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Crossing the Bronx



Fordham University


Crossing the Bronx

And a collection of compartmentalized memories.


I have always been edited for my wordiness. Whether it be on an illegible Post-It, squeezing every last syllable onto a quick hello note to MK or Danny, or in my many years of academic essays, where I spent years reading the word “Condense!” in red pen — or now, red Helvetica — I have always adored the art of language as my way to connect with the world.

However this, I promise you, I’ll keep brief.

The past few months, I have found myself answering the “what’s on next year’s docket?” question with one simple, stockpiled sentence: “I’m just looking forward to not commuting from the Bronx.” While we all know that New York is our C A M P U S, I quite literally feel guilty delivering that answer. While I surely won’t miss the view of the Cross Bronx from the back of a cab, nor the marathon sprints through Grand Central to catch a train with a seemingly arbitrary departure time, I will miss the mini-journeys that have strengthened my adoration for the Bronx.

I vividly remember my first trip to the city as a Fordham student — I wore combat boots and red lipstick, while the rest of my home friends were experiencing their first #GameDays. I remember how I clutched my purse as we crossed Fordham Road and climbed our way to the D train for the first time.

I will never forget passing through the Fordham Prep gate, walking to Tinkers on the first night of college, hearing some passing seniors told us that “they may be accepting 17 year olds at Tinkers tonight.”

I laugh, thinking about the war-torn path between Loschert and Sub-Connection, and how freshman year, MK and I would routinely convince ourselves that a pound of chocolate covered almonds at 11:59 PM was always a good idea.

I came to appreciate the nights of crossing through Rose Hill, on my way home to Finlay after a long night in the library, meandering safely and soundly to my fourth floor corner of campus.

I miss the days of dancing across the pale, worn floors of McGinley ballroom, in a stimulating and sweaty Flava rehearsal.

Every day, I reflect on how I met my soulmate, discovered some of my best friends, and myself, for that matter, the day I didn’t board the plane that would cross the Atlantic to land in Rome for a semester abroad.

I will always erupt in a blanket of chills when I ascend to my roof and see Keating on my left, One World Trade on my right.

My body pulses with energy as I think about how this fall, I crossed the Brooklyn Bridge with my best friends in a walk to commemorate beating my eating disorder.

I will forever treasure the days walking past Eddie’s, bursting with energy at the first dose of spring, or telling the girls “I’ll be right over!” as I cross over to Hughes for a last minute get together.

In five days, we will cross Keating Steps one last time, and I can’t help but think of the day, four years ago, that my packed-to-the-brims car crossed the GW Bridge and drove up the Mosholu. If I could, I would go back, but I wouldn’t change a thing.

Well, I would actually ask that the crossing light between Beer Cave and Arthur exceed 7.5 seconds.