong.

The day was already tedious, despite that the morning had just turned to afternoon. My parents headed back to the hotel and left me to get acclimated with the floor. I propped the door open with my sandal and began to unpack. Annie wouldn’t be moving in until the following morning, so I had plenty of time to get organized. I stared in dismay at the compartmentalized closet and wrestled with the ultimate conundrum: “How the hell are all my clothes going to fit in here?!?” As I strategized a way to store my ball gown without snapping the hoops of the skirt, I thought of the past year. Getting my acceptance letter to BC had been one of the most fantastic days of my life; the happiness and excitement were immeasurable. My dream of going to school in Boston with my big brother was coming true. It became more of a reality during orientation, and even more so the day I received my housing assignment. Immediately, I Facebooked Miss Anne Barry of Dartmouth, MA to see what she was like. I was skeptical when I read that her interests included pop-up books, the Red Sox, the Patriots, and Teddy Bruschi (some type of New England beer?). She did seem nice on the phone the few times we talked, but I still didn’t know what to expect.

I took a break from working on my closet and peeked into the hall. I exchanged greetings with each of the girls moving in, but the scene appeared the same in every room: dads carrying and installing appliances, moms dictating room setups, and anxious daughters trying to absorb the new surroundings. Everyone was busy, so I climbed into my bed to rest. I scanned my bookshelf and found the book Nick gave me for graduation; he made it himself. It contained letters from him and his friends, including the do’s and don’ts of BC and the best places to order take out from. Each page was decorated with colorful paper, pictures, and stickers, clearly displaying the large amount time he had invested in the project, which was unlike him. I was grateful to have such a caring big brother.

The following morning I met Annie and her family. She was not as weird as I predicted. I mean, she called pop “soda”, a water fountain a “bubbler”, and prefaced everything she liked with an enthusiastic “wicked”. I learned that she was not insane, but rather a New Englander. Annie and I hit it off right away. We talked about our lives back home, what our plans were for college, and any apprehensions we had. I shared with her stories of the Midwest, while she educated me in New England sayings and traditions. I learned that New Englanders couldn’t pronounce the letter “R”, had too much regional pride, and that a “Bruschi” is both an alcoholic beverage as well as a lineman for the Patriots. Annie and I were very different, but became quick friends.

Freshmen Week was overwhelming. No one knew anyone and conversations with people began with the same three questions: where are you from, which dorm do you live in, and what’s your major? People made fun of my Midwestern accent constantly, and Annie and I hadn’t made friends with the rest of the girls on the floor. At night, all of the freshmen attended scheduled social gatherings which only brought about awkwardness. One of the first of these planned events was an ice cream social and dance. Everyone clung to the only five familiar faces they knew from high school or orientation, making the social gradually develop into forty groups of ten people idly standing around in the dustbowl. Surprisingly enough, it was during one of these events that life at BC began to improve. One of the last nights of Freshmen Week, Newton Campus hosted the lobsterbake. Not only was I dreading another awkward event, but I was not a New Englander, and eating seafood was not exactly my idea of a good time.

Annie and I sat at a table with the rest of the girls from our floor. They knew me as “Parade with an M”. For a moment, I just stared at my plate. Staring back at me was a huge, red lobster. I froze. “Oh, man!” I thought. “How in the world do I eat this?” Quickly, I looked up to see if anyone noticed my hesitation. To my surprise, half of the girls looked just as dumbfounded as me. However, as I later discovered, many of them weren’t from New England. They were from such places as California, Oregon, Peru, Guam, Singapore, and Washington. As we stared at our plates, Annie and Kelly (another New Englander from the floor) found instructions on how to eat a lobster. The two girls showed us the proper way to crack the claws and shells, and howled as I screamed when liquid splattered everywhere. We all laughed uncontrollably at one another’s feeble attempts to eat such a complicated crustacean. We formed a strong friendship that afternoon, which has since manifested into a sisterhood.

Postscript: In response to my narrative

Dear reader,

Life on the fourth floor of South Keyes is not all that I have cracked it up to be. I have exaggerated many points in my narrative to make my life sound more fascinating and less mundane than it actually is. I think that this may have been done in an attempt to convince myself that I never get homesick and am having the time of my life in college. While some may consider this mentally unhealthy, I feel that this naive optimism is therapeutic and will help me get through the rest of the year. And although I love all the girls on my floor, I realize that I may have come across as an easy-to-get along with person. Sometimes this is true, however it is not always the case, and I will dispel this well-established myth. To be honest, my roommate, Annie, has the capability of annoying the hell out of me. She does not converse in an even-toned voice, but rather insists on yelling every other word while standing less than two feet from her prey. She also tenders an unhealthy obsession with the Patriots and Red Sox. This infatuation manifests itself in the life-size figure of Johnny Damon, which used to be the focal point of our twelve by twenty foot dorm room, as well as in the Fenway panorama that adorns our wall. Some days when I come back from classes stressed and with a lot of work to do and I see the six foot cutout staring back at me from across the room, I have an inclination to throw it away just to spite her. When I ranted earlier about New Englanders having too much regional pride, she was the object of my assessment. Now I know that this may all seem extremely harsh, and I admit that it probably is. But I will have to keep my true feelings bottled up for at least three more semesters; hence the rose colored narrative.

Thanks for your time and sorry for the confusion,

Mairead

• 2007 Spring
• Personal Essay