My Maine
In my Maine, reflecting on these past four years, I’ve become a different person. The first eight hour drive up here brought a whole other Stefani. She was fourteen, smiling ear to ear, bouncy and overconfident but secretly terrified inside. On our first drive down to the Alfond when my dad teasingly opened the window, this Stefani ducked, nose to knees, so that the waving and cheering students wouldn’t see her. Her Maine looked like this: brutal, teeth-chattering winters (truth), big, intimidating hockey players (truth, but not for long), mean girls who’d shove you into lockers and giggle (false), and teachers who’d assign piles of homework and mercilessly enforce all rules (false). My little brain expected a cut and dry, disney channel, pine trees and rocky mountains kind of Maine. What I didn’t anticipate was the lifelong friendships I’d form here, the consciousness of clean air that I’ve never had anywhere else, the crushing blows to my self esteem and the quiet work needed to rebuild it, the rare peer role models and a sweeping obligation to follow in their footsteps, the flood of empathy that comes with hearing other people’s stories and knowing you’ll be a different person because of them, and the learned ease of telling someone “I love you”.
I’ll admit, my Maine isn’t really all of Maine– it’s the Kents Hill bubble. Within this bubble, I feel safe, respected, and free to express myself. It’s my job to welcome others, show them grace, and make them smile. I feel untouchable. Outside of the bubble is where it gets tricky. Upon leaving campus, I become a person who’s uncertain, ready to turn around at any moment, and confident only in a quiet sort of way. That Stefani can’t rid herself of the notion that she is a target. She begged her mother to eat dinner on campus because she was afraid of the stares that her six-person, loud, African family would attract. She asked her teacher to grab a bowling ball from the other side of the alley because she didn’t feel comfortable walking over there by herself. She steers clear of any white person sporting tight braids or dreadlocks (there’s more than you’d think). Maine doesn’t belong to her in those moments. She’s so obviously, so clearly ‘from away’. No matter how much she fights and struggles to get that peace of mind back, she doesn’t win.
While there’s no concessions to be made about this kind of feeling, I’ve decided that paranoid Stefani is someone I can live with. I don’t plan to be in Maine much longer— and I’d rather spend my energy appreciating every small pocket of happiness I can get. Gratitude became my solution to exclusion. How lucky am I to be 7 hours from home, but know that I’m content exactly where I am? How lucky am I to sit at the commons patio and watch the sun go down by a fire with my closest friends? How lucky am I to have adults that want to know me as a person, and see me beyond what I can contribute to their classrooms?
And so, to me, Maine means sending encouraging, husky-filtered snapchat videos to the soccer group chat for every away game. It means braiding Olivia’s hair before she goes to sleep and answering Sammy’s endless questions about the men in my family. It means mouth-watering soul food and Liam Neeson movies at Ms. Davis’ house. It means pulling together an unexpected group of kids and playing pickup dodgeball, then volleyball, then kickball, then basketball because we can’t get enough of each other. When my Jersey friends ask me how it’s possible that I’ve stayed in this odd, irrelevant state for so long, I tell them: Maine is my second home.