No Place Like Home

It was one of those rare Michigan November days when the sky is blue, the air is crisp, and multi-colored leaves still cling to enough of the trees to make you believe you live inside of a postcard.

It was also the day of my daughter’s campus tour of University of Michigan in Ann Arbor.

Despite getting my degree from Michigan State, I can’t imagine my life without this town being at the center of it. My parents met while doing their graduate studies at U of M and started our family in nearby Ypsilanti, which I always counted as living in Ann Arbor. We were always there — for shopping, food, entertainment, theatre, family friends, pretty much all the things. My middle school and first high school. My first kiss and numerous lifelong friendships. I eventually moved father east, when my mother remarried, but with my father living there until I was in my 30s, I still felt like I kept one foot firmly on Wolverine ground.

Then Dad’s work relocated him to Arizona. Suddenly I had no family ties to “home”. It was more than a bit unnerving. I instantly made a pledge to my father that I’d pick up the torch. I would keep our Ann Arbor connection going … eventually. Let the kids finish school where we were, then as soon as the nest is empty — whoosh! I know exactly where I’m going.

That vision gets even sweeter when the kids want to find their way there, too. I was beyond thrilled when my firstborn got their bachelor’s degree and beat me to it, finding a place in that same Ann Arbor-adjacent town where I grew up. And as we’ve established, that counts as actually living in Ann Arbor.

Then came this tour of U of M, with my youngest. It goes without saying that I had a lot riding on this visit.

We’d done another tour at another local university earlier in the week. All I could think about while being guided by the sophomore in question — who was very sweet but clearly didn’t have a very developed patter as she kept repeating the same thing three times in an effort to try to convey deep knowledge that was actually just a regurgitation of what was in the pamphlet — was how sad I would be if our Ann Arbor guide was yet another second-year who was forced into the role and gave us the same passionless walk through. What if this place doesn’t have any magic beyond the power of being such a huge part of my childhood, and what if my daughter doesn’t see and feel the difference of being here, and what if she doesn’t get it, doesn’t want it? Good lord, what if she’s bored??

Also it was cold; it was warm for November but cold in comparison to the other tour. Meanwhile we didn’t have time to grab Starbucks, and hadn’t eaten anything for breakfast.

At least it was sunny and an early afternoon tour. Initially I’d booked a 9AM slot, but we postponed due to stormy weather plus the likelihood of my being a spacey, cranky companion which would threaten my opportunity to infect her with the desire to spend the rest of her days — or at least four undergraduate years — in my beloved city.

Still, I was afraid. I was very afraid. I know that as much as I have opinions, as much as I may adore something, my dear daughter is exceptional at not using that as a framework for her likes and dislikes. She’s her own person, through and through. This has always been my dream for her — that she would know herself, and insist on designing her life accordingly — except maybe in this one small way we could possibly, somewhat agree? One could only hope.

Hope. That feathery beast which looks all cute and fluffy but underneath it all can be reptilian and scaly and might take a big bite out of your calf muscle if you so much as look at it the wrong way.

We parked, walked to the admissions center, checked in. They directed us to the atrium where our tour group was amassing. We’d find out in short order whether my daughter would be convinced that this place quite simply rocks — or at minimum, might be pretty okay.

The tour started. From my vantage point, our guide was instantly charming and affable. She made everyone in the group feel welcome without laying it on too thick; she spoke clearly and plainly; she genuinely enjoyed sharing personal anecdotes without making it awkward. I was particularly impressed with her ability to navigate left-field questions from a socially-challenged member of the group sans any patronizing or impatience.

If I were a prospective student, I’d be completely sold. Of course I was sold already … and not at all the target audience.

I watched my daughter out of the corner of my eye for the first hour of exploring a few classroom buildings, dorm rooms, the quad. Her expression was poised. Attentive. Every once in awhile, a corner of her mouth would turn slightly up — a smile? Or was that annoyance? It’s hard to tell with sixteen year-olds.

Eventually we arrived at the Michigan Union, and stopped in one of the main lobbies while the guide told yet another tale about her challenges and successes as an undergrad. There was a pause in the action so everyone could get their bearings. I was working very hard to not give my daughter too much eye contact or otherwise inadvertently send the message that any future affections from me depend on her feelings about maize and blue. 

She slid up next to me while I pretended to check messages on my phone. She was going to confide something, I could tell. I braced myself for the coming wave of snark.

“Mom?” she said softly.

“Yes?” I took a deep breath and turned to face the music.

“I love it.”

“….”

I could feel the Cheshire cat grin saunter in and occupy every inch of my face, as she grabbed my hand and continued to gush. “It’s so gorgeous, and everything is amazing! I don’t know if I’ll get in. I’m really nervous because it’s just so perfect.” 

Knowing how to take yes for an answer, I jumped up and down very briefly, stopping when it was clear I was embarrassing her. It also didn’t escape me that she jumped up and down for a moment too, in spite of herself.

“I believe in you! And if it all works out, you can come visit me down the street on weekends and do your laundry.”

She rolled her eyes at this and let go of my hand, focusing squarely back on the next story our guide had started to tell.

And in sotto voce that I am 99% certain was just inside my head, I whispered to my father how much I can’t wait to come home.