I got a letter in the mail the other day. Usually, seeing my name on an envelope is like my birthday and Halloween all in one, but reading this particular letter was punishing, mean, even degrading. I, after all, was the one who had written it.
When I wrote that letter, Father Pat promised me two things. First, he would send it to me a year later. Second, I would forget that I had written it at all. I didn’t believe him, and I’ve tried to prove him wrong on multiple occasions, but it never works. Freshman year, the day after I insisted that he did not know my name, he walked by me, looked me straight in the eye, and said, “Hello, Brighid.” True to form, when I opened my letter, the Padre won again.
I’m still not sure what got me onto the Escape bus that Friday afternoon two years ago in Healy Circle. I had an infinite number of reasons not to go. The sight of school bus yellow alone makes me turn green with nausea. I am suspicious of retreats, even if they are non-religious, like Escape. I waited my whole life to live in a city, so why would I want to spend twenty-seven hours “escaping” it? But, at that point, I would have done anything for three non-Marriott meals in a row. And my friend Mary and I wanted to see this Catholic priest who supposedly played Madonna’s “Like A Prayer” on a red guitar.
I saw a cave for the first time, heard ghost stories from Hawaii, and learned improv techniques from someone who studied with Robin Williams. I saw a dean’s honest talk reduce student athletes, actors and nappers, male and female alike, to tears in one moment and make us cry with laughter in the next. I made some unlikely saves in Escape soccer games, skinned knees and all. I’m not proud of myself for almost missing out on all that because of fear and cynicism.
Whatever force it was-curiosity, hunger or fate-something got me on the bus that day and eight more times since then. It was luck that gave me the opportunity to go on the subsequent trips, but it’s been an intentional act on my part to understand a little better why it is so hard for me to do so each time. Most simply, I think it’s a profound fear of the unknown combined with my Jersey-bred cynicism.
I’m too proud to let go of the cynicism all at once, and the fear is not gone. I’ve sat with nine strangers on those bus rides and shaken hands every time with sweaty palms. But all the people I’ve met on Escape have been great, just like learning the fight song and feeling more like I might in fact belong at Georgetown each time we scream it coming home over the Key Bridge. By hearing other Hoyas’ stories, I realized that there was a great deal I needed to learn from my own.
The short paragraph I wrote to myself on that first Escape was mostly fragments, nothing too deep. But it ended with a question regarding the fact that at the time I was too scared and stubborn to even write a letter to myself. It’s a pretty stupid fear by most people’s standards. What’s there to lose in writing a letter to yourself? But for me, communicating anything of importance is petrifying. I predicted that upon reading the letter, I wouldn’t feel any differently that I did when I wrote it. So now I’m hoping to prove myself wrong—I’m not the same person I was on my first Escape.
I haven’t transformed into a jumping cheerleader, but I am grateful to be more conscious of myself. I’ve learned that college is less about constant independence and more about interaction, knowing when to swallow my pride, and how to seek help when I need it. Next time I have the chance to write a letter to myself, I will be a little prouder of the person I am writing to.
A lot of freshmen I’ve met don’t believe me when I tell them that “Kumbaya” does not and will never have a place on Escape. It is not intended to be a life-changing experience for everyone, but rather a once-in-a-lifetime experience for anyone brave enough to get on that bus. I’ve admitted I’m still entirely too cynical, so why should anyone believe me? I wouldn’t have taken my word for it either. Do it for the food, the soccer, or better yet just get on that bus to prove me wrong.
Brighid Clark is a junior in the School of Foreign Service. There are only two ESCAPEs left-this Friday and Saturday-call 687-5419.
