The Students Are Back…

The students are back.

We say it every August, with the same long-suffering sigh, as Bloomington's population—and its traffic—abruptly increases by half.  We do know that our town wouldn't be our town without Indiana University and its students, culturally or economically (we just ranked #1 in a list of Most Economically Vulnerable College Towns Due to COVID-19)...but we sigh anyway.  Someone summed it up a few years ago in the Sunday morning announcements at my church: "The students are back—look both ways on the one-way streets!"  

I laughed with everyone else.  But as I drove around town that week, those words came back to me differently.  My teenage son had just started looking at colleges.  Suddenly, the students milling in intersections and buying clothes-hangers at Target looked heart-achingly familiar.  I wondered if, as the years went by, motherhood would make me tender toward every age group there is.

Maybe.  This week, my son moves into a dorm at IU.  That incoming wave of virus risk we're all alarmed by will be his hallmates, his classmates, his friends.  He'll be the one jogging backwards across 10th street, yelling to somebody by the library while he tugs at his backpack strap and balances a cup of coffee.  And so I find I'm coming back to my thoughts of a few years ago, as I tried out an alternate version of the annual townie sigh.

The students are back.  Look both ways—on the one-way streets, and at the crosswalks, and in the grocery store. Look both ways, and proceed with caution.  Because, with all their variety, these young people share one thing: they're distracted.  Distracted by excitement and homesickness, by each other, by class and work schedules, and of course by their phones.  This year, they're trying to come of age in the middle of a pandemic; they're wondering whether campus will close again in two weeks, and whether it's cool to follow social-distancing rules or not, and whether their mask matches their shoes.  They feel invincible or terrified; some are grieving, or worrying about somebody they love.  Chances are, at least one of them will walk out in front of your car, veer their scooter into your lane, or try to drive south on Lincoln.  

So look both ways.  My son is out there—that redhead with the sweet grin.  All of them are out there, arriving or returning, with their fragile human bodies and their busy human minds.  Sigh—and look both ways—and take care.