“I’m glad you’re back,” my then 16-year-old sister sighed as she threw her leg over the arm of our old green couch and settled down to watch a movie.
“Me, too,” I replied.
“No,” she said, “you don’t get it. I’m glad you’re you again.”
I had no idea what she was talking about. When was I not me?
“Are you sure you want me to tell you? You’re not going to like it,” she said, looking at me sideways to emphasize the dubiousness of her comment.
I told her I could take it.
“You were snobby for the first year or two that you were at Georgetown and I’m glad you aren’t like that anymore, because I missed you,” she said, stringing the words together until they sounded like one. But the key word was snobby, and it sounded perfectly clear to me.
After flipping off the TV, I pouted and went to bed. She was right: I didn’t like it.
I shoved her comment into the recesses of my consciousness for a full year before I finally decided to ask her what she meant.
The details of our most recent conversation are far vaguer than the first; I only remember asking her why she thought I was ‘snobby.’ Her words stung less than the first time, but her general point was that she thought that my head had ballooned at college.
I didn’t seem to like the things we were accustomed to doing together back in Portland, like going to movies on Friday nights, getting coffee at the independent caf? across from Starbucks or eating pizza at Escape from New York. To me, such activities seemed lackluster after Friday nights spent imbibing jungle juice at Georgetown. I preferred to walk to Rhino’s to show the bouncer my fake ID, stomach gurgling with nerves, and get drunk off on drinks I never bought myself.
Far worse, she believed that my values had changed in the short time I was gone. She assured me not to worry: now they were the same as they had always been, but during my first few breaks at home I apparently seemed more superficial.
New experiences and a new environment had made their mark, and I was freshly inked by my first few semesters at Georgetown. Shoving parental constraints and influence aside, I grinned greedily and tested out every new experience I encountered. The distance from high school friends seemed insurmountable, and Portland just felt sub-par.
In retrospect, it makes sense that I practically sweated superiority my first few times back home. I didn’t need my sister to tell me, although she clarified my realization. Similarly, it makes sense that now, on the verge of graduation, I feel done with the same activities here that thrilled me three years ago.
This doesn’t mean I am not nostalgic at times. Portland was my playground for 18 years, just as Georgetown has been for the last three and a half. Three years ago, I downplayed Portland’s importance to me in an attempt to accept Georgetown. But the two aren’t mutually exclusive; it’s not an either-or proposition, as I learned after alienating my sister for two years.
In D.C. I have access to high art, materialism and Ethiopian food. None of these are abundant in Portland, although it is not to say that they don’t exist. My sister tells me that ninth graders at our alternative, earthy high school now sport Coach bags, and the restaurant and gallery scenes are blossoming. Such developments discomfort me. For better or worse, I’m content with the Portland of my youth, just as my sister was content with me when I left for college.
