Hamilton
Google search: Top Writing Colleges in the U.S., and you will undoubtedly come
across Hamilton College. It was the first college my dad and I visited on a
road trip across upstate New York. I’d never been west of Vermont before, but
as we traveled the sun-bleached gray roads just two miles from our destination,
I might as well have been in the Northeast Kingdom. That’s a section of Vermont
where motor homes speckle the rolling green hills and cars with local license
plates assume they’re on the Autobahn.
We turned around a hill and Hamilton appeared as though it was the
pop-up insert in a children’s book.
On our tour around campus, our cheerful
guide was glad to show us Gothic and Modern structures alike, all
“well-preserved thanks to our philanthropic alumni.” We walked from one end of
campus to the other in ten minutes. “Everyone here is very dedicated, very
studious,” our guide said, as he waved to a man walking by, “but there’s plenty
to do to relax. That man is my cross country coach, everyone loves him.”
After the tour, my dad and I ate pizza at
the cafeteria. Pizza made with mozzarella and cheddar from local dairy farmers,
sauce made from organic, New York tomatoes, and crust from fair-trade,
sustainable grains. The food and campus were undoubtedly superb, but there was
something about Hamilton. There wasn’t a grocery store around for an hour, or a
CVS, but not in a good, recluse way. More like, in a horror film way. Everyone
was smiling a little too much, even though according to our guide, they were
all studying, all the time. We needed to investigate ourselves. So we asked a
few who weren’t part of the admissions team: “What do you do for fun on the
weekend?” They all seemed to smile a little too much, tilt their heads, and say
(cue a sickly, piercing gaze) “We have everything we need right here.”
That afternoon I waited in the admissions
building to be interviewed. I practiced all the sample questions I could find
online in the car ride up. I was prepared to compliment the college, myself,
and my interviewer all in how I presented my favorite book, color, and shoe
size.
A tall bearded senior named Michael
greeted me. As we headed up a labyrinth of stairs and corridors, Michael said,
“I saw you’re from New Hampshire, is that right?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, uh, I’ve skied Tuckerman’s Ravine
a few times.”
“Really? Cool. I’ve never skied it, but I
have hiked Mt. Washington a few times.”
“I’ve hiked it nine or ten times.”
Michael led me into his office.
Who’s
trying to impress who here? I
thought, this isn’t a competition. “Cool,”
I said.
“So, tell me why you want to come to
Hamilton.”
“Well, it’s the second best writing
school in the country.”
There was a pause.
“Yeah, something like that,” Michael
said. I raised my eyebrows. “But not for writers.”
“Oh?” This
was news to me.
“Yeah. It’s good for people who are…business
or math majors, you know?”
“Uhh, no. Sorry.”
“Everyone who comes out of here has high
quality writing, but not necessarily
because they’re a writer.”
“Oh.”
“I read your resume. Now you know there
is competitive admission here, so are you a leader in any of the groups you are
a part of?”
I started rambling and making things up
about the environmental club I was a part of, which was better known around my
school as the ideas-that-never-get-turned-into-realities club. Michael went on
about himself and skiing and hiking. I didn’t even get to tell him the
fictional character I relate most to.
After our interview, I found my dad in
the library. It was Saturday. It was the busiest building on campus. I told him
my newfound discovery. “I don’t know about you, but I kind of want to get out
of here,” my dad said. We cancelled our hotel reservation on campus and hit the
road to our next destination, Ithaca. The page turned in the children’s book,
flattening Hamilton along with it.
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