My parents and I arrive three hours early, to make sure everything goes smoothly. I keep my fish tank in the car, and ask my parents every few minutes if they will be okay. They reassure me that the August heat won’t harm them. We walk to South Quad and down State Street to calm my jittering nerves. The sidewalks are crammed with parents, first-years, grandparents, upperclassmen — all masked, but not social distancing. I look at all of the other first-years walking around their new home, and they look feet taller than me, have better style, and are — probably, no, definitely — more prepared. When the time finally comes, my mom and I move the four boxes from our Subaru Outback to 8311 South Quad. I walk in and half of the room is already decorated with Polaroid pictures, pictures of an unfamiliar dog, a gray rug, and a closet with color-coordinated clothes. Someone types in the passcode on our door right after we walk in.
My roommate, Reagan, asks if I need any help. I stand there for a few seconds, not sure if I want her help. I tell her no, I will be okay. She stays anyway, perfecting her half of the room, making it feel like there’s a wall between my side and her side. If I step over, an invisible line will be crossed. I place every hanger evenly spaced apart, pull out a ruler to hang the pictures of my boyfriend, dog, family, and Lake Michigan, and clean every object with a Clorox wipe that I pull out of the bins from (my old) home. I carefully place my fish on the left side of the dresser, feeding them in reward of surviving the car ride and being my new company. I watch them eat, and I convince myself they are nervous, too. This is new for them, too. I finish about half of the set-up of my room on my to-do list I created for moving in, but tell myself I will do the rest later, and instead get a meal with my parents. I order crunchy, soft chicken strips and hold back my tears, carefully cutting my chicken into a salad. My parents ask me if I need help cutting them. When I say no, they look at their plate of food, moving it around with a fork, taking a bite every few minutes. They ask me what classes I’m taking, and I tell them. My mom’s eyes well up every once in a while, and she politely excuses herself to go to the bathroom. My parents walk slowly back to their car, and my feet are anchored to the ground. It takes me several minutes to force composure to go back to my half of the 9×11 room. The entirety of the first week before my classes I perfect my dorm room, straightening every inch of my side, convincing myself that over time, this room will feel just like my room at home. It’s just a change in location. This will become home, eventually.
Double checking that my mask is on, I go wander the hallway the next few nights, in hopes of running into someone I can talk to. I lightly knock on ajar doors, going to the bathroom to wash my hands every few rounds, mainly to get the germs from the doors off of my hands, but also with the hope of meeting someone new. I eventually resort to the dorm stairwell to call my mom. I am sitting on the far side of a stair, curling up in a ball as if it will help me seem invisible. I’ve learned that this particular stairwell is usually empty by nine at night. I am already so worn out from wearing a mask, not being able to meet people, eating meals alone, not talking to my roommate, that I call my mom. The call is so quiet that I can only hear my heavy breaths I can’t seem to control. I have nothing to say, and neither does she. I silently cry, not to worry her, but to be crying with someone keeping me company. Tears stream down my face, and I pray to an unknown figure that nobody has to use this stairwell. I hear light, but audible footsteps from my hallway. I quickly pull my mask up and wipe the salty tears from my cheeks.
My dorm neighbor turns left into the stairwell, my interim dorm room at night, and asks, “Are you alright?”
With my eyes focused on my wiggling toes beneath me, I say “Yes, thank you,” my intuition telling me to tell him, “No, actually, I’m not.” But, he nods his head and continues up the stairwell. I hear his key being placed into the door, with the distinct click of the successful passcode being typed in. I tell my mom goodnight, and it takes me a few seconds to press the red call button in the middle of my phone screen. With two feet on each step, I walk down the steps and turn left into the bathroom hallway to rinse off my face. I don’t know the reflection I’m looking at in the mirror. She has bags under her eyes, her sweater untucked, and no makeup. She looks lost. I hear someone throw up in the nearest bathroom. I wait a few minutes to make sure they are okay. I hear a phone ring, and then “Hello.” I hear “I was at a fraternity party.” A pause. “No, I’m not okay.” She is able to say it, seemingly without hesitation. A longer pause. “I’m on the eighth floor. Thank you.” And I see her stumble out of the bathroom door avoiding eye contact. I wince. I turn the sounds of “I’m not okay” over in my mouth, willing them to come out.
I walk into my dark dorm room, and my roommate is already asleep. It is 10 p.m. I insert my key card, moving in slow motion because it takes up more time, and I don’t want to wake my roommate. I tiptoe to my bed, in jeans and a sweater that I have no motivation to change out of. I sit down on my navy blue comforter, and stare at the two beta fish in my tank, separated by a wall so they don’t irritate each other. I sprinkle a pinch of fish food into their tank, and watch them eat every flake. My heart aches for them. I lay in bed, staring at the dark ceiling and listening to the muffled honks from the city of Ann Arbor, my home that I don’t know.
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I wake up around seven. Groggy. I go down eight flights of stairs to get my morning eggs and coffee. I think about the Calculus midterm I have today, and what costume I’ll wear for Halloween, if any. As I’m walking back up the stairs, my phone buzzes in my back pocket. I press the email icon on my phone, and see that my friend has texted a link to MLive news. University of Michigan undergrads have been put on a stay at home order. I slowly walk in my dorm to find my roommate packing every bag she brought. By the end of the day, she is ready to be picked up by her dad the next day. I stay with the slightest glimmer of hope kept from day one, walking through the campus with my parents and wanting to feel a sense of purpose, sense of home.
I sit down the next day at my desk facing the wall. I open my computer and start writing a paper. A paper that doesn’t belong in any of my course folders in Google Drive, but maybe should have its own folder named “Frustration.” I write my frustration of seeing irresponsibility cause my isolation. I write about how I feel closer to my dorm neighbor than my own roommate. I write about how I wish I could control others. Two hours and twenty minutes later, I stare at my document full of jumbled words, wishing there was somebody to send this to, someone who would read it and do something for me, although I’m not sure what. I sit down on my comforter, tying my tan Converse shoes and putting on my only University of Michigan sweatshirt that I bought the day I got accepted. I was sitting at my dining room table when I got the email. I was so excited that I went onto the M-Den website, and ordered the first sweatshirt I saw.
I walk outside and across East Madison Street. For the first time, I look at South Quad in its entirety. I look at every visible window decoration, watch every student walk out of the main doors with a goal in mind, most of them in Michigan apparel. I walk down State Street, walk past all of the classroom buildings that have turned into a Zoom room, and sit in the Diag for thirty minutes, making up stories about every student I see walking by me. Mostly about what their first-year looked like. I walk to the M-Den and buy a new shiny white sweatshirt with navy blue block lettering spelling out “Michigan.” I buy a cold brew at Starbucks, and begin walking back to South Quad. When I arrive back into 8311 Thronson House, I sit back on my navy blue, Michigan-themed bed. I untie my shoes and put my new white college sweatshirt on. I give my fish another pinch of food each, and watch them eat their meal. It looks as though I see them both smile back at me.
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I tell myself this is a wonderful place, and many great memories and people come out of it. I feel uncomfortable because of the pandemic, not because of the place. I am not losing hope, because there is nothing to compare my experience to. I want to be here for the next four years. I want a wonderful education. I want to meet first-class professors, GSIs, and students. I so badly want Ann Arbor to be home. I tell myself these words everyday, hoping one day a switch will turn somewhere in my head, or maybe the universe, and I feel at home.
Jamey Carpenter | August – November, 2020 | Ann Arbor, MI