Leaving the familiar, exploring the new

The moment was one that I had been waiting for my whole life. I don't mean that in the cliche, "This is so cool. I can't believe that this is happening!" kind of way either. I had truly imagined the moment in so many different ways over the past 14 years of my recollected life that it had begun to take on a monumental degree of importance.

And then, it was upon me.

My mom had left a few days before. But my dad had been trapped after the deplorable, catastrophic events that have brought our nation — and, perhaps, the world — into a new sense of reality. As orientation week rolled over into the first week of school, my dad was still here, a victim of the airport closures that brought American travel to a stand still. Day after day went by, and I continued to meet my dad for lunch or dinner, over which we discussed my newfound insecurities that were clinging to my summer-bought school clothes like Hester Prynne's scarlet letter. He saw the confusion, hopelessness, and pure, unadulterated sadness that had overtaken my usual jovial outlook on life:

"No one here is the same, Dad. I haven't seen one pair of skate shoes, or one kid into hardcore music. All the doors in my hall are always closed. I mean, I don't have a roommate to go to lunch or dinner with, so I just sit by myself. Everyone else looks so happy, and I just miss everyone from back home. Everything was so perfect when I left. I mean, I had my friends totally set in stone, and we ruled our school. But there isn't anyone like Tolga or Amir or Luke or Jeff here. Everyone wears Rockports and sweaters, and no one has even skateboarded . . . I miss home."

He just looked at me and laugh-ed. It wasn't a particularly sinister, or, for that matter, hurtful laugh. It was more of a cackle, filled with memories of his collegiate experience and wisdom far beyond my years. "It's supposed to be hard. Give it some time, and you'll never want to come home," he said.

Sure, I thought to myself. I let the conversation slip back into the possible return of Michael Jordan and other trivial nuggets of news that we had picked up over the course of the day. I swallowed hard, both on my food, and the reality that this was going to be the last meal we were to have together.

My dad told me he had finally gotten a flight for the next day. And that is when the moment came. That last goodbye, final hug and handshake, and then the turn of his back and crackling footsteps across Butler's quad. He swung around one final time to give me a wave and a smirk. "You'll be fine. You'll see."

This was the instance that I was supposed to scream with joy and sprint out to the first keg and go crazy. According to Hollywood, Holden Caulfield, Henry Thoreau, Dawson and Pacey, Zack Morris and Kelly Kapowski, and every other mentor I had ever had, this was the very second that I was supposed to be overjoyed to finally be out and on my own. I had finally reached the point in life where it was my choice to clean my room or not, my choice to eat pizza every night if I felt like it, and, yes, my choice to go outside without a jacket on if I felt warm already. I was alone, and I could do whatever I wanted. I was supposed to feel "happy" like I had never felt it before.

But I didn't. I went back to my room, shut the heavy wooden door, and took a seat on the edge of my saggy mattress. I looked to the window sill and made visual contact with a picture of my family and me when I was a kid. Soon, the image began to distort and twist shape as the all-too-familiar buckets of tears flooded past my eyes. I felt alone and scared. Not happy.

The next morning I rose out of bed to the pitter-patter of a rainy day. As I would soon find, this is a very ordinary way to wake up in Princeton. What I didn't know, however, was what awaited my attempts at homeostasis outside. I saw the rain and clouds, and, like any good Californian, I put on a warm sweatshirt and a pair of jeans. You see, back where I come from, this "humidity" thing is a rare occurrence, and, when it rains, it is cold.

I stepped outside and began sweating immediately. By the time I got to class, the sweat stains were in full effect, and I kept the sweatshirt on to play it safe. I was angry at the weather. If it is raining, it's supposed to be pouring. You can't have the evil rain and the warmth of a summer day in one. Could you?

On my way home, I began to think about my situation again. Sure, no one was like me. And, yes, it was going be difficult to find my niche and my group of friends. I had to resign myself to the fact that I would feel alone for a while. But that was just the rain. I looked up, and saw the sun breaking through the cloud cover.

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I was at Princeton. I was learning from the world's greatest professors. I would soon be joining the radio station and newspaper and a whole slew of other wondrous extra-curricular activities. All my friends were just a phone call away.

In four years, my life would be well on the way to success. I didn't have to clean my room when I got home. And, perhaps most importantly, I could take off the stupid sweatshirt that had brought me so much misfortune, even if it was raining. That was the sun.

I guess days can be miserable and extraordinary all at once. So can Princeton.

This is the first installment of A 'Frosh' Perspective, a series of columns by Alfred Brown chronicling his first year at Princeton. The columns will appear on a regular basis in Campus Notebook throughout the semester.

Brown is a freshman from Manhattan Beach, Calif. He can be reached via e-mail at aebtwo@princeton.edu.