Long Journey Begins With Her First Step

I feel unbelievably vivacious despite the fact that my hand, when in writing position, occasionally cramps, a reminder of June’s frantic mission to leave my e-mail address in the yearbooks of my dearest friends.

I’m still flying and it’s the best sensation in the world. It’s been almost two months since the sunlit afternoon of June 8, when I strolled out of my fourth-period English class no longer a senior at Edison High School, but as a freshman at Boston University. I continue to retrace the path of my life, recounting the memories and various stages in order to understand how I arrived at this age, this time, this adventure.

I’m still bewildered when I realize that the fifth-grade ‘50s dance, the time I accidentally walked into the boys’ bathroom in middle school and the day I snagged a position on Associated Student Body weren’t events of just yesterday.

On the day of graduation, I donned my green robe over skin slathered in sunscreen, my sunglasses annoyingly slipping off my nose from the heat of the afternoon. I didn’t fling my cap joyously into the air after I received my diploma, for fear of losing it. I did not cry either, despite my early prediction of uncontrollable tears of sorrow.

Despite the celebration and the excited expressions of family and friends, my happiness was replaced by apprehension and uncertainty. I didn’t know how I’d be able to survive without seeing the smiling faces I’ve grown up with. I didn’t know how I’d be able to leave the school walls that have for four years heard my sniffling, my giggling fits with classmates, and my sighs of distress while taking exams. I didn’t know how I’d be able to leave the only world I’ve known so far behind.

It’s easy to say the word “college.” I’ve said it at least a million times when slaving away over applications and essays and comparing notes in May over acceptance letters. It’s one thing to say it and it’s another to live it. I worry about the trivial aspects as well as the major concerns. What if I walk into the boys’ bathroom again? What if my roommate smells or hates my music? How will I deal with the temptation to drink? What if my classes are too difficult?

Unfortunately, I can’t hide my mommy in my suitcase when I leave for Boston, nor can I shove my best friend and boyfriend under the bed in my dorm room. No one will be able to hold my hand going into a social group or if a teacher decides to give me a terrible grade simply because she dislikes me. It’s time to sprout from the moral roots my parents have instilled in me as well as test how much I’ve learned from my youthful mistakes.

Thankfully, my motivation to succeed and my quest for education overshadow my doubt and uneasiness. College is a challenge, a career my reward. My studies are what led me to strive for a university education and I know I must never forget my reasons for attending college: hunger for learning, hunger for writing and English, hunger for a career in magazine journalism.

With these passions and goals in mind, I know I’ll be ready. I’m taking my clothes, my beloved childhood blanky, and pictures of my friends, the epitome of Daisy Yu in a duffel bag. With my suitcase in one hand, map in the other, I’ll fling open the plane door, eager to stamp my mark thousands of miles away from home.

I’m confident I’ll be fine. I trust the love of my friends and the lessons learned from my family to guide me through the rest of life. Most importantly, I trust that I’ll remember who I am amid the shuffle and confusion of a new circumstance.

That bright graduation day, my hands ached in addition to my arms from the massive hugging from the boyfriend, the best friend and the family. It’s frightening to understand that I won’t see more than half of the faces I graduated with again. It’s even more frightening to know that some of them may die, become homeless, or live unhappily. But I try to disregard those disturbing thoughts.

Instead, I imagine that cute guy I had a crush on sophomore year as being bald or the two high school sweethearts I always made fun of as being married. Perhaps I’ll wed my own Edison love interest or become some fabulous New England socialite. Perhaps I’ll decide to major in archeology or marry the boy I loathed who made fun of me in kindergarten.

The possibilities of my life in Boston and throughout the world are endless, as will be my colorful Edison High School memories of the cherished moments of euphoria and teenage immortality.