For days I had piloted a 24-foot Budget moving van, with my Honda Civic hitched behind, due north on I-5. Eventually, I veered east on I-84 and followed the Columbia River, the naturally-made border between Oregon and Washington. After turning north again, on the third day, I rolled into the second largest city in Washington at 5 pm. That was 14 years ago. Today is my Spokanniversary.
Several months earlier, on a warm Spring afternoon in San Diego, I retrieved my mail from the metal boxes at the foot of the stairs that led to my apartment. Mixed in with mostly junk was a thin white business-sized envelope. I glared at the return address: Eastern Washington University, Graduate Studies Office. Thin isn't good. When anticipating a college acceptance letter everyone knew thick is good news, thin is a form letter thanking you for your application, noting that among a very strong pool of candidates you have not been admitted, and wishing you luck in the future.
Deep into the wintery cold of January that same year, I had made a trek first to San Francisco, then Spokane, where I visited the three universities to which I intended to apply for the master's of fine arts in creative writing. The University of San Francisco and Mills College were impressive, welcoming, and seemed a good enough fit for me to go ahead and turn in my apps. But EWU, the most humble in appearance and amenities, it was a public university after all, while the others were privates, called my name most clearly.
I think it was the town as much as the university that felt so right. The air smelled of pine, people were friendly and eager to help, the houses reminded me of the small farming community where my extended family lived in Michigan. Spokane was a city, but it felt beautifully less citified than Southern California, where it had begun to feel like bustle and concrete and asphalt and scads of people filled every nook and cranny.
Reluctant to put off the agony even the short time it would take to return to my apartment, I slipped my finger under the envelope's flap. A fleeting thought crossed my mind, What if grad school is different?
By golly, it was! That puny little envelope held a congratulatory letter that sent me into tears. Before that day, I don't recall ever crying out of happiness.
It was during grad school, as I wrote essays and sorted through my memories, recent and more distant, that I began to understand my desire for a quiet life. I don't believe I could have made that discovery at a school in the Bay area. I don't believe I could be living it without the place I have carved in Spokane, and without the dear people here who have been at my side, shaping who I am.
Several months earlier, on a warm Spring afternoon in San Diego, I retrieved my mail from the metal boxes at the foot of the stairs that led to my apartment. Mixed in with mostly junk was a thin white business-sized envelope. I glared at the return address: Eastern Washington University, Graduate Studies Office. Thin isn't good. When anticipating a college acceptance letter everyone knew thick is good news, thin is a form letter thanking you for your application, noting that among a very strong pool of candidates you have not been admitted, and wishing you luck in the future.
Deep into the wintery cold of January that same year, I had made a trek first to San Francisco, then Spokane, where I visited the three universities to which I intended to apply for the master's of fine arts in creative writing. The University of San Francisco and Mills College were impressive, welcoming, and seemed a good enough fit for me to go ahead and turn in my apps. But EWU, the most humble in appearance and amenities, it was a public university after all, while the others were privates, called my name most clearly.
I think it was the town as much as the university that felt so right. The air smelled of pine, people were friendly and eager to help, the houses reminded me of the small farming community where my extended family lived in Michigan. Spokane was a city, but it felt beautifully less citified than Southern California, where it had begun to feel like bustle and concrete and asphalt and scads of people filled every nook and cranny.
Reluctant to put off the agony even the short time it would take to return to my apartment, I slipped my finger under the envelope's flap. A fleeting thought crossed my mind, What if grad school is different?
By golly, it was! That puny little envelope held a congratulatory letter that sent me into tears. Before that day, I don't recall ever crying out of happiness.
It was during grad school, as I wrote essays and sorted through my memories, recent and more distant, that I began to understand my desire for a quiet life. I don't believe I could have made that discovery at a school in the Bay area. I don't believe I could be living it without the place I have carved in Spokane, and without the dear people here who have been at my side, shaping who I am.
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