The school year is coming to a close, and I am subletting my first apartment from a friend I met at the beginning of the semester. I am excited for multiple reasons, but the reason that stands out the most is staying in the city.
When I first started my college journey, I was in London. I had my own room, and I was excited to explore a new area while I was still fresh off the boat. Reality quickly set in, and I was trapped in a room far from home and everything I had grown to know. I missed home, and home was six hours away by plane.
During my stay in Chicago — one full school year — I had a roommate. The first one was from a rural area just like me. Despite our similarities in our upbringings, he was far from the Iowa nice I was raised in. I knew what ignorance looked like, but this was more than ignorance: it was hatred aimed at me. He was mean, vindictive, and left a bad taste in my mouth when it came time to pick roomies.
Luckily, during the first half of my sophomore year, I stayed with someone who wasn’t so prone to kissing up to frat bros. We had an understanding of how to use the space, and valued each other’s concessions. I ended up moving again, this time to the school I am at now.
I started off this school year with a roommate, but the person next door to our room moved out — leaving the room empty. As soon as the application to move into that room opened up, I applied. I advocated for my mental health, and quickly moved in. During this time, and now, I have always wanted my own space. Now that is a reality for me.
I always joke with my parents about how I don’t want anything more than a mattress and blankets. That still remains true. I imagine myself, engulfed in my covers, writing the next edition of this newsletter. The moon is shining down on me as I send out my work to more subscribers.
TJL