The Midnight Mile

The Midnight Mile is one of those random college things. It's organized by Yale's Habitat for Humanity group who collect donations, close the streets around campus, and map out a mile course. Crowds sporting tee-shirts, shorts and less gathered in a corner of Old Campus at 11:45. The chilly air was charged with excitement and the eye of the tiger complete with mock-jabbing, stretching, and dancing. Some had big painted Y's on their chests, some went with face paint, another couple wore tiaras, feather boas, and leotards. It was a party. Then Saybrook started chanting, whooping, and hollering behind their flag as they streamed out of L-Dub out of their clothes. Most wore underwear that wasn't underneath anything except the perfect inky sky and the cold face of the moon. The Midnight Mile's also known as the Saybrook Strip.

Counting down to midnight the cheering mob lined up behind these nude enthusists. And then the pack was off. Funneling through the slim gate, out onto High, turning upstream on Elm, through the intersection blocked off by police, past the hopping Toad's, the building bouncing with Wednesday Night dance party rhythm, we followed naked pied pipers blowing on kazoos and whoo-hooing. Veronica said it was like the running of the bulls. We flew down the center of the street with middle of the week midnight wildness. Past Toad's, passing and being passed, coursing by Stiles, I pause now on what I sprinted by then. There were figures surrounding the mouth of the Jog Walk. Naked singers stood on either side holding candles and solemnly crooning Amazing Grace as runners rushed through. It was all a blur but there were some familiar faces, Andrew Smeall. After the shock of the nude, the herd rounded down Grove, onto Wall, past the Law School, down to College, and finally coming up through Cross Campus, across the grass, all out to the finish line, the cathedral of the library rising faster in front of us and the finale: skidding semi-naked across the women's table.

Don't ask why throwing a large metal object off the roof seemed fun. I'm 19 and past it now.

Sunday night, Jimmy came in while I was studying in my room. "Nick wants to throw the cart off the roof. You have to come if you want to see it. We're doing it now." Destructively tempted by the five floor drop, I'd been playfully arguing it should go over the edge for weeks. But why at ten at night. We should wait till three in the morning. And why when Nick wanted the cart to fly was it suddenly ok. Why was it taken as a reasonable suggestion to act on from some one else but not me, I asked. Because you're you, Jimmy said, hurry up or miss it. I turned to grab my glasses, then went back for my keys causing impatience. "C'mon."

Climbing the stairs to the roof, continuing to complain about unfairness of Nick's craziness being followed but not mine, I reached the door and openned it. Ivan jumped out of the shadows by the cart, a crowd clustered around a spiral of yellow light on the far end, "surprise" shouted from all directions. It took a second to take it all in. A surprise party on the roof. It was transformed. An extension cord running down to Caroline's room powered christmas lights. The roof, a birthday cake, and I glowed. The brilliant masterminds behind the successful surprise were my sweetest suitemates, Katie and Erin. They invited everyone, lit up the roof, and kept me in the dark until the right moment when I blew out the candles before they burned down to the icing, ate cake, loved friends and left the stolen shopping cart up on the roof.

Sometimes I can't remember what possessed me to do senseless things.

I usually have an excellent memory. But some days the reason why I threw away an important receit, bet on the wrong horse, or dated someone completely escapes me. Perhaps it's because I'm nearsighted. Perhaps it's impossible to be standing inside the same frame of mind moments or years later. An answer that satisifes me does not uncover the thoughts behind the actions at the time but justifies the outcomes. In some way I believe I'd be some one different if not for all these details that either add up to me or are the multiple of other factors I am equal to accepting.

When I wake up early in the morning

Lift my head, I’m still yawning. When I’m in the middle of a dream, I get up, tip toe, try not to wake roommates, walk off and float upstream. Amazing how there’s no one up on Sunday morning except for crew. Stage crew, load-in for Our Lady. The cast showed up too and it took no time to move everything from the shop to the Yale Rep. It’s a perfect day. Best blue sky, green tree left-overs from summer picnics, and sun-washed stone speaking of a clean new year. Double new year. After dawn, the campus looks like the wrappings have just been torn off. It’s woken to find itself brand new and as it ever was. I’m giddy. Got gift of good friends, people who give the best of yourself, or who you want to be, back to you. Thank you, said a lucky girl. I got Paris, Lloyd Dobbler (on a Say Anything tee-shirt), and a new toy to take the world with, an Elph digital camera with SD, me, memory. So excited by this small silver box. Might neglect, be blind to everything that’s not world out the window of my Canon camera. Going to fire it and then blaze through ages of reading.

Home again.

Friday afternoon. I’m waiting in the train station with half the Jewish population of Yale. The other half is already on the 1 o’clock train to New York. They’re the half that got the taxis. The half here is on their cells, calling home, and complaining how the taxi company screwed them and so they missed the 12:59. The half here is enjoying the irony of running down Science Hill from physics to stand waiting for the cab they called half an hour earlier. This is exactly what Yom Kippur feels like. The rush to get to peace on time. The craziness inspired by torn stockings, wrong ties, missing subways or not catching a cab to atonement. Usually the fury begins at five as we scramble through the obstacle course. I started early this year with the anxiousness to make my afternoon train back to the city. The frustrations of travel are an integral part of the holiday. They offset the calm ritual and peace of Temple. It’s a transitory peace - while standing my mind races around the text trying to see what’s on the other side of it, struggling to understand it from an angle I am comfortable coming from. Going back to where I come from right now.

The train board is changing over. It’s not digital but the old kind where the destinations, times, and tracks flip with a satisfying clicking noise. The board rapidly rotates through all the possibilities of places and hours before settling on the most stable conformation, the established schedule. Going to fit into it and board my train.

Train now. Riding backwards, watching the still green trees unfold and blur away. Looking forwards, sleep for the sleepless is coming. If only I can close my eyes, let go of words, and drift dreaming to New York.

Train again. Saturday evening. After choreographed operatic experience of Temple, welcome of home, and two birthday cakes. One was built of breakfast. It was a stack of pancakes, sugar coated and frosted with sour cream and love. Being home there’s a nostalgia for the time when Sam lived here, four of us regularly round the dinner table, reciting the familiar and funny lines of our family dialogue. I love the luxury of being able to go train to subway to Spring Street, smell of Ceci-Cela croissants and joy of some of my favorite people happy to see me. I love riding almost full moon side forwards into Saturday night at school and my twentieth year. Going where to go.