It was my first day at the University of Exeter. I had spent two days traveling, and the amount of dry body sweat layered on new sweat on another layer of dry sweat was approaching a dangerous level. As we left the bus in a Kenyon cluster like a strange Midwestern cult, we watched as Sarah Heidt and Sergei waved enthusiastically from the sidewalk with their matching windbreakers and brown sensible shoes.
Kenyon students love nothing more than recalling ambiguous memories about Sendoff. Even if you spent a mere two minutes in the pouring rain watching some dude named Bas you still end up looking back with nostalgia on sitting on South Quad drinking a lukewarm Keystone. Kenyon students are far too familiar with having almost great experiences; however, as no one has yet to cancel on us this year, Sendoff seems promising.
Please stop. I get it: there aren’t a lot of things for a city fella like you to do in this village. I feel the same way. And I understand how tired you probably are of the repetition of Papa Johns and Keystone in the campus trashcans. Variance is important for a diet like yours. Continue reading
I’ve had a hunch for a while that I’ve slowly developed a mild version of Stockholm Syndrome with Kenyon College. It comes on slowly, starting with a positive sentiment towards living in a one-and-a-half restaurant town. It finally becomes incurable with the onset of a nose ring infatuation and a sensation of terror because of the abundance of tampon options at the local Trader Joe’s. Since there are very few similarities between rural Ohio and Houston (besides the raging conservatives), I am reminded over breaks that there are a lot of things that are ONLY socially acceptable on Kenyon’s campus and are fully bizarre out in the real world:
It was Parent’s Weekend my freshman year. I was surrounded by students who stunk of Ozium and hangover sweats, all collectively pretending that we weren’t glad as hell that our parents had come back for us a mere month into college. All was going well. Continue reading
Perched atop the cracking windows of Leonard Hall, the Asian beetle’s little mouth curls in a bashful smile. It’s four o’clock: rush hour for the Asian beetles, who are piling in the corners of the warm room, falling on top of each other in confusion. She has arrived late for the interview, leaving me hopelessly scanning the top of my dorm ceiling amongst the forty other Asian beetles for her.
A small, fortunate portion of Kenyon College has been graced with the presence of a rapid knock on your door, the sweet coo of a campo officer announcing their name, and the hectic shuffling of items before opening the door and trying to nonchalantly say hello without pissing your pants.
For me, it started off normal. Continue reading