Difficult to say goodbye

Monday, June 15, 1998

Difficult to say goodbye

I’m peering into a future that’s so bright, I can’t see a damn
thing in it. Uncertainty scares me, so I’m focusing right now on
things I know I can control or do: I will never eat another Panda
Bowl again. I will finish the John Grisham novel I bought eight
months ago. I will never drive a minivan. I will always fly
first-class. Reluctantly, I will say goodbye.

Goodbyes – those signifying closure, finality, the end – have
never been easy for me. My relationships usually end with little
fanfare; one day, they simply cease to exist. Sensing the end is
near, I usually step back and let the natural progression of things
happen without much protest – not because I don’t care, but because
my sanity depends on divesting my emotional investment as quickly
as possible.

In a sick and twisted way, my commitment to the Bruin is the
most serious and long-term relationship I’ve ever had. It, too, is
ending, and maybe we’ll stay friends, or maybe we’ll avoid each
other like the plague. But what I’d really like to do – what I’m
ready to do – is say all those cheesy and overwrought cliches that
normal people seem to say at the end of relationships: Thanks for
the memories. I’m sorry it has to end. Goodbye.

I don’t expect anyone outside The Bruin to understand this
strange and perverse love for a windowless basement office where
time is measured in deadlines, and dedication means bending over
backwards until your head is where your ass should be. I hate this
place, and yet, I love it. This was my home during my two years at
UCLA, and the people I met here, my surrogate family. (Sort of like
a fraternity, but with a lot more alcohol.)

This has been the only place on campus where I felt I belonged.
But now I’m graduating, and reflecting, and asking myself, "Did I
somehow mis-spend my formative years?"

I never jumped on any cause celebre bandwagons, fought to save
the whales or converted to vegetarianism. Instead, I spent most of
my collegiate career preparing to enter a field that has no room
for me, fooling my professors into believing I am intelligent and
earning a degree in English that really should be a degree in BS. I
also had the time of my life working with people who shared my
passions, taught me how to be a journalist, saw me at my best and
put up with me at my worst, but continued to be my friends anyway.
I’ve taken from this place much more than I’ve given, so, no – I
haven’t misspent anything.

I’ve shed blood, sweat, tears, hair, spit and phlegm for The
Bruin, while working for Depression-era minimum wage. And I would
do it again, for free.

I also had more breakdowns during the past two years than in the
23 years I’ve been alive. My pathetic attempts at being social with
the at-large student population were usually thwarted by the
unnatural amount of time I spent in 118 Kerckhoff Hall. I quit for
a quarter, then ran back to The Bruin after discovering that
"having free time" is overrated.

To quote Wallace Stevens (all English students are gluttons for
quoting somebody), "I do not know which to prefer/ The beauty of
inflections,/ Or the beauty of innuendoes,/ The blackbird
whistling,/ Or just after."

I don’t know what I’ll miss more – The Bruin, or what it’s meant
to me. Because when all is said and done, the truth is I love this
place – and especially the people here – much more than I ever
hated it. So, thanks for the memories. I’m sorry it has to end.

Goodbye.

Frances Lee