by Monica Sanchez, St. Mary's College of California

When I graduated from the institution that has been parked at 3625 24th Street for the past 125 years, I knew the kind of alum I did not want to be. I did not want to be of the irritating ilk; the type that drops in every week to “visit.”

As a student at ICA I hated when graduates would stop by outfitted in attire that would never, ever meet dress-code standards imposed on those currently-enrolled. This rebellion went beyond the closet into piercings and tattoos. So not only would these young ladies stroll their old stomping grounds dressed so comically in their blatant attempts to show-off, but the glint of their piercings lodged in still-tender holes burned my retinas even more than they burned my short fuse. And then there were the tattoos. So random and in a sense innocent, those ink figures were probably inspired by the temporary tattoos of childhood. Tiny hearts, cuddly kittens, pretty butterflies.

I certainly did not want to be this kind of clingy, garish graduate. This meant that if ever I chose to venture back to high school I would have to cover my cute puppy tattoo, remove my nose ring, and wear the clothes of a 90-year-old nun if she were to dress as a conservative civilian attending a funeral. This, I thought, would occur about once every millennium.

Fulfilling this commitment to not go back was not nearly as effortless as I had initially pictured. Going to college made me weak with homesickness. Not for my immediate family back in Daly City, not really, but for my folks in the 94110. Yet, I held out. Was this smart? I was so terribly depressed, lacking a sense of self my first semester. I did not enter home turf until December 18, two weeks into my winter break, when I showed up at ICA’s front door to meet with my long-time beloved counselor, LHP.

After two hours of intensely joyous talking, LHP said she needed to bolt to an assembly. And, she added, would I like to come? No, I replied, I would not. “Aren’t you dressed for it?” I asked myself. “Indeed, I am,” I replied. Maybe I wasn’t dressed exactly like a conservative 90-year-old nun in civvies at a funeral, but nearly. Hadn’t I removed the fishhook that had dangled from the sore cartilage of my left nostril? And that puppy tattoo - was it not safely covered beneath my respectful garb? One million confirmations. Why did I not want to go? It was only a prayer service. And then I knew. Simply put, I did not want to face the heartbreaking possibility of no longer feeling at home in the only place I had consistently felt at home in all of my life. This feeling went beyond clothes, piercings, tattoos, and clinginess. This feeling, with all of its depth, went beyond the body. I was afraid. Afraid it wouldn’t be the same surrounded by the teachers I worshipped with every fiber of my being since I was 14. Maybe I’d learn that I had finally lost interest in those passionate educators, in those wildly inspiring leaders. I feared that I would finally see them as my peers saw them, as The Man.

In high school my intense affinity for teachers was never grasped by my passive peers. In fact, this eagerness to emulate my teachers was never fully understood even by the teachers themselves. Now, don’t think I was a suck-up or an honors student, because I wasn’t. My grades were never anything to envy. I was never the poster-girl for decorum, spending many an hour couched in the dean’s office for petty offenses. And yet, I adored those men and women whose class rosters my name belonged to.

And then, something came over me and I wanted nothing more that to accompany LHP to that prayer service. The dread dissipated and I suddenly longed to be with my heroes. My dear counselor was floored by my change of heart. Down to the auditorium we went. Upon entering I immediately understood that I was foolish to have feared at all because my kinship to the joint and to all of her inhabitants would never be deterred even by the most havoc-wreaking of inventions: the lapsing of time. Indeed, my teachers were just as loving and gorgeous and radically smart as I had remembered. Not only did they remember my name and face, but also me. Mingling with them that day I never felt more understood in all of my 19 years.

After the prayer service (which was the only one of its kind in which I actually prayed in gratitude) I dropped by the principal’s office. SJT is a sister who possesses a glare harsh enough to make you loath your existence. She is also capable of holding you in her highest esteem, in which case you begin to merrily mistake your formerly lusterless life for the very halls of heaven. I have experienced both states to their fullest degrees. All in all, my adoration for SJT is unyielding. I mean, how could it not be? She hired most of the brilliant hearts and minds I swoon over. SJT is an A+ in my tough grading book. So, I visited her office with a goofy grin, my heart in the early stages of rekindled love for her faculty. She received me with the warmth of God. We began talking and I said, “Many years from now, when I have a decent career, I’d like very much to come back to be on the school’s Career Day panel.” I beamed in anticipation for what I thought would be an enthusiastic response. Instead she replied, “Do you know what would be even better?” Her tone was so sober that it chilled me. “No,” I mumbled, “what?” She grinned that wry grin of hers, instantly softening her demeanor, and said, “If in a few years you joined our faculty as an English teacher.”

And just like that my primary life goal was revealed to me. Well, teaching is tied for first place with my longer-standing goal of writing a Pulitzer Prize winning novel. Both are so beautifully attainable I can’t help but laugh away my afternoon.