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. Even before officially committing myself to attend, I silently vowed to stay in Portland for as long as possible.
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 hallway, discovering (through careful inspection) that we were floor mates, and attempting to spend most of my study time in the common area nearest his room. Despite my lack of progress with Noah, my progress in establishing myself at Lewis and Clark was steadily increasing. I had joined a club dedicated to raising money for building homes in third-world countries, a club that challenged its members to workout everyday, and regularly attended sporting events and theater performances on campus. 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 homes 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: a corruption of innocence.
It was early on a Friday evening and Journey had somehow managed to bring Elvi and I a bottle of Fireball, a strong and sweet whiskey that seemingly only students under the age of twenty-one prefer. We sat on the floor of my dorm room, in between two twin-sized beds, 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 a few months earlier while on a trip after high school graduation. Or it might have been a game we made up on the spot, most likely a game of reckless encouragement to share something hidden about ourselves before taking a swig from the bottle. Regardless of what we decided to play, our goal was achieved.
Feeling tipsy, giggling loudly and eager to do something other than sit, Journey and I choreographed a dance together. It was a routine 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, I grabbed dessert from our mini-fridge in the corner of the room. It was a tub of honey-lavender ice cream from Salt and Straw, an artisan ice cream shop that originated in Portland. Some of their most interesting flavors include goat cheese, mealworms, or even bone marrow. Their Arbequina olive oil flavor is a personal favorite, and is only available in Oregon.
This particular pint had been gifted to me, Elvi and Journey graciously making their way through downtown Portland in order to buy me ice cream. We had planned our trip in advance, but come the day of I caught a nasty cold, and was confined to my dorm room. Not too surprisingly, ice cream was the perfect remedy to quickly recover from the common cold.
As I stuck my spoon straight into the container, I remembered the washed clothes patiently waiting for me to transfer them into the dryer. Luckily, there was an unwritten rule at Lewis and Clark 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 happily indulging in my dessert, 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 during our 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. Finally we compromised on homemade tea, so we could spend time talking in my room. He took the bait, and we spent hours getting to know each other before my roommate returned home for the night.
On the day I left Lewis and Clark, Noah and I promised to remain in touch, and he kissed me goodbye through the tears streaming down my face. He promised me that our time together was not coming to an end, but rather would continue on, albeit differently than before.
For the time being, I picked my tub of ice cream back up, bid him farewell, and finally departed to grab my laundry. Fumbling with too much to carry, I slowly 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. By now they had both gotten snacks of their own, a microwavable pizza that had been frozen a few short moments ago and a family-size bag of chips.
Journey was working at the pool as a lifeguard the day I left. I hugged her despite the wet swimsuit between us, and she promised to continue to Snapchat me photos. Elvi was my last goodbye that day, and arguably the most difficult. She and I did keep in contact, and we talk occasionally, but certainly not as often as we promised we would.
After taking a handful of chips and a slice of pizza for myself, Elvi, Journey and I fell asleep together on the floor, content and full, using each other’s arms and legs as pillows. The next morning, like so many mornings spent at Lewis and Clark, we were tired but altogether satisfied.
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 at home 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 struggled with having to hug my friends goodbye, friends that had become 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 recent diagnosis of lung cancer.
I look back on unfulfilled promises, on people that shaped me in more ways than I could have shared with them. My relationship with Portland feels unfinished, in part because of the people I left behind, but largely because of its lasting effect on my beliefs, my character, and my memories. I choose to remember my first semester of college fondly, because I have the promise of a home I will one day return to.
A Composition of Self by Alexis Rivera 