Your College Unnie: Letters to the moon
As the clock strikes 3 a.m., shards of silver softly sheath my figure as I scurry down Trousdale. Eyes glazed with sugar and sleep, my brow is furrowed as Spotify pumps a motivational speech like some kind of cult religion into my brain. I think about how I used to stay up late, talking to the moon — conversations, debates, philosophical discussions: “How are you today, Mr. Moon? Have the stars been kind to you as of late? Is the sun a gentle glow as they say, or a scalding glare that sears you into silence?”
But by October of my freshman year, the only face I saw was my own in the mirror halfway between dusk and dawn — eyes puffy and vacant. My lips grew numb and swollen from the words unsaid. My thoughts? Muddled and scraped across the horizon like mules chasing after sunrise.
At my Texas high school, going out-of-state for college was glorified, if not idolized. The majority of my graduating class packed their bags for SoCal or Boston. I mean, that was the American Dream. We were off to new races, spaces and faces. Or so we thought. You see, one thing that’s not really talked about is the reality of relocation. For most graduating seniors, once they left the Lone Star State, that was it. They didn’t return to reminisce or rehash old relationships. And really, that’s the point.
But as a casualty of this idealism, we were raised on a cotton-candy sugared impression of going out-of-state for college. From crowd surfing to road tripping with friends and talking with Andrew Yang, there have been moments where my life has been a movie. But they’re only moments.
Behind the scenes, there was lots of crying and lonely late nights. While my friends returned to their California hometowns on the weekends, I didn’t go back home until mid-December. When I threw up eight times at 2 a.m., I dragged myself to Target the next morning to gather Gatorade and applesauce. My stomach cramped so badly I could barely walk. I didn’t eat for two days. And when my heart broke over a boy for the first time, I couldn’t curl up at home with my favorite comfort foods. I dusted off my pants and picked up the pieces.
In doing so, I learned how to frontload. Ensure I meet my vitamin levels every day to prevent sickness. FaceTime my parents. Guard my heart a little more. I realized that I didn’t love the deception, or aftermath, of work hard, play hard culture. That while everyone was working hard, not everyone may want you to know.
To keep myself busy, I threw myself into every interesting club I found. After all, you can leave an organization after a semester, but it’s harder to become acquainted with the culture, people and operations the longer you wait. I found spaces where I genuinely felt alive, and left those in which I just wanted to be accepted.
Over the past year, I grappled with my identity as a Korean American, exploring everything from food and music to organizations. I still struggle with it today. While I look Korean, I don’t vibe with Korea’s heavy drinking culture or other social practices. I grew up in an Americanized household, so there are certain terms that I don’t know, behaviors I don’t exhibit and a language I don’t speak. But I don’t belong entirely with white American culture either. It’s complicated.
Through times of chaos and discomfort, I’ve carried one phrase with me: Build the person you would’ve looked up to as a kid. I’m old enough now to know that the only direction in life is onward. While learning from mistakes is a sign of maturity, I’ve learned to let the past fade and allow the present to be, well, present. Habit by habit, choice by choice.
At this time last year, I was suntanning in Santorini and around the Amalfi Coast. I was 18 years old, reeling from a Cal rejection and excited to be spending the next four years in L.A. I had it all planned out — join a top consulting club, intern the next summer in Manhattan and spend my weekends skiing.
Fast forward to today. I turn 20 in three months, I’m studying economics and accounting, and I’m completely relieved to be interning in Dallas and spending the summer at home.
My mom’s friends have told me that I seem much older. And honestly? It feels that way — like the end of an era. I don’t talk to the moon anymore, friends have moved away and my teenage years are almost over. I didn’t even get to say goodbye. Everything is different now.
Victoria Lee is a rising sophomore writing about the AAPI experience in America in her column, “Your College Unnie.”