My parents came to visit a few weeks ago for Easter, and I'm not sure I was the best host. It wasn't conscious neglect; I love when they drop by, but I've never felt like I've properly laid out the welcome mat for them.
Over the course of four years and countless visits, I have promised myself each approaching reunion would be the one--the one I finally showed them how grown up and independent college has made me.
But each time, they'd catch me at my messiest and least prepared, and I'd invariably give in and admit defeat, asking my dad if he'd figure out why my car was smoking and sputtering (reason: cars require motor oil; motor oil my car had been deprived of for quite some time) and begging my mom to do my laundry so I could stop wearing my underwear inside-out.
This time was no different. My apartment was beginning to look like I had wigwam-style dirt flooring, and the dishes in my sink could have passed for the terrarium I made as my 5th grade science project--the mold was growing mold.
With no hesitation, my mother drew up a mental battle plan and arranged her army of cleaning supplies for an all-out barrage on the squalor I call home. The woman was like Napoleon. She raised her sponge like it was a general's sword and charged headlong into bathroom battle, laying waste to mildew and grime with no perceivable mercy. When the dust had settled (or been Swiffered away), the war was won for the side of cleanliness, and my mother sheathed her mop, tired but victorious, with a quiet, contemplative respect for her slain soap-scum adversary. I sheepishly thanked her for the effort and did my best to keep it neat for the rest of the weekend.
As if I even deserved it, this sanitation campaign was followed by my father handing me a present--one of those hollow chocolate Easter bunnies I used to get when I was a kid. "For old time's sake," he smiled and said as I ripped open the packaging with all the restraint and subtlety of a five-year-old on a sugar high.
For as long as I can remember, I've had a routine for eating the hollow chocolate Easter bunny. It's not pretty and I'm not proud of it, but I start with the eyes.
I guess I've just grown to love the idea of gnawing off a smiling rabbit's face--gruesome, I know.
My rabbit's ocular integrity was spared, however, as I noticed the chocolate had all melted in the heat of the car ride. The hollow chocolate bunny was no longer hollow. Rather, he was one-dimensional and plastered to the back of the box. He looked like he was a NASA astronaut-in-training pulling G's in a rocket simulator. I felt immediately disappointed.
There would be no eye-eating today. I thanked my mother and father for the thought and tried not to look too saddened by the misshapen Easter candy. Five minutes later, I got over it and devoured my slab of rabbit in about two bites. Surprise, surprise: It tasted as good as it did all those years ago when I was a kid and it was 3-D.
There are two points to this story (believe it or not). The first is that, even though I'm graduating, I've realized that I'll always need my parents. Hopefully not in the "please clean my place or we'll have to burn it down for health reasons" way, but I'll need them nonetheless. College does make you independent and capable of survival outside of the protection you used to know, but it doesn't make you outgrow the love and support of your family; if anything, it makes you appreciate them more. The truth is, I'm always going to make messes, so I'm relieved I'll also always have two people who care enough to help me put things back in order.
Secondly, the bunny actually reminds me of my experience here at Duke. This isn't where I thought I would be right now. I expected different things. Check out the freshman facebook. I thought I was pre-med for a week or so. I also thought a Duke diploma was automatically accompanied by the first of many six-figure paychecks. I was wrong. Four years ago, my hollow chocolate Easter bunny of a life seemed so much more different than it does now.
But I've come to realize something. Sometimes, in the end, things don't look exactly like you were expecting them to. Plans melt, meld, run together and rearrange themselves, but I'm finding that--given the chance--what ultimately emerges can still taste every bit as sweet.
I suppose that's where I am now: adjusting to the amorphous blob that is my post-Duke life. I'm about to run wildly into the future, arms raised, eyes wild, hair mussed, unsure if I've remembered to wear pants today, but that's the fun part. That's the challenge and the reward. When you jump, you usually land, but the time spent in-flight--that leap--that's what counts. That's the journey.
A friend of mine asked me the other day what I thought I had gained in four years of college. My answer at the time was an accurate and deadpanned "20 pounds" (see aforementioned chocolate bunny anecdote), but maybe more of me has grown than my stomach. I'm happy. I'm adjusted. I'm excited about what the next step is--whatever it is. Duke didn't give me the future I once expected, but it provided the heat that reshaped my rabbit. The next move is mine, and I can't wait to grab life by the big floppy ears and bite its face off.
David Walters is a Trinity senior and Recess editor.
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