Photo by Kirsten Magas
Instead of the typical reflection article, I am going to tell you a story.
The sun was setting on the summer of 2016. August nights were developing an autumn chill. A short, brown-haired girl with skin freshly tanned from senior week stumbled onto campus at West Chester University. With boxes in hand and family trailing behind her, she hiked five flights of stairs in Tyson Hall to her first dorm room.
A hard goodbye in a local diner signaled the start of growing up. After a long day of unwarranted ice breakers and listening to administrators discuss the alcohol policy that would no doubt be broken that weekend, she linked arms with her high school best friend.
The two ventured into town and stopped at a 7-11. Eventually, that 7-11 would become the hub for restocking on mixers and bumping into intoxicated acquaintances. Until then, the two bought “Ben & Jerry’s” and ate their pints on the steps of town hall, expressing excitement for experiences yet to come. Little did she know, that moment would become one of her favorite memories on its own.
Having no one to report to after talking to her mom every day after school made the girl feel homesick. So, the girl called her whenever she could to fill her in on class lessons and, after her and her high school sweetheart broke up, the cute boys she had her eye on.
The girl made fast friends with a student in her introductory major class, then her significant other, then her roommate, and her roommate’s significant other. A friend group was born to invite to holiday exchanges, library cram sessions and everyday boredom spent playing Mario Kart for the GameCube.
At the involvement fair she signed up for clubs she would never attend with the exception of the Creative Writing Club. (Where else would she learn to write a story this enthralling?) There was no better way to spend her Friday evenings. The girl went to one of the largest writing conferences in the U.S. with the Creative Writing Club and made incredible memories in Washington, D.C. writing stories with new friends. One day, she would lead the club as president.
In an off-campus apartment, the girl had her first sip of alcohol and learned King’s Cup. When she felt she had too much, she whispered to a friend who then walked the girl home to ensure her safety. The next morning, she woke up with a headache. This was the best case scenario.
The last marker of the first year of school for the girl was a newfound fascination with learning about life and how it functions after taking a general education class. Afraid of a future in humanities lacking economic support, she declared a major in biology and pushed writing to the side.
For her second year, the girl moved to the second floor of Killinger Hall with her high school best friend. All-nighters were pulled. Snapchats were recorded. No laundry was done. The newness of West Chester University faded, allowing old problems to resurface.
The girl suffered from debilitating bouts of dread and sudden fits of panic. It kept her from taking tests, keeping up with friends and being happy. When she became sick of struggling, she marched to the second floor of Lawrence Hall and returned weekly for counseling. Here, a name was put to her symptoms: anxiety.
To understand her anxiety, the girl found herself writing more. It felt good to put her feelings on paper and hear them aloud at poetry readings. After her passion for writing was reignited, she rethought her decision to change her plan of study. Furthering her confusion, a friend convinced her to write a column for the campus newspaper, “The Quad.” The girl reviewed dessert locations downtown. Later, she earned the title of Features Editor.
The girl held her friends close while getting to know a new set of friends. The girl spent New Year’s Eve with old friends and grabbed New Year’s Day breakfast with new friends. That morning, a new friend brought a stranger to breakfast. The girl went on a date with the stranger. He asked when he could see her again. The routine repeated until the stranger became a lover.
Two years later, I cannot say how that story ends; it hasn’t been written yet.
The girl spent her third year paying rent for an off-campus apartment she seldom lived in. Home is not a place; it is a feeling. After several game nights, studying late and binging spooky YouTube videos on the giant bean bag at her new friend’s apartment, she found a home there.
In a battle with her anxiety, she put herself in new situations. The girl attended recruitment events for Phi Sigma Pi, a gender-inclusive honor fraternity. To her surprise, it turned out to be a success. Pushing her limits, she led the chapter in unity as Fellowship Chair and welcomed a new brother into the brotherhood. The girl found future roommates for the following year; she signed a lease and grew excited for the time to arrive.
When the time came, the girl seldom spent time in her off-campus apartment yet again. An unexpected internship opportunity sent her to Philadelphia for most of the week. Ever since reading “TigerBeat” and “Seventeen” in her preteen years, it was her dream to write for a magazine; she lived it. After months of fact checking and a few bylines for Philadelphia Style, she was drinking whiskey sours at The Rittenhouse Hotel with a new friend.
Before she could realize it, the girl had one semester left.
Almost unheard of for an English major, she landed a paid internship as an associate at a nonprofit media studio. Doing nonprofit work made her feel rewarded. Better yet, it was closer to West Chester. The girl made a new friend there to talk about “Bojack Horseman” with and overspend with during lunch breaks.
A highly contagious virus hit nearly every state in the country. Her education moved online. Her newspaper went digital. Her job offer was revoked. Her graduation ceremony was cancelled. Her senior year trailed off like an unfinished sentence…
The girl kept writing.
The girl wrote on her couch at home while quarantined with her lover. The girl wrote wearing a face mask on a drive to retrieve her belongings from an empty office. The girl wrote her final article for “The Quad” knowing that there is more to her story.
The girl signed it, “With love, Kirsten Magas, BA in English.”
Kirsten Magas is a fourth-year English major with minors in creative writing and journalism. KM867219@wcupa.edu