Going Back

I brought my baby back to “The Farm”. (The Stanford campus, that is). I had visions of doing that back when I was a student, but at the time it was a romanticized fairytale. It involved me parading around two perfectly groomed, French-braided toe-heads while they sighed in wonderment at the campus’ beauty, dropped to their knees, and swore on the spot that they would excel at school, practice the oboe twice a day, master Portuguese, and start a non-profit so they could one day attend my alma mater.

In reality, at eleven months, my daughter wasn’t exactly game to sit through a 4+ hour football-fest and the tailgate fell smack dab in the middle of nap time, but at the very least, I’m quite certain she was inspired by the colorful koi fish in the Sheraton’s pond. Much to my dismay, I also had to consult the dorky alumni map on several occasions, exclaiming to my amused husband that ‘Ten years is a long time, dammit. Not to mention, as a student I was always on a bike which is a TOTALLY different vantage point from just walking around. No wonder we got slightly turned around’. And so, although Bridget never even got to see The Tree, we did buy some very cute and very over-priced toddler pjs adorned with all things Stanford. And let’s not forget the child also got to set foot in her first winery during our bonus visit to Sonoma after the weekend festivities. In fact, she was extremely well-behaved at the tasting and would probably post a very nice TripAdvisor review of the complimentary poppy seed crackers if she knew how to type.

In any case, our pilgrimage west reminded me of something I had written a half-decade ago after my fifth reunion. I dug it up and reread it, mentally comparing it to this recent visit. As it turned out, six months after writing it, I would find myself going through a divorce at the age of twenty-seven.
As time passes, life continues to teach me, a born planner, that we are not privy to The Grand Plan. It still amazes me how differently and yet, somehow gracefully my life has evolved these last five years without me trying to choreograph it – without the little French braids. I suppose as we age, we must quietly learn to trust in the imperfections and revisions. Going back to campus still felt wonderful. I was invigorated with that intangible collegiate energy and reminisced with friends about all the old haunts and crazy stunts, but it was a little more tempered this time around. I think we all felt a little older, but probably wiser too.

Although, secretly I may still tell Bridget, the oboe isn’t such a bad idea.

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November 2007

                                 Cement

I confess. I finally succumbed to the most selfish of modern human curiosities.
I googled my name last night.

There they were - all the articles I had written for The Stanford Daily as an aspiring young journalist, in my quest to emulate the perky blonde version of Lois Lane. Each one, cataloged in perfect order, collecting virtual dust on the World Wide Web.


I scrolled down and a feature story I wrote my junior eye caught my eye, “Farm-Sick in Sydney.” I had been abroad, studying at the University of New South Wales that semester, basking in the Aussie sunshine and backdrop of the 2000 Olympics. And yet, come that October, I was overshadowed with a sense of longing.


“It was as though I never expected life at Stanford to go on without me. I didn't actually realize I'd be missing out - that there would be basketball games and bike accidents and Frosty Mints at the CoHo and that I wouldn't be there for them. It was the first time being abroad didn't feel so glamorous, so superior to Stanford.”


They were the nostalgic musings of a twenty-year old girl, treading thousands of miles away in the Southern Hemisphere, having forgotten she was there to experience the new and unknown and simply yearning for the familiar.

Admittedly though, a similar longing prompted me to visit the Farm this past year as a real veteran this time, a five-year alum. I hadn’t been back since graduation and although life was good, I was anxious to return to a place that had been home for four enviable years.

In the beginning of Reunion weekend, there was the tangible flutter of anticipation in embracing old friends, fretting over names, and running into past flames. However, by Sunday morning, I found myself alone for the first time in days.

A hush seemed to have settled over the foothills. I decided to take a stroll and breathe in the campus before I left it again for another five years. I didn’t set off with any particular destination in mind but I found myself passing some of my cherished spots - Moonbeams Cafe, the trees behind Castano, the shaded steps off the Quad, looking out onto Palm Drive.

It was a glorious Stanford morning, crisp and cool with a white sun steadily burning through the haze, promising an afternoon of short sleeves. I eventually found myself at Wilbur Field, peering across the grass at my old freshman dorm, Otero, a building I had resided in for half my college years. Once as a skinny 17 year-old novice from the Midwest and again as a senior RA, queen of all dorm-planning and masking throw-up stains on maroon carpets.

I crept around the side and into the back courtyard, studying the tiny middle unit on the first floor. I wondered who was living there now. Did she know about the ridge of cement that fanned out ever so slightly from the foundation, forming the perfect step up to the window if you ever got locked out? Probably, I thought.

The familiar hint of yeasty waffle batter wafted past me and I glanced around at the swarm of bleary-eyed students in sweatpants and flip-flops, dangling key chains and negotiating their spots on picnic benches sorely in need of a paint job. They looked unbearably young. I flinched with unexpected pangs of jealousy.

I wondered if I might still blend in. If they might mistake me for a fellow freshman or perhaps a mature upperclassman here to visit some privileged bottom-feeder. But, then I glanced down at my conspicuous Stanford bookstore bag, bursting with paraphernalia. The truth was that I was bike-less and showered at 11:30am on a Sunday morning. Probably not. I just hoped they didn’t think I was somebody’s mother.

I turned back to Otero and all the memorable vignettes it housed for me. I heard far-off giggles from the checkered sofas in the lounge, the sharp sound of cues hitting pool balls, the rap-tap melody of clucking keyboards from the poor saps in the lab who didn’t yet own a PC. How many dorm meetings had I sat through on that very carpet? How many times had I breezed through that glass door, rushing off to class or meet a friend or cheer on the basketball team? Faces I had struggled to picture en route to the reunion took shape for me now. I smiled, remembering. My time here had been a happy one.

What a tribute to Stanford that even now as an adult, its sights, smells, and sounds were able to evoke such nostalgia in me. Perhaps even more as an adult as I stood there, yearning for a life before taxes, rent checks, wedding debt and corporate quotas. I suppose this is what every passing reunion must bring – a wistful reminder of a time of youth.


I tried to picture myself in another five years on that very spot, peering out at a new batch of freshman inhaling doughy waffles on wobbly picnic tables, and reminiscing about a simpler time, before potty-training, aging parents, mortgages, and those extra ten pounds. I think it would again feel like a privilege to return to my roots and bathe in its essence for a while. Even if by then I really did look like someone’s hip young mom.

I just hope in the meantime they don’t sand down that sliver of cement. Some things, I think, should simply stick around for the ages.