June 21st marked my family's 11th year anniversary of moving from New Hampshire to Georgia. The town I grew up in, Campton, had one traffic light. I knew every single kid in the 7th grade. The town I moved to had a middle school head count that dwarfed the entire population of Campton. The move had split my 13-year-old world in two: the world as I knew it, left behind, and the unknown southern abyss that loomed before me.
I hated it. For at least 365 days, I hated it every day. Hated the school, hated my classmates, hated my parents for making me move — you name it, I loathed it. The people talked strangely, and said things like "mash the lights" and "put your books up," when there was nowhere "up" to put them. I remember feeling "wicked out of place." Then I quickly learned that the word 'wicked' was not in a Georgian's vocabulary.
And then slowly, ever so slowly, the boiling hate started to simmer. A year after that, I had a fairly neutral opinion of the place. At some point during high school, a funny thing happened: I'd just been visiting my friend Laura in New Hampshire (who readily pointed out each time I used the word "y'all") and when the plane landed at Hartsfield Jackson, I sighed with relief and comfort. I felt like I was home for the first time.
New Hampshire has given me:
an appreciation for the sound of snow and the smell of rain; a love of solitude; the ability to ski; a love of small towns and country fairs; & an enthusiasm for exploring the outdoors.
Georgia has given me:
a willingness to take risks; confidence; an open mind; an appreciation for SEC football; & the ability to make new friends.
2 comments:
Ah my friend. I really liked this. Solid. It reminds me a little bit of your UGA application essay..
And I am so glad you are here.
Dawn
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