Nothing stays; everything will change. And I really miss my toilet.
I wanted to dislike college. I spent so much energy trying to escape all of you in my own private hideaway. But to my stubborn chagrin, I could not resist. And I am grateful in the wake.
Before I continue the sentiments of my weepy swan song, I should warn the reader of the matters before you. Proceed cautiously, yet also enjoy that I shall no longer work to set back the progression of civilized understanding a few decades. There will be no more racially insensitive comments (but Asians still are categorically smarter than whites are); there will be no more perpetuation of a misogynistic social order (but squirrels and turtles will still do what they want to do. Just ask the drunken rabbit); instead, I fittingly leave you with my cloacal obsession.
I hate public restrooms.
As a naive freshman four years ago, the one aspect of Penn that frightened me more than Wharton students (Harlots!) were common bathrooms. You people frighten me. You piggies are filthy, unkempt and unclean. Take a bath, because I refuse to share a toilet with you. I want nothing to do with you.
Yet, as the months wore on that fateful year, something happened. With the discovery of freshman friendships, my collywobbles abated; my initial refusal to use the communal commode by my dorm room gave way to a certain acceptance. Suddenly, walking all around the Quad to the handicapped restroom or up three flights of stairs to the Lippincott Library's private WC lost its allure. Basically, the pull of a private poop proved unimportant. Call this change what you will -- laziness, a diminishing of hygienic standards (sorry mom) -- but I credit this change to community.
Only now do I recognize that wondrous moment when and where I allowed myself to fully delve into this frightening experiment we call college: February 13, 2002, third floor, Hopkinson, second stall to the left. O' the treasures resting within.
I had finally arrived at Penn. I pooped in public, and in turn, finally joined you all, my Quaker brethren, in a society of friendship bonded by one quilty soft square at a time. After four years at Penn, I now know that when I find myself in need, you will be there to provide the spare roll.
It never ceases to amaze how life's grandest moments are always found in such small wonders. I entered a stall trying to get rid of of a TacoPal burrito from one afternoon, and instead I left with friends for a lifetime.
We don't choose to exact change upon our lives; change chooses us. For so rare are these moments of such simple, simple beauty, there is really little we can do except resign ourselves to fate -- paralyzed and impotent, silently waiting as these moments capture, enrapture and end before they ever really began.
All one can do is sit back and hope for the best to come.
