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Commentary
It's college decision season: Take the leap, get the rollerblades
I visited Boston twice before moving here for college. The first time I was a teen, and my parents, my brother and I stayed in Burlington, a suburb about 12 miles from the city. We did all the typical touristy things, like walking the Freedom Trail, getting our caricatures drawn on the Common and taking a Duck Tour. I can still recall the thrill of the paved road giving way to water as we quacked down the Charles River.
I thought Boston was “cute” compared to New York, and we didn’t even live in the city. We were bridge and tunnel all the way. After emigrating from Moscow at the tail-end of the USSR when I was 11, my family bounced around various non-hip Brooklyn neighborhoods before settling in Sheepshead Bay. I was a junior in high school by then. After commuting the first two years, my school ended up being just a 20-minute walk from our new house. But by that time, I kind of hated it.
My school was small. And by small, I mean tiny — a graduating class of 14 people — which is wild in a borough of 2.6 million people. My brother and I enrolled there on the recommendation that it would make assimilating easier for us. The kids all spoke Russian, but the teachers only spoke English. I have a vivid memory of sitting quietly in the back row, trying to figure out what an amoeba was.
Once I learned enough English from watching “Saved by the Bell” reruns and reading “Sweet Valley High” books, my parents gave me the option to switch to a regular public school, which my younger brother had already done. I recognized the upside of a bigger, less restrictive school, but going through another significant life change with all its unknowns filled me with so much dread that I couldn’t breathe. So, I made the safe choice to stay put.
My best friend eventually transferred to a specialized high school in the city, and I inhaled her stories about the interesting people she met and the classes she took. But I couldn’t imagine doing any of that myself. I didn’t feel like the free-spirited and confident high school kids in the shows I watched and the books I read. I didn’t know how to interact with them and didn’t think I’d be accepted. But by my senior year, I had a sinking feeling that I had limited myself by staying in my self-imposed bubble. I felt caged by my school’s strict rules, our stifling uniforms of long skirts and turtlenecks, and the subpar education.
I knew I had to do whatever it took to become a person who rollerblades by the river.
When it came time to apply for college, the information my classmates and I received was minimal. The school had no guidance counselor to talk us through our college options, and the internet was just gaining momentum with its sketchy chat rooms where everyone pretended to be someone else. My classmates who planned to go to college were applying to the community and state schools within the confines of New York, and that was my plan too.
Then, I learned about Boston University — BU.
My mom’s coworker’s daughters were like the “Sweet Valley High” twins to me. Not because they were blonde or lived in California, but because they seemed to fit in and have that easy-breezy demeanor. They weren’t shy, they laughed unselfconsciously and they didn’t have accents. They could probably even drive. I loved getting their hand-me-downs and pretending to be them during my secret fashion shows.
When my mom came home one day and mentioned that they went to BU, and maybe I should look into it, I immediately felt a ping of the same angst as when she suggested I switch high schools. It was too big of a change. It wasn’t me. I couldn’t do it. And even if I did, there was no way I would get accepted. And even if I got accepted, I’d never get enough financial aid and scholarships to actually attend.
But, I applied anyway. And I got in.
When I visited Boston for the second time to check out BU with my dad, it felt wildly rebellious and indulgent, like stepping into someone else’s life. As my dad and I followed our well-spoken tour guide around the campus, I admired how comfortable the kids on the “BU Beach” seemed, sprawled out on the grass with textbooks, chatting with their friends. Then, we stood on the bridge over Storrow Drive and looked out at the Charles River. I saw college kids zooming by on their rollerblades. They were so carefree. I was transfixed. I wanted to be them. I needed to be them.
I knew I had to do whatever it took to become a person who rollerblades by the river.
That following fall, my parents packed up the car and drove me to Boston with all of my stuff, including my new, deeply discounted pair of gray and blue rollerblades. The dorm I got assigned to was located directly across the street from the on ramp to the river. I spent the first few weeks rollerblading in the hallways, yelping as I crashed into walls and trash cans because I didn’t yet know how to stop. Then, I took my maiden voyage outside.
Even with my awkward, stumbling roll-walk, I could skate from my dorm to the river in minutes. And I did just that almost every day.
