The past is never dead

Most people at Penn are here just to bounce to somewhere else. At this university, there is precious little fixedness or assurance. And the first week of May is when you know there is no escape. People are moving on. Those of us who are not graduating only know that they won't be here next year. Friends, girlfriends, boyfriends, roommates, more than roommates, lovers, spouses or SCUs (status completely unclear) walk on May 21, 2001, the 245th Commencement at Penn, and then move on. But here is to looking back. Soak in the experience with abandon -- packing, moving, saying goodbye. I saw a couple of Medical School students last weekend in Fitler Square hugging each other. The car was weighed down. Her eyes were fiercely red. His face was buried in her neck and he didn't look like he was letting go of her anytime soon. There is no way the leavers or the stayers can be emotionally prepared for this event, so don't be taken aback. While you don't want to use the fabian approach (wait and delay the attack) to deal with this roiling, unforgettable moment, don't beat yourself up for feeling a rush of contradictory emotions. Every year it's the same. The moving trucks. The cars filled to the roofs, plants obscuring the rearview. The one who stays will fuss and worry that you will drive in one lane the whole way. The one who leaves would rather be wrecked on I-95 in boiling heat than stay one extra second. There will be the goodbye words. Stayers will want something hefty, substantial. Leavers will be at a loss. Don't say, "All I really know is I've gotta be where my heart says I oughta be." Ben Harper already did that. Don't say "Destiny is calling," or "I'm outta here." There will be the Iloveyoubye and the peck. Brutal. All of it. Write me as soon as you get your new e-mail account. Brace yourself for how empty the apartment will be. I have a few pictures of those. The dirt you remember doesn't seem to show, so take that picture. When I first came to Penn to buy books, I walked from Dolby's to the Wawa on Spruce Street, and saw caps and gowns float across the 38th Street Bridge -- more than you could ever imagine. To know that my friends will be in that joyous, unending river pouring over the bridge tears at me and buoys me. Whether you are in the procession or watching it glide in front of you, let yourself cry. I've tried it all -- from holding it in decorously, squeezing out a few drops then fixing the makeup, to bawling raucously in the street. Howling it out is better in the long run. You feel better, and people like to know how you feel about them. If you leave from the airport, don't feel emotionally hemmed in. Airports are your Casablanca. At the Stuttgart airport, I couldn't cope with the thought that I was leaving my expatriate little sister and my new niece so far away. When I see them again, the baby will be walking, talking in full sentences, not only saying "Nein!" when I try to wipe her face. My niece loves me to pieces. I know this because Kate Lynn would quietly go through her morning routine with her mom until I woke up and stumbled to the kitchen for coffee. Then she would begin to shriek "Eee! Eee!" Her mother assured me that she was trying to say my name. We had one constantly good time. I carried the baby everywhere and sang to her. Iggy Pop. Big Band. Elderly German women in parking lots shook their heads or gave a hint of a smile. The baby looked delighted. Don't fight the strangeness of happiness. When we said goodbye, I held myself together and promised to see them soon. My sister cried, but I held in my stinging tears. Big mistake. On the plane, the attendant asked me if I needed a napkin. No, I needed a towel and 50 milligrams of Benadryl. Don't be brave. It's OK. Although proximity may not be assured, feelings are. William Faulkner says it best: "The past is never dead. It's not even past." I have to go e-mail a certain rugrat. Eee says "I love you."

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