I am currently sitting in the living room of a one-story, six-bedroom house right off McCullough on a stained, flowery couch I bought from my neighbors for $75. I’m drinking wine out of a glass that says, “The hill? I spit on the hill.” It was here when we moved in. When I look at the walls of our living room, I see the rules to True American, written in Tessa’s perfect handwriting. On another wall, I see a string of Coors Light beer cans””a memorial to our first shotgun. Another wall contains a large, framed picture of a mountain I found at Goodwill. In the kitchen there’s a picture of a little kid standing in front of a Camaro, and the caption says, “I worked hard all my life for this.” Arguably, the most important part of our living space is a large green road sign that says “BEAVER CREEK.” Below the sign sit our six pillars””one for each of us””Sisterhood, Confusion, Indecision, Self-loathing, Marry Rich and Druuuunk. Sorry, Mom and Dad: college is as college does.
I tell you this mainly because, very early in the school year, I vetoed ever having a party at the Creek because our house has terrible flow (again, six bedrooms in a one-story off McCullough, the good Lord definitely didn’t intend for this place to be a six-bedroom casa, and there is not a lot of extra party space), but I feel like people should understand the glory of our home.
That, of course, is not entirely accurate. Well, the living room description is accurate. The belated virtual party thing is inaccurate. I tell you about the Creek because it has come to signify””in every major, minor and in between way””my college experience.
The Creek, in simple terms, is a house where six girls live and cook and bicker and get drunk and dance to Beyoncé and watch Bound 3 on repeat. We are psychology, political science, business and English majors. We are blondes and brunettes. We are from New Orleans, Nebraska, San Francisco, New Jersey, Connecticut, and Indiana. When we go out, showing our IDs is like a mini geography lesson. We are sisters and daughters and friends and maybe soul mates (See Gabi Caglieris’ love note to me). In other terms, we are Trinity.
We are different, and in being different, we fit together perfectly. Just like Trinity. We are a community. Just like Trinity. We have a Facebook group. Just like Trinity. Basically, we are, say it with me, just like Trinity. I couldn’t have asked for a better college than Trinity, and I couldn’t have asked for a better group of friends than the ladies of the Creek (and assorted other members of campus, I haven’t forgotten about you). The support and love and laughter I’ve found every year, class after class, is unparalleled.
I’m going to miss this place and its “diverse” food, hit and miss hot water, and shady class cancellation policy. I’m going to miss the live oaks and the fountain and those Adirondack chairs (my one true love).
Trinity, you’ve been a joy from start to finish. Thank you forever to the professors and staff and administration who put up with me. Thank you for the Trinitonian, who dealt first with my late articles and then with my lackluster compliments. Thank you to anyone who had to deal with my random references, my blackout sleepwalking, my lights left on all night, my Jack Johnson “At or with Me” alarm, and my awkward shoulder shake happy dance. I love you all long time.