Alexis Rivera_Memoir_Draft Four

There’s much that can be said about Lewis and Clark College: its beautiful campus, its laidback atmosphere, its impressive study abroad programs, and its liberal student body…but these snippets of a description do little to capture its appeal. Stepping onto the campus felt like I was embraced in a warm hug, or breathing a sigh of relief after a long day – in other words, Lewis and Clark College felt like home.

I walked through Copeland Hall a few days into my first year, traversing the plain dorm hallway with stark white paint and a dirtied gray carpet, exposed pipes along the ceiling and thin walls. It was a walk I was accustomed to. I fiddled with my headphones, attempting to untangle their mess while I hurried to class across campus. As I worked to open the door, someone twisted the handle from the other side. I lifted my head and met the gaze of a blonde-haired, blue-eyed peer holding a guitar and smiling goofily at me. I blushed immediately, attempting to smile at Noah casually while simultaneously maintaining some semblance of composure.

Things continued much in the same way for weeks. Agonizingly long weeks. Simple hellos, passing each other in the hallways, discovering (through careful inspection) that we were floor mates, and attempting to spend most of my time studying in the common area nearest his room.

About a month into the semester, I had established myself at Lewis Clark. I had joined a club dedicated to raising money to build homes in third-world countries, a club that challenged its members to workout everyday, and regularly attended sporting events and theater performances. I spent most of my time with Journey and Elvi, two women that opened up a world unlike any I had experienced before.

I grew up in a sheltered and restrictive environment. While other parents in our community allowed their children to drink safely in their home during our teenage years, my mother was clear that I was not to even think about trying alcohol until my twenty-first birthday. At family gatherings for events or holidays, my cousins or my aunt would ask if I wanted to try their drinks, encouraging me to take a sip just to taste their concoction. But without missing a beat my mom would reprimand their generosity and call it by a different name entirely: corruption of my innocence.

It was early Friday evening, and Journey had somehow gotten us a bottle of Fireball, a strong and sweet whiskey that is probably the favorite of no one who isn’t in college. We sat on the floor of the dorm room, in between Elvi’s and my bed, the three of us in a circle around the bottle. Although we could easily just drink, I suggested we play a game instead. It might have been King’s Cup, a game I learned the summer before while on a trip with friends after high school graduation. Or it might have been a game we made up on the spot, most likely recklessly encouraging one another to share something hidden about ourselves before taking a swig from the bottle. Regardless of the game we decided to play, our goal was achieved.

Feeling both the same and differently, giggling loudly and eager to do something other than sit, Journey and I choreographed a dance together. It was a dance to Fergie’s “Fergalicious,” inherently ridiculous but altogether fun. At the countdown of “Four trés two uno” we started to dance, shaking our heads wildly from side to side and pumping our fists into the air.

Needing to take a break and hoping to cool down with something cold, I grabbed ice cream from our mini-fridge in the corner of the room underneath the desk that had been built into the wall. It was Honey Lavender flavor from Salt and Straw, an ice cream shop that originated in Portland and has the most interesting flavors that I had ever seen. The olive oil flavor is a personal favorite of mine, and is only available in Oregon. This particular pint was gifted to me, Elvi and Journey graciously making their way through downtown in order to buy me ice cream when I had been too sick to get out of bed the week before.

As I stuck my spoon straight into the container of ice cream, I remembered the washed clothes patiently waiting to be transferred into the dryer. Luckily at Lewis and Clark, there was an unwritten rule that stealing other people’s clothes is unnecessary and rude, so I could spend time in my room without having to sit near the machines while doing laundry. Stepping out of the room and still eating ice cream, I spotted someone in the study area common for each floor. Noah was difficult to miss. Feely confident and fuzzy from the alcohol, I approached him coolly. He had an easy smile, the kind that lights up an entire room, and I was pleased to see him grinning at me. Noah’s eyes sparkled and he raised a hand up to wave. It wasn’t until later in the semester that we held hands in public, or even at all, and once had a homeless person tell us we were a cute couple as we walked around downtown Portland together.

But for now, I simply smiled back. We chatted, and I was confident enough to tap his nose with my finger at one point during the conversation, when he was being especially cute. I dismissed myself to take care of the laundry, but I’m almost positive it was this interaction that caused him to eventually ask me out.

Noah sent me a message over text, asking what I wanted to do for our first date. We were indecisive, throwing ideas back and forth to one another. “Dinner?” he asked, but that seemed like a long time commitment for a first date. “A movie?” Even worse. So I suggested a trip to a local coffee shop, but he didn’t drink coffee. So instead I suggested I would make us tea, and we could spend time talking in my room. He took the bait, and we spent however many hours together that we could before Elvi had to come back and sleep for the night.

But I picked my ice cream back up, bid him farewell, and finally grabbed my laundry. Fumbling with too much to carry, I made it back up the stairs, and back into my room. Journey and Elvi were still there, laughing and chatting like I had never left. They had both gotten snacks of their own at this point, a microwavable pizza that had been frozen a few short moments ago and a family-size bag of chips.

This is how I choose to remember my time spent in Portland. This is how I choose to remember that semester. A blur of laughter, of trying things I never would have in California, of embracing my desires and my personality in ways that felt like a freedom hidden from me before.

That semester I found out I was going to leave my new life there, and say goodbye to the happiest I had ever been. That semester I bawled while having to hug my friends there goodbye, people that had became family in such a short amount of time, and hated having to pack up to leave. While I could see the fun I was leaving behind, I had only an idea of the dread that awaited me at home. Not only back to a stifling and broken family structure, but also to new hurt and despair while my mother underwent treatment for her new diagnosis of lung cancer.

I will never be the same for so many reasons, but I choose to remember my first semester of college fondly.