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Moving Out, But Not On

RedAllOver, June 2009

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My eyelids are still heavy from the two all-nighters I pulled last week, and I’m not even in school anymore. How cruel that as the grueling academic year comes to an end . . . so does your lease. I spent those two days moving, hauling boxes in and out of a ’92 Volvo.

There is some comfort in the cyclical nature of college housing. In mid-May, underclassmen wrestle with zippers, grill hotdogs over burning class notes, and go home—already missing their freedom and their friends. Then, in mid-August, they repack their hippo-sized bags to return to Ithaca, just at the brink of parental-induced insanity—already missing the free food and laundry.

For seniors, the end-of-the-year ritual takes on new meaning: sometime in early June they pack up and leave the key for the landlord one last time. Being one of them, I blame nostalgia for the sleepless nights. I pored over every keepsake and piece of paper, not wanting to miss anything that would spark a memory of a raucous Lynah Rink or a streaky sunset atop Libe Slope.

I found a sequined eye patch crafted at “Pirate Night” at the Johnson Museum my freshman year. Covering the event was one of my first assignments for the Daily Sun; the belly-dancing troupe angrily called for my resignation after I described them as “scantily clad.” I discovered the Big Red athletic gear called “Teagles” (from the campus building where we picked them up) that I had not returned at the end of sophomore year, when stress fractures forced me to stop running varsity cross-country. I unearthed a goodbye card from my “flatmates” when I studied abroad in London junior year, and a senior year government prelim I bombed and kept as punishment. They are all coming with me.

You move out, but you don’t necessarily move on. Ithaca will always be home. I’ve got half a dozen former addresses to choose from, and some heavy boxes to prove it. 

—Molly O’Toole ’09

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