Watching the last sunrise in Minnesota at 5 a.m., I realized it was time to wake up from this grand dream.
My 17th birthday was spent amidst the cheers of Nolympics. There was no grand cake, but when we, Nourse Hall 1st, finally won second place as a group, friends from all over the world sang “Happy Birthday” to me, and I genuinely felt we were the greatest floor ever.
Every day here has overturned my understanding of “attending class.” There’s no rigid listening to lectures; we strolled through the streets of Northfield with coffee, debating details of German history in seminars. The teaching assistants were Carleton undergraduates, but during office hours, we felt more like old friends chatting on benches; they genuinely cared if I was confused or if I had learned anything.
I miss the time after class even more.
We sunbathed on the lawn benches outside Nourse and Cassat, chatting about gossip and interests; we shouted and yelled on the basketball court in Rec Center; we squeezed into the Family Fare shelf picking out snacks, and went to Blue Monday and Little Joy for coffee. We watched Japanese anime in Anderson classrooms, performed Hamilton on the Untalented Show, and burned marshmallows in front of Bonfire—those moments were so beautiful they made the countdown feel terrifying.
On the last day, we stayed up until 5 a.m. for the sunrise, and on our last night, we hugged tightly, saying things we might never say to anyone else again.
When the last shuttle stopped in front of Skinner Chappell, when we waved goodbye to professors and TAs for the last time, when we hugged our friends at PACA for the last time, everyone cried.
Thank you, Prof. Paul and Julian, for broadening my horizons; thank you, Joanne and Mariola, for taking care of me like mothers. Thank you, Alex and Leo, my roommates, we will always be 3W.
Carleton gave me more than just a summer school experience; it gave me a group of kind, lovely, and interesting people, and a radiant 17-year-old that I can never go back to.