I could start this with the superficial, tiresome quote, “home is where the heart is.” I considered it, I really did. And now, I kind of am. As cliche as it sounds, it rings true. I guess that’s why it is a cliche.

Last weekend, I went home. It was 11 hours away, in a town I have never been: Wilkes-Barre, Pennsylvania

On a three by three block stretch, I fell in love. With the grass, the trees, the 50-year-old mansions that I would be living in; not dorms– houses. I fell in love with the English department, the hands-on learning experience that would provide me with over 200 hours by the time I would even think to apply for a teaching certificate. Disregarding the unnatural hatred that spills out of me when anyone even mentions the word organism, I fell in love with the way the building twisted and the rocks strategically placed to keep the building warm in the winter.

I fell in love with the dedication of the students, their ability to join clubs- and make their own clubs- and the fact that they do so. Just over 2,000 students, yet they have over 100 clubs. And speaking of 2,000 students, it’s small– really small. Yet I was still absolutely amazed by how large, yet personal, the campus still felt.

More importantly than the selling factors any admission counselor can feed you over the phone was the feeling. You could argue that you can feel success on any campus but underlying the feeling of success, there was a feeling of consideration- of concern- for the students, and that is what I fell in love with.

A home is a house, but it’s also a feeling, and I never thought people were serious when they said they felt a pull when they went to a certain school, and I hate that I am joining the people that said they felt something, but here I am, going to a school 11 hours away on a feeling.