[guest blog] 1,694 Miles Away by Shuli J. '22, MEng '23

Growing up, I loved to mock tourists. Precisely, of those who would take about a hundred pictures of the most random things you can imagine: palm trees, iguanas, piña coladas. To me, they were nothing but pathetic. What did they find so intriguing about a green tree, scary reptiles, and a drink? I could not understand. Nonetheless, today, as I walk along the Charles River and stop in the middle of the road to take a picture of the beautiful skyline and fall-colored trees, I think back to my childish behavior. How clueless was I?

The first time I saw a glimpse of a sunset from Maseeh, I stopped what I was doing and ran straight out the door. I wanted to witness the magnificence of a Cambridge twilight, a previously unfamiliar event to me. And, let me tell you, such did not disappoint. Its hues of pink and orange merged majestically to yield the softest and calmest dusk I had ever seen. I watched it in awe for several minutes, with nothing rolling through my mind. I was incredibly mesmerized by the sudden change in scenery that nothing else could infiltrate my thoughts. I could not hear the usual car horns and music that filled Mass. Ave. I could not see the bunches of people crossing the road. Instead, I could only listen to the gush of wind blowing against my hair and see the color-changing buildings reflecting the gloaming sunlight.

I was dormant for over ten minutes, watching the sunset go from its blush glory to a darker one full of city lights. It was stunning. Too stunning at times, which made it feel almost unreal. Back home, the nightfalls were warmer, with shades of gold and red. They, too, were captivating, but to me, they were expected, unlike the ones here in Massachusetts.

Similar to the subtle disparity in twilight coloring, I noticed a contrast in the animals roaming in the wild as my time here passed. On campus, furry animals like squirrels and bunnies climb up the trees or play in the leaves. To me, that only occurred in movies. So, I jumped the first time I saw a rabbit wandering through the bushes. The jumpscare made my hands tremble and my heart pound tremendously fast. I had to close my eyes and control my breathing to regain composure. It took me several long seconds to hone my panic, but after achieving calmness, I looked around to see if anyone else had been frightened like me. I was surprised to see that no one else had been. I was the only absurd person standing in front of McCormick, catching my breath because I had just seen a normal animal merely exist.

It took time to adjust, but I grew to like the innate animals of Cambridge. After a few days from my initial jumpscare, I felt no longer threatened by their presence; I grew to like it. It brought a smile to my face to see them hopping around the grass field. One day, I felt even confident enough to dare and hold a bunny in my arms at an event hosted by my dorm building. I became so attached to the little black-and-white creature that I tried to convince my roommate, who is also Puerto Rican, to adopt one for our room. Obviously, she knocked sense into me by stating that “pets are not allowed in dorms,” but a girl can only dream, right? I found adorable how it moved its little nose, had these large black eyes that shimmered with the light, and fit perfectly in my arms.

Growing up, I had no pets; however, I still believe animals strongly impacted my upbringing. For example, my childhood bedroom was next to a palm tree that hosted many bird nests over the years. So, I became accustomed to waking up to the sound of birds singing. I miss it sometimes. It used to be a charming and peaceful manner to start my day. I attempted to emulate it by setting my alarm ringtone to a bird chirping, but it was not the same. Also, it never woke me up, defeating its immediate purpose.

Living in the states has brought many experiences I had never lived before. Just the other day, for instance, I carved my first pumpkin. My friend, Ola, took me to a ChemE pumpkin carving competition, where teams competed for a prize. At first, I was thrilled as I had never done it before. Ola could sense my excitement and thus assigned me the crucial task of picking out our pumpkin. I was so invested and ready that when the time arrived, I meticulously scanned the numerous vegetable options. I looked at their marks, sturdiness, and size. Ultimately, I chose what I thought was the most appealing. Yet, when I brought it to our workstation, Ola looked at it, made a revolted face, and expressed, “That is ugly.” She then picked it up and switched it for a bigger, rounder, and more orange pumpkin.

After that first incident, she acquainted me with the steps to follow. “First, we cut the top, take the seeds out, draw our design, and then carve the pumpkin.” It all seemed very straightforward. So after she completed the first step, I volunteered to take the guts out of the pumpkin. And, before I proceed, let me say this: What was that? Sticking my bare hand to scrape out the insides of a pumpkin was foul. Midway, Ola had to intervene and finish off because I could not. My hand and fingernails were covered in the sticky pulp residue that smelled like the pumpkin ravioli Costco sales. I was so appalled by the mess that I kept making faces at the poor, innocent pumpkin.

Looking back now, I realize it was not that bad, and I was exaggerating, but someone (and by that, I mean Ola) should have informed me of what to expect. We finished our pumpkin by carving out windows and a door because our vision was to have the pumpkin serve as a house for a more miniature pumpkin. I think it turned out beautiful, even though the judges disagreed.

Comical moments like these have made me appreciate my life here in Massachusetts. They also have given me a potent desire to share it with everyone from back home. A couple of weeks ago, I had my best friend, who happens to know me since birth, visit me. During his weekend-long stay, I took him all over campus to my classrooms, the Dome, and the Stud. I, as well, took him around Boston, as he had never been. One night after a long day of exploration and much walking, he says, “I can see why you like it here. You seem happy and at home.” Such a remark seemed insignificant at the time, but now as I ponder upon it, I can see the deepness it carries.

I decided to leave Puerto Rico and come to the United States to pursue my studies. I presumed it was the right choice since I would fit better here than at home. And to this day, I stand by my choice. At MIT, I have found my people—those who share my interests and motivations and push me forward. Nevertheless, my family and my community are not here. They are 1,694 miles away, where I was born.

Somedays, I trick myself into believing Cambridge is my home, like yesterday when I told my roommate, “See you at home!” when referring to our dorm. However, on other days, like today, I feel like a tourist who feels jolted by trifling things like trees, animals, and food. So, what truly is my home? Is it here, or is it there? Truth be told, I do not know. And that is ok.

My lives in Puerto Rico and Cambridge are very distinct. Firstly, In Puerto Rico, I am a daughter and an adventure-seeking gal ready to soak in the bright Sun of the tropical. In Cambridge, I am a student, a friend, and a nerd, always covered in gloves, a hat, and an oversized coat, prepared to take upon any challenge. I am a thus different version of myself, depending on my geographical location. Yet, although distinct, I love both. Coming here to MIT has allowed me to realize this and become closer to each one.