by Griffin Frerichs, Staff Writer
Maybe it’s because homecoming weekend is always during my midterm rut, but I am not down with these old folks. Prepare yourselves; I am about to speak about these people in a sincerely derogatory way. Y’all think just because you once inhabited the same space as us, you have the right to dawdle around and make small talk. Don’t talk to me, don’t look at me, and, for the love of fuck, do not tell me that is who I’ll be in the future.
My girlfriend is insistent that these people are adorable. Oh, yeah, senility isn’t a problem. I love going to my grandparents’ house, where I watch as the 24-hour news cycle rampantly rots them from the inside out. I watched one of these skidmarks march onto the second floor of Mudd and go, “Say, I used to take naps in that very spot 40 years ago.” First off, starting a statement with “say” is hysterical, and I’ve since made it the keystone of my vernacular. Secondly, observing the average Oberlin student is embarrassing enough; don’t make me interact with multiple generations of you.
Woahhh woah, say, that’s a lot of hostility, Griffin. Jolly jeepers, you’re right. I’m coming off as rather ageist, aren’t I? The oldies make up only a fraction of the alumni who come round this time of year. There are the millennials, which c’mon, need I say more? And then there’s the Gen Xers, who—and I say this with as much love as possible, Mom and Dad—I can’t help but view as the friends that my parents (don’t) have over.
I’m really not helping myself. Thus far, I think the only thing I’ve solidified is that I am, in fact, the old crank that needs to get a grip on reality. This is the identity I’ve taken on since returning for my senior year. I’m a hater ass bitch that does not appreciate any form of glare or even a glance. There is so much to love about this place, but even the good can become tiring.
Compared to my home state of Nebraska, this place really does feel like Disney World. Everyone aligns politically, dresses as one of three caricatures, and acts like their voice matters. I once thought this was beautiful—I still do, but now I can’t help but drench it all in my fear of the real world. Opportunity is everywhere here—hell, I love writing my silly little articles—but it’s made me naïve. I know that I will leave this place and start again as nothing. I like being here and being able to pretend that I have the least bit of notoriety.
This is where my anger about homecoming comes from. I’m terrified that I will leave this place and never again feel successful. Here, I can do something and a stranger or acquaintance will applaud my effort as I pass by them in Wilder Bowl. I’m not so sure that I’ll get the same accolades outside of this fishbowl. To make myself feel better, I have assumed that any alum willing to show their face back here has failed to find success of any kind—that they are here to reclaim the prowess that came with being head cook of Tank or whatever. You mean to say I’ve turned a personal trepidation into outward hatred for others? That is simply illogical and preposterous.
In this very moment, I do not plan to come back here after graduating. If I have so little going on in life that I feel the need to come to (practically) rural Ohio, shoot me—I beg. As much as Tappan, North Quad, and my friend’s village house will forever have a place in my heart, these are not what make this place special. I’m sick of nostalgia. Move on and do something worth applauding in the present. Call me a negative Nancy, but I don’t think there’s even a specific Oberlin spirit that has called us all here. What has made—does make—this place special is the friends I’ve made along the way. For the remainder of my life, I don’t see myself ever being around so many beautiful souls at once.
I don’t like the sentiment that I need to hang out with all these people as much as I can before we graduate. You know your life exists beyond May, right? The people you love can continue to exist within your sphere. If you guys peace out and never reach out to one another again, were you really that good of friends to begin with? I know who I’ll be keeping up with, and sorry you’re not one of them. But, hey, do what you want—I don’t know what I’ll be up to in ten years, let alone one. Maybe I will come crawling back. For all I know, I could be at the Feve with a red lanyard and the same ol’ friends—come say hi!
