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The observer | FRIDAY, AUGUST 18, 2023 | ndsmcobserver.com
Inside Column
The writing on the wall: A letter to a freshman Maggie Eastland Editor-in-Chief
Welcome to the pages of The Obser ver, and welcome to the tri-campus. We’re so glad you’re here. W hen I think about move-in, I imagine freshmen unpacking their things. I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but many of those posters, t w ink ling lights and cheekily worded f lags are about to fall off the stick y South Bend summer walls, over and over again. During my first week on campus, I made one of my best friends by asking her about the Pinterest collage on the wall. One of the photos was a woman w ith dark hair in a long white dress, running through a f lower petal lane. Another featured a yellow “cool bus” w ith a sneak y missing “s.” My ow n first-year decor was nothing to w rite home about. But one meditative day during my sophomore year, I spent a few hours collecting free posters and slips of paper, any thing that I’d call art: a well-designed coaster, a ticket stub, a poem inside a campus publication, a photo of the Michigan lilacs, a forgotten stick y note. It’s a habit I picked up from a summer roommate on Mackinac Island. But it’s not new. I’ve always liked to treasure things. W hen I look at my cancerous collage now, my eyes brim w ith a glinting kaleidoscope of memor y. I’ve diagnosed myself: I’m a walking sy mbolism machine. I see my good friend, newspaper mentor and former Dallas summer roommate. She’s in the soda can sticker that says “It’s called pop.” I see another friend and Obser ver editor, now abroad. He’s the gradient oval that screams “HISTORY IS FRE AKING COOL. -LIZZO.” I see one of the ver y first friends I met at Notre Dame in the rainbow watercolor paper she once gave me. Another hides in the Florida postcard.
I see my mom. She’s the photo cut from the prayer book she gave me before my ow n college move-in. I see a little girl who held onto her 2017 Notre Dame football ticket, hoping she could one day attend. (That was back when this Universit y still had paper tickets.) Cut w ith yearning hands, I see ever y newspaper masthead I ever wanted to w rite for. A little antique “Letter Carrier” badge graces the behemoth’s top left corner. That’s the one that always falls dow n. I pick it up, again and again. It torments me, reminding me of what I love to do. And I just keep w riting letters to the world. “The world never w rote me,” as Emily Dickinson would say. I think that’s my next addition, a page from her poetr y book. A smattering of pressed f lowers makes me smile too, although they remind me that some beautiful things don’t last forever. The faded memor y contains a wonder all its ow n. Right now, I see all of you too — students on the tri-campus and especially the Class of 2027. You’re hidden away on a cardboard rectangle w ith black-ink t y pe set, a quote from Jack London that reads: “I would rather be ashes than dust! I would rather that my spark should be stif led by dr y rot. I would rather be a superb meteor, ever y atom of me in magnificent glow, than a sleepy and permanent planet. The proper function of man is to live, not to ex ist.” I’m no philosophy major, and I couldn’t tell you the precise difference bet ween liv ing and ex isting. Still, I see each one of the first-year students in these words. It’s the best adv ice I can offer. These w ill be some of the shortest and fullest four years of your life. There’s going to be a lot of things to tape to your wall. Will you be ashes or dust? W hatever you’re passionate about, don’t shy away from the fire. Want to know the real w riting on the wall? The truth that takes more courage to read?
During your time here, you w ill be scared. You w ill be lonely. You w ill be angr y. You might learn — if you haven’t already — that caring deeply means you get hurt. Never apologize for those things that set your heart alight. They are your greatest strength. Enroll in the club. Send the letter. Call your grandpa. Talk to your dorm custodian. Start the petition. Sign up for the retreat. Belly laugh. Go to office hours w ith the professor you admire. Be the friend that suggests dining hall soft ser ve, w ith sprink les. Take the challenging class. Learn how to box. Slay the Jabber wock y. Join the newspaper! I can’t promise you it w ill be easy. It’s worth it. Even as a senior, I admit I’m still figuring it out. Even working a job I’ve always wanted, I’m still just learning how to sw im. But that’s addressed by another stick y note on the wall, the one that says: Flowers duck-taped to my wall like me and you. Yeah, life is far from perfect, but I think it’s better to display the gray strip holding it all together. Flowers are prett y, but let’s not pretend we can beat grav it y. Unironically, the stick y note also includes a crossed-out line, a failed attempt at w riting it. I promise that no one has it all together. I certainly don’t. We’re learning. Isn’t that a beautiful thing? Grow ing pains are worth it. A little longing is good for body and soul. Welcome to the tri-campus. If you’re worried about making friends, just ask your section mates about their wall decor. It worked for me. And if you want your ow n Obser ver byline to hang on the wall, check out the South Dining Hall basement. Send me a carrier pigeon (or an email) any time. I’ll w rite you back. Contact Maggie at meastlan@nd.edu. The views expressed in this Inside column are those of the author and not necessarily those of The Observer.