Ever since I was a toothless, blonde toddler, my family affectionately referred to me as “The Velcro Baby.” I refused to be left alone with anyone other than my mom or dad. My older brother, envious of this attachment and bewildered as to why anyone would want to be in the presence of their parents for longer than five minutes, tried on several different occasions to literally knock some sense into me. I hesitate to regurgitate memories of being swaddled in a pillowcase and launched down the basement steps. As I grew older, and my friends began to throw slumber parties, I was notoriously known as “that kid”–the one sobbing at 1 a.m., begging her parents to come rescue her. The thought of sleeping in any bed other than my own made me cringe.
As the years progressed, and I entered my freshman year of high school, life seemed flawless–older boys, extended curfews and study halls. However, on that first day of school, in an introduction to the newcomers, the principal informed my fellow classmates and me that our number-one priority in high school was to prepare for college.
“Time flies,” she reminded us. “Before you know it, you will be packing your bags and leaving home. No more parents to guarantee you’re on time to class. You will have to rely on your own alarm clock.”
My body froze, sweat cascaded off my forehead, and I stared at that middle-aged woman in disbelief. Was this a joke?
My college visit to Saint Louis University during the spring of my senior year happened by default. For months, my ideal school was one in Baltimore, but after Sept. 11, my parents urged me to “just look” at SLU. After many arguments and a sizable bribe, I was on a plane heading to St. Louis.
It was an ideal day for a prospective student to visit: friday afternoon, beautiful weather and a standing Busch Memorial Center. But what I really fell in love with were the people. On several different occasions, after looking helplessly lost, both males and females asked me if I needed directions. After I explained to them my situation, they enthusiastically asked if I had any questions. A very friendly group of boys even offered to show me the town that evening. I accepted their invitation. (That’s another story.)
As my freshman year at SLU quickly comes to an end, and I reflect on the past nine months, aside from my disbelief that I survived an experience away from home, I am overwhelmed with affection for my school. As I pack my bags and return to my hometown of Cincinnati, I can’t help but wonder what life will be like outside of SLU. What will I do at social events without the visible presence of the Jesuits? Who will take such pride in serving my meal as George does in Gries cafeteria? How will I keep myself from falling asleep during Sunday morning church service when I am used to a vivacious 10 p.m. Mass?
Several days ago, I explained the joys of college to a first grader; he had the same fears about leaving home that I had at his age. “Imagine having a slumber party all year long, without parents,” I told him.
In retrospect, I probably should have cautioned him about all-nighters in the library and three-hour chemistry labs that count for no credit. Although this might have been a more accurate portrayal, in my defense I must stipulate that it has not been the work I accomplished, but the people who surround me who help make my memories at SLU. Late-night talks with my roommate, spontaneous dance parties and escapades to Ted Drewe’s with five of my closest friends certainly defined my freshman experience.
I won’t deny that I was a “Velcro baby.” In fact, I won’t even deny that I am still one at the noble age of 19. The attachment that I now yearn for, however, has grown to include my entire SLU family.
Elle Hogan is a freshman studying communication.
