The horizon offered a sea of taillights, and my critical faculties told me things were not well. I quieted the engine, reclined my seat and jovially noted that I would likely die in my car. The pack surged with a chorus of car horns and the shouts of the disgruntled, but my calm was unflappable. Despite the traffic, the cold and the thick air of hostility that floated through the gridlock, I couldn’t help but smile. For there were bright lights and towering skyscrapers and I, dear reader, was home. I sat safely within my car – entirely immobile on I-94 – and gave a prayer of thanksgiving for the city of Chicago.
Hours passed, traffic abated and, suddenly, it seemed conceivable that my journey might end. But just as I exited the highway, I was struck by the realization that I wasn’t going to be able to find my way home. I called my mom and asked politely where it was that we lived. “7528 Oakley, you say? Okay. Now where exactly is that?”
You see, my always trend-conscious parents had recently followed America’s most popular craze and decided not to stay married. The process of becoming un-married, it seems, involves a fleet of new homes and more than a few apartments. And thus it was November 22, 2005, and I was on a cell phone, barking over the static and interference, asking for my address. “I turn left where?”
Upon arriving at my new home – a handsome three-bedroom apartment in West Roger’s Park – I settled down to the surreal business of acquainting myself with its basic features. First, with my mom’s guidance, I found my bedroom. It was painted a tasteful shade of blue, which I discovered after a few minutes of groping for the light switch. It sounds insignificant, but learning these seemingly minor details was disorienting. You take for granted that you know what your room looks like, that you know where to reach for the lights, that you know which bathroom has a draft and which shower has the best water pressure. Dazed, I set about cataloging the idiosyncrasies of our new apartment.
Still, it wasn’t until I heard the scurrying of footsteps from upstairs that I became convinced of my Thanksgiving Thesis. I stopped to listen to the gentle creaking, and it all began to sink in: that wasn’t our second floor, that wasn’t my family pacing above – those were other tenants! Strangers! O, brave new world!
And right then and there, one thing was made clear: change, my friends, is the new black. It’s pretty much everywhere. Feel free to wear it anytime.
The next morning, my sister flew in town, and the confusion only doubled. Erica Goodwin, four years my junior, was returning from a triumphant first semester at college. She was nicely tanned, a fair share blonder, and a great deal more worldly. My sister, without my knowledge or consent, had become a full-scale, real person in my absence. Gone was the musical-singing adolescent that some part of me still remembered. By her own hand and volition, the little one had become all grown up. I was proud, admiring and unsettled. Again, without my approval, things had gone and gotten different.
Then, in a whirlwind of whiskey and bar-smoke, four of my dearest high school friends arrived in town. For the first time in the better part of a decade, we were all within the same area code, and there was much to celebrate. But as we talked over drinks, it became clear that my boys, too, had been touched by change. Matty arrived with a girlfriend in tow, and there was some uncomfortable talk of marriage. Peter looked grizzled and world-weary, and he was sporting the disheveled hair of a New York hipster. The discussion was of jobs and apartments, and everyone kept saying that we used to be more fun.
And just when I was certain that I had adjusted to the unseasonable winds of change, Thanksgiving arrived. For the first time in 11 years, we broke with tradition and held our family dinner outside of the Goodwin household. The food was the traditional fare, the company the same, and yet, somehow, things were dramatically different. The Goodwin reign, it seemed, had come to a quiet close.
Now, one could end on an uplifting note and offer a Hallmark-card conclusion: regardless of shape, size or configuration, family is family and friends are friends, and nothing can compromise those bonds. Though much of me believes that, there seems to be something disingenuous in such an easy answer. I think it’s more accurate to say that change is the only constant; it’s the responsibility of friends and family to adapt accordingly. For change is value-free: it’s good, it’s bad, it’s every conceivable shade of grey and every bit of uncomfortable uncertainty. Change brings us grown-up little sisters, foreign apartments and best friends who are beginning to bulge around the waistline. So, as we head into the holidays, and the world beyond Wash. U.’s gabled gates, let’s remember that change isn’t something to combat, but to embrace. It’s those who are open-minded, pragmatic and adaptive that survive change unscathed.
And we might as well start practicing now, because as far as I can tell, change is always in style.
Zach is a senior in Arts & Sciences.