Monday, December 5, 2011

(Dis)Connected

I used to hook-up with the girl who went out with the guy who was in a serious enough relationship to own a cat with my co-president for my club. And she was best friends with my room mate who ended up being an officer in my club and a fellow ResLife member with the next president of the club who ended up going out with one of my good friends who I met in Ireland through another one of my good friends who I met in Spain. And she was the head of the Center for Sex and Gender Relations who trained my other room mate to be a peer advocate and he rowed on the crew team with the first good friend I had in college who rowed in a pair with the class president who was best friends and room mates until the pressure of those two things broke that up with the girl I used to hook up with.

I kind of miss that chaos. College had a sort of flow to it. It wasn't always the happiest and certainly there wasn't a drama free life—just chart that above and expand the circle out to 2400 people. But I found a certain peace there. I suppose I found that peace the most when I was able to leave the drama to everyone else. But that was a misguided lie I told myself. In reality the drama follows you because the connections do as well.

And even in the storm that was senior year I reveled in knowing I had a place.

I walk through this city and recognize people. The same people, the same dogs, the same guy holding a cardboard sign. And I wonder what would happen if I disappeared. There wouldn't be much of a vacuum left in Seattle. The three or four people I have met and know here now would definitely miss me, but the city would not mourn.

In college I would be mourned. Even the most estranged students had a place at Skidmore. No one could ever just disappear. We lost a boy last winter; he came and visited, disappeared into the woods and died. The campus mourned and felt his loss; our reverend kept a picture of him in his office. I never met him, but I felt that loss. Something was tangibly gone.

But here, in Seattle, my loss would not be a loss yet. Which is, I guess, my dark way of saying that I aspire to be more. I aspire to revel in the connections that I build; to know that I am present, not for myself, but for those around me.

Sometimes I feel invisible. I hate being invisible.