Nostalgia complex taking over
High school memories are still being made back home in Mo.

By Jack Bullion
Skiff Staff

My younger sister will graduate from high school in a little more than a month, and the repercussions can be felt (at least by me) all the way down here in Fort Worth. It takes very little to trigger my nostalgia complex, but this year, more than ever, my every waking moment seems to be spent in misty-eyed longing for that period of adolescence.

Things are a little more chaotic back at headquarters. Mom fusses over which laptop computer to buy her for a graduation present, while Dad ponders his post- “human alarm clock” existence. Only Bud the family dog remains placid, dreaming only that someone might mow the darn lawn again so he can growl at the lawnmower under the pretense that it’s an unwelcome intruder.

Since I’m missing out on all the turmoil at home, I attempt to add to it however I can by living vicariously through my sister. Our phone conversations consist mainly of rapid-fire question and answer sessions wherein I try to situate her senior year experience against that of my own. I want to know how hard she’s working, or if she enjoys Mrs. Grupe’s AP Euro class. I want to know which teachers still talk about me in glowing tones (to my dismay the number is dwindling), and which ones teach classes like they’re catatonic schizophrenics. I want to know where she hangs out on Friday nights, and which friends of hers have the fake IDs.

The fact is, I’m insanely jealous of her. I’m about to complete my junior year at this university, and something tells me that my second and last senior year is going to be a lot less exciting than my first one. Those last few weeks of high school are rife with infinite possibilities and a seemingly inexhaustible sense of newfound liberty. Senior year at college brings with it possibilities as well, albeit ones that are cloaked in a crushing awareness of reality and its rent notices, résumés, tax forms and internships. The most forethought I remember having to exercise during the summer after I graduated high school was whether or not I’d rather go to Six Flags or see “Lethal Weapon 4” again.

For this column, I thought about being a helpful older brother and giving her advice on what she’ll be facing at college, but then I remembered the three times she’s willfully listened to my advice in her lifetime. Besides, she forfeited any brotherly aid when she spurned TCU for another school in this area whose name I dare not mention but rhymes with “UNT.”

So forget college advice. I’d really rather give her advice on how to spend these next few weeks, how to think, how to feel, how to get the very best out of a time in her life that’s going to be a whole lot more fleeting than she realizes.

Whether or not she decides to follow my advice is up to her. She may be better off dismissing it, since that might damage the great job she’s done thus far of warding off the senioritis that hit me some time around September of my senior year (some effects still linger). But what follows is from someone who knows.

Like me, she’s going to tell herself that she doesn’t need Mom and Dad. My sister is completely self-contained. She’s way better than I was at getting home, taking about an hour-long break, attacking all her homework and getting to bed at the unreasonably reasonable hour of 11 p.m.

She doesn’t need any help; she just sits herself right down and does everything by herself. To her it must seem like Mom and Dad came with the house, that they’re cyborgs with only two settings: “guilt trip” and “bottomless wallet.” But time away from them, at least on my end, tends to only magnify their importance. She’ll miss more than the laundry service and the home cooking. I hope that she doesn’t miss a chance to go shopping with Mom, or watch “The Simpsons” with Dad. It’ll be time well spent.

She’ll tell herself that she won’t miss her hometown. She’ll dress it up as a sort of liberation from the stifling, backward Midwestern way of life. Yeah, sure. As soon as she exits onto southbound I-63, she’s going to miss driving down all those roads she knows by heart. She’ll miss that homeless guy dressed as a cowboy on the corner, directing traffic downtown. She’ll miss the alternative movie theater she and her friends go to. And “snow days” are going to wave bye-bye when she’s going to school here on the equator. Some days, Columbia, Mo. isn’t going to be as bad as it seemed. The lesson here? It’s okay to move on in life. Just don’t let yourself get too jaded too soon.

Sometimes, when I’m feeling particularly egotistical, I find myself wishing that she could have the same experience that I did. Only then would she truly understand just how special this time in her life is. I feel like giving her a laundry list of items. Start fight with men’s’ swim team at mud volleyball tournament. Get up on-stage with your idiot friends at the Senior All-Night Party at 5 a.m. and perform what is quite possibly the worst version of “Tainted Love” in recorded history. Spend prom night in a daze, in crowded, loud hotel rooms, fatigued and half-conscious, living life in snapshots.

Then I come back down to earth and realize that, like me, she’s going make her own memories, ones that will leave her appreciating the slop we all go through to wear a cap and gown, pretending we’ve accomplished something a lot more mystical than just growing up. I know; I’ve been through it. And also, I’m her older brother, so I know everything anyway.

Jack Bullion is a junior English major from Columbia, Mo.
He can be reached at (j.w.bullion@student.tcu.edu).

Editorial policy: The content of the Opinion page does not necessarily represent the views of Texas Christian University. Unsigned editorials represent the view of the TCU Daily Skiff editorial board. Signed letters, columns and cartoons represent the opinion of the writers and do not necessarily reflect the opinion of the editorial board.

Letters to the editor: The Skiff welcomes letters to the editor for publication. Letters must be typed, double-spaced, signed and limited to 250 words. To submit a letter, bring it to the Skiff, Moudy 291S; mail it to TCU Box 298050; e-mail it to skiffletters@tcu.edu or fax it to 257-7133. Letters must include the author’s classification, major and phone number. The Skiff reserves the right to edit or reject letters for style, taste and size restrictions.