The closer we get to the church we attend, the deeper into college life we are, the stronger the feeling I have that I am being pulled toward something wild.
“Pulled” isn’t the right word. I want to be here among the red cups and the maize and blue and the organ music wafting through the open windows. I believe the two institutions have something to do with one another, and maybe that’s a dangerous thought, but there it is and tonight I am driving Hadley and Harper to Youth Group and it is also a night when the fraternity and sorority houses are having dinner on their sprawling front porches. There are twinkle lights and tables with cloths on them and mason jars of flowers.
We are at a stop sign, and a group of girls crosses and I study them. One looks at me and I can tell she thinks I am critiquing her. I’m not. At least, I’m trying not to. I want to tell her what I keep telling Hadley and Harper – I have to unlearn what I didn’t know I learned, and it’s not easy, but I am trying.
“OK so,” I say to my girls as we continue along. “There are basically two styles for girls ages 12-23 right now: mid-driff tops and jeans, or shirts so huge three people would fit into them and also they completely cover your shorts.”
Harper grins at my accuracy, and Hadley says, “Yup,” and the “p” is a dagger aimed and ready to strike.
“It’s quite the contrast,” I tell them. “I don’t understand why you’d want it to look like you’re not wearing pants.”
Harper laughs; Hadley says nothing.
We get to the giant rock that is eternally painted a different color or in a design every time we see it: BLM, Greek letters, “marry me,” “Happy Birthday,” all sorts of messages and colors sing from this stone.
“Mom look, people are painting it,” Harper says.
I slow the car while I turn, and the three of us look. We’ve never seen anyone actually do the painting.
“I always thought it was done at night,” Harper says. “Like a secret.”
“I guess not,” I say.
I also tell them that I recently learned anyone can paint the rock, and at any time.
“There’s no schedule?” Hadley asks. “You don’t have to belong to the school?”
“Nope,” I say, as we turn into church.
I park the car and Hadley and Harper step out.
“Have fun,” I say, and they blur into the group of college girls walking in the other direction, and I do not catch my breath, and I am not sentimental when I realize I cannot tell the difference.
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Critique Course begins January 3.
Reading Well + Writing Well begins January 10
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