After a Semester in DC

Learning to love a new city over the course of four months was not something I expected to be the most prevalent lesson after a semester in DC. I knew I would love being here, don’t get me wrong, but I just didn’t realize that would be the best thing I’d learn. I expected what anyone else would’ve, grandiose ideas about democracy, how “real” policy is made, and how to budget.

While I did develop or learn all of those things too, they were just never quite as present as the third-person perspective with a proficiency for awe and a habit of self-reflection that I found in the city. This voice in my head developed a catchphrase: “Don’t forget this.”

One of my favorite things this semester was the chalkboard in my apartment. The wall that divided my bedroom with the kitchen stopped just in front of the door, creating a small section of wall right in front of you as you walk in the apartment. This section was chalkboard from top to bottom, and the apartment complex left us chalk as a move-in gift, almost as if they were asking us to leave a mark.

This chalkboard quickly became a bonding tool as my roommates and I adjusted to our new home and each other. At first, we thought to use it as a to-do list, but we quickly surrendered to the realization that we would write our current tasks and then never look at it again. Perhaps we also wanted something more personal or thematic, maybe we were just lazy. Who could really say? We had a few more ideas that night, but none came to fruition.

Several nights past with no new thoughts on the subject, until one night when the room started spinning — a protest from the world arguing that we should probably put the drinks back in the fridge. That night was one of the first in which we became comfortable with the idea of being ourselves around each other, and that night was one I didn’t have to be reminded to remember.

As bad as beer is for you, you gotta give it some credit. It has great taste in comedy, and it lets you learn things about your friends along the way. That night, I learned that my roommates were some of the funniest people I’d ever met. We quickly decided it imperative to commemorate the collective wit of that evening. “We can’t let anyone walk into this room and not know what you just said,” our apartment decided. We finally settled on what to do with the chalkboard — turn it into a memorial of all the joy that we refused to let die this semester.

As the semester went on, I found solace in the habit of walking in the door after work and immediately laughing to myself as I read “*groans* — Carlos.” I could hear it every time — the sound of simultaneous distress and expression. Those groans and the rest of the quotes we threw onto that board are beats in a story told by all of us every day.

I am so grateful to this city for giving me that story.

I walked around the streets, at night or early in the morning. I liked to set aside this time for myself. It gave me time to etch the details of the city around me into the memories I hoped to keep. Either time I went, that voice in my head used the wind to remind me where I was at. As the moving air stole the moisture from my face, I could never stop myself from looking at everything happening around me. There was always something happening in the city. It could be a festival or a protest. I didn’t care. I just wanted to be part of it.

I also saw people — human beings. Walking through the city, some people looked at the ground, focused on getting to and from work in a way that I could never tell if they loved or hated it. I hoped they loved it. Others laughed. Some took pictures. I watched. My appreciation for what it meant to be human helped me realize why I loved this city. As long as you are alive and breathing, you are a part of our collective condition. You’re a part of me, as I am a part of you.

The city felt alive and I could feel it breathe too. It struggled as we did. Sometimes it was too busy and other times when all the businesses were closed and the commuters were back home, it reminded me of someone excited to have made it through the day one more time. I think that’s why I loved it so much. The city let me be a part of its story, and I let it become a part of mine.

I further realized that all of this, the city, friendship, life, were all different branches of the same tree. Whenever the heat from my own problems would beat down on me, I sat under the limbs, looked up, and smiled. I was alive, which was a blessing, and I was here, which was enough. I like to think that’s what home really means.

I hope to come back here one day. Maybe better off, maybe not. I won’t know until I’m there, but I do know that whatever happens, I’ll be better because of this semester. I made too many friends, saw too many beautiful places, and fell too in love with this city for any other outcome. I’ll be coming home.

“Don’t forget this.”

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