October 9, 2014
I toured Hamilton entirely against my will.
My mother teaches at a private high school, which generously provides several free hours of college counseling to the children of faculty members. I went in for my appointment towards the beginning of my junior year, already convinced that I wanted to attend a medium-sized school right outside of a city. The college counselor and I got to chatting and she quickly suggested I look at Hamilton College. Upon hearing of its location and size, I politely refused the offer— “Thanks, but it doesn’t really sound like the school I’m looking for.” She pushed a little harder, mentioning how many happy students she had successfully placed there, how special she had found it on her own visit and finally that I should look if for no other reason to personally pinpoint what I DIDN’T want in a school. Fair enough.
Cut to mid-February. Snowstorm. My mother sat in the passenger seat while her driver’s permit-wielding daughter fought to plow the car down every back road in upstate New York. It was harrowing, to say the least—even the GPS system gave up. A direct quote from the drive, from my even-tempered and open-minded mother: “You can go to school here, I just won’t visit.” Six hours later, we arrived at Bristol Center, about twelve hours before our scheduled tour the following morning. I announced that I had no intention of touring this “[insert swear-word]” school—we’d sleep late, and head off to Colgate in the afternoon for our tour there. My mother’s response: “We made the drive from hell for this. You’re going on the damn tour.”
The next morning, we found ourselves in the front row of the Siuda House presentation room. I sat slumped, arms crossed—the picture of a petulant child. The admissions officer walked in, smiling; I sighed, loudly and rudely (as an Admissions Intern now who will have to give information sessions this April, I already fear the karma I have coming my way).
And then something magical happened. About 30 seconds after he began speaking, I suddenly sat up straight. I grabbed my mother’s pen (that I had refused only moments before) and began furiously scribbling down everything this messiah was saying on the back of a piece of paper (that I still have). It sounded perfect. Exactly what I wanted, and never knew I could have: small classes with professors who knew and loved their students; an inclusive community, free of Greek housing or varsity athlete gods; an open curriculum, where I’d be able to take exactly the classes I would want. I was hooked.
Then came the tour—where, despite the foot of snow, everyone smiled at us, opened doors for us, welcomed us to their school, really their home. It was the most genuinely happy place I had ever seen. It was also the most beautiful—I couldn’t stop staring. Suffice it to say, I applied early. It was the best decision I’ve ever made.
Cut to four and a half years later (…yikes) and I’ll be honest with you, the magic hasn’t worn off. I keep waiting for those disillusioning moments, where I’ll question if this was the right decision, or find Hamilton too small, or resent Clinton and its many cows. Spoiler alert: nothing yet.
I’m that senior who stops in the middle of pathways to take pictures of the chapel against the fall foliage and the perfect blue sky. I’m so proud of what I’ve learned to do in these classrooms… and try to pretend everything I wrote before Hamilton never happened. I’ve lived with the same roommate for all three of my years on this campus, and she’s the best friend I’ve ever had—ResLife did good with Mac 116 ’13.
That’s not to say Hamilton’s perfect. I’ve spent three years waiting for a new health center that’s open on the weekends (because kids do get sick on Saturdays and Sundays, contrary to popular opinion). I worry about the presence of Yik Yak and Hamilton Secrets on this campus, facilitating the spread of toxicity and division in such a close-knit community. I still complain mercilessly about the cold, although I’ve now acquired a fabulous collection of fluffy hats.
Hamilton is Choose-Your-Own-Adventure. Here, I’ve carved out my own bizarre path: Creative Writing major, double minor in Mathematics and Cinema New Media Studies, former employee at just about every place on campus, radio DJ and director and an upcoming turn as Hermione in Hogwarts at Hamilton. In this magical place we call home, I’ve been able to figure out what makes me tick, what makes me happy, and I’ve made extraordinary, lifelong friends who make every day better than the last (while my writing has improved, I’m still working on the whole “cliché” thing. Sorry). Because of that, I know next year will be just fine (however, if anyone has any jobs they’d like to send my way, please feel free).
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