By Emma Peterson
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July 10, 2023
You probably don’t think going to a small liberal arts school in rural Iowa is the most exciting college experience ever. Frankly, in most ways it’s not. We, at Grinnell College, are not immune to the occasional wistful desire for the dazzle of the city. We silently envy the summertime stories our high school friends tell us about daring adventures at big schools with frat parties and nightclubs. On certain winter days, the frostbitten hills and stark brown cornfields surrounding our campus feel more like prison bars than wide-open farmland. So yes, it’s boring here sometimes, and for sure it’s flawed. But though I often imagine what college life would have looked like at another school, I do not regret coming here. I love Grinnell, for all its beautiful people, for the traditions we fight to keep alive, and for the culture and character of our Midwestern town. Above all, life at this tiny, middle-of-nowhere liberal arts college is deeply personal. My college, and the small-town community that I’ve come to think of as my own, hold a special place in my heart. The place where I work is my favorite place on campus: Bob’s Underground, a student-run venue in the basement of one of the dorms. From floor to ceiling, the walls are covered in a diverse mosaic of student art that ranges from the profound to the profane. We host monthly painting parties where any student can express their creativity on the walls. You do not have to be an art student or even remotely skilled to mark up these walls like generations of students have before you. I see this as a place of radical individuality, inclusion, and institutional memory. In Bob’s, surrounded by messy explosions of color, you can feel the bygone memories of so many Grinnellians before you, the epitomization of “if these walls could talk.” My favorite activity that goes on here are the open mics, for the supportive and positive energy of the crowd creates an atmosphere where anyone can experiment with song, spoken-word, comedy, and more. In May, at the end of my freshman year and on my last day in Bob’s, I spent an hour painting a wishing star on a relatively sparse area of the wall behind some tables. I wrote next to it, “I hear you, I promise.” I’m not sure who will see it, but I hope the message will be there for decades to come. I want future Grinnellians to know what I’ve learned in Bob’s: at this school, your voice does not go unheard, the marks you inevitably make on this community do not go unseen. Simply put, you matter. Even when it feels like the dreams you once spoke to your bedroom ceiling have all but dissolved, there are experiences waiting here, and there are people who will know you and shape you as much as you shape them. Grinnell is not a college town, but a town with a college in it. It’s an incredible place to go if, like me, you love truly getting to know people and rooting yourself in a unique place with a welcoming population that will love to know how you are and what you’re doing. Speaking as a poet and sentimental introvert, rural Midwestern life just has a whole different vibe. It’s a liminal space that inspires me and makes me feel at home. And it’s beautiful, not just for what’s here, but for the gaps and the spaces and the silence. The moon as it rises above the Walmart and the empty fields. The way the road stretches on and on. For most of the year, this is my life. This is my dull and holy excitement. I wouldn’t give it up for any number of skyscrapers.