The double life of a college freshman might be more impressive than that of an international spy or unfaithful spouse. Whereas the spy and spouse have their real lives and their undercover ones, the college freshman has two real lives and no where to hide.
So here we are, spending 18 years of our lives living out more or less the same routine with more or less the same tight-knit group of people we often call a family. Then, suddenly, for thousands upon thousands of dollars, we are whisked away and sent to live on our own with thousands of others in the same situation. In this new environment, we quickly learn the cultural rules regarding anything from what time the dining halls open, to the best places to party, to which professors pretend not to care when you skip class and which ones do. We cultivate our other life carefully. Without the comfort of the family and friends we left at home, social experimentation is inevitable. We talk to new people and find a version of ourselves that fits in this new world. Soon we realize that everything we were before doesn’t matter here. No one knows how well we did in high school, who we dated, what clubs we were president of, even what clothes we wore. Better yet, no one cares. Naturally, given this chance at remodeling in this new place, we take it. We tweak and tuck, smooth and stretch.
Winter break is the trial run of this new prototype at home. Though we try to retain some changes, we also slip back into our routine. We remember that comfort that came with our old selves. My mother thinks I regressed. High school drama is once again law. I bargain with my little sister over who should do the dishes, make faces at the excessive amount of vegetable soup in the fridge, sleep until noon and refuse to be motivated until the sun has set. Of course, there are differences, too. The freedom of college still resonates in our bones. The education probably opened our minds more than we thought. Suddenly staying up until 3 a.m. isn’t difficult like it once was in high school.
So the model doesn’t quite crash-and-burn. It’s a weird in-between. We find it easier to be who we used to be, but are acutely aware of our other life, waiting patiently for our return.
Break ends, and back at school we begin to build up that new persona again. We weave in the lessons we learned at home and start to see all the college puzzle pieces fall into place. As we grow more and more confident among our peers and in our new environments, we go ahead and even suggest we are happy with our new selves. Adulthood no longer feels like a prototype. It feels good.
Now I have a week left of school. The grueling transitions I went through to find my feet in this new place seem like memories someone else handed me, or an out-of-body experience I watched from afar. The past few weeks, the weeks where I’ve really felt like myself, have gone by so fast. I’m struggling to believe soon I will be lying in my own bed at home surrounded by yellow walls and proof I used to be someone else.
What will happen this summer when we reemerge into our old habitats? What will happen when our history rubs up against our self-discovery? How will we deal with the blow to our autonomy?
Will our two lives fight each other tooth and nail until the only thing left is a battered persona blindly declaring its victory? Maybe the answer isn’t one life over the other. I hope not. Maybe the two lives will slowly bleed into each other until they blend seamlessly. And every time we switch back and forth, they’ll seep together a little bit more.
