I live in a world of backpacks. College Hill is a little utopia where everyone is somewhere between 18 and 22. Cigarettes are purely aesthetic, and don’t cause lung cancer here.* I overhear conversations in which Foucault and Snapchat are mentioned in the same sentence. Trump is a punch line, not a reality.
I am happy in this bubble. I feel intellectually stimulated, but can also unplug my brain at a frat party if I want to. There is a convenient coffee shop on Thayer, and a hip one that I go to if I feel like walking a couple of extra blocks for the more Instagram-friendly ambiance. I can get my NyQuil fix at CVS, and there is that one store with all of the incense for anything else I could possibly need.
It’s an idyllic childhood here. I am lucky to bask in the illusion of independence, while my adult responsibilities, like food and shelter, are handled for me. I have forgotten that most people’s to-do lists include paying electricity bills and going to the hardware store rather than reading a 60 page primary source about how the architecture of mental asylums in the early 19th century served as a physical manifestation of social hierarchy and racial divisions in America.
I am content and comfortable living sequestered in my nine-block-long existence, so I rarely descend from my little kingdom. The other day I embarked on a journey to City Hall in downtown Providence. And even though it was physically less than a mile away from my dorm room, my inner journey seemed like a full-blown bildungsroman.
I, a young Holden Caulfield-esque protagonist, had my own coming of age as I entered Providence City Hall, which I had known previously as That Building Across From The Greyhound Bus Station That Looks Sort of French. As I entered a room full of Real Adults in business casual attire, I became acutely aware of all of the intentional rips in my jeans and immediately felt like I had committed an unprofessional faux pas of the highest degree. I listened to the Real Adults flaunt their knowledge of extremely organized and structured bureaucratic processes for permits, licenses, and all sorts of realities that I’ve never really paid attention to. When it was finally my turn to speak, I sheepishly explained that I came for an entertainment license for a wild two-day concert/campus-wide binge festival. I did my best to look like I knew what I was doing, and somehow convinced the city of Providence to trust me with Spring Weekend.
When the Real Adults hesitantly forked over the entertainment license, I sprinted out of the building before they realized that I was just a child masquerading as an adult. As I walked back to the safety of The Hill, I ruminated on my brief foray into the world of Real Adults. Even though I didn’t feel like an adult, I was able to bluff my way through city government proceedings, which is not child’s play.
A true coming of age probably would have me wearing a pencil skirt, but my ripped jeans are way more comfortable and skate by in the classroom, so I think I’ll procrastinate on that development for a bit. I’m okay with just being a Fake Adult for now.
*Cigarettes are always detrimental to one’s health, even on The Hill.
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