Another morning, another day at Boston College. I’m woken up at 7 AM by the percussive clanging of the garbage truck outside my window. I’ve been contact-traced four times, EagleApps gave my laptop a virus, I paid $10 for a can of White Claw at BC After Dark last weekend, and I am stoked to get my day started at this place I call home.
I whistle a jaunty tune as I pick up my cardboard chicken and uncooked rice, the same meal I’ve eaten for the past six days. I giggle as I open yet another email where I am blamed for the spread of coronavirus on campus. How droll, I think. Lochhead is so funny.
How in the world have I maintained my sense of gratitude for this school? Is it because of its Jesuit heritage? I don’t even know what a Jesuit is, so it can’t be that. Is it because of faculty who’ve brought back the excitement in learning? Once again, it can’t be that. After all, I’ve had to do five Zoom presentations this semester. Is it because of the administration’s swift and decisive action regarding racist hate crimes on campus? Obviously not, the response has been everything but that.
The only thing making me love this school is motherfucking landscape services man. How could you NOT love a school that has pink tree and tulip???
When I am trudging to O’Neill at 8 AM to write a research paper for a class that also has a final project and a final exam, all that burnout dissolves when I see those fluffy pink branches. When I’m about to break down from my imposter syndrome, it is the optimism of those happy tulips opening up to the cruel world that pushes me onward.
My time at BC will be the best years of my life simply from the high I get seeing those innocent, sweet plants—a high I will chase for the rest of my life. Wiping a single tear from my eye on my death bed, I will gaze into the distance enigmatically as I utter my last words. With the loving caress of a whisper, “Pink tree and tulip” will be my “rosebud.”