When you grow up under a constant warm embrace of never-ending sunlight, the concept of snow becomes mere fantasy. I used to wonder what a snowflake would feel like. Logically, I knew it would just dissipate into water on my warm fingertips but I always imagined it to be more sturdy. It could envelop the grass and its inhabitants, quiet the noise of existence and smooth the contours of the earth. Something like that had to be pretty powerful, didn’t it?
For many years, snow was just a distant idea for me. I liked the tropicana, the humid heat of my native equatorial land. The chilly — but by no means, cold — winters I dredged through. The thought of waking up in the morning for school and being slapped to reality by a chill in the air was the least appealing sensation to my childhood self. Lucky for me, I lived in a sunny valley. But, years passed and the sun was not the refuge it once appeared to be. I grew up and I wanted more. Through twists of fate (and many standardized exams), I found myself bound for a new home: Kenyon.
I was prepared for Kenyon. I couldn’t wait to sit in cozy English seminars and take long walks on Middle Path. I had my classes picked and my dorm decor meticulously planned out. Theoretically, I also knew that in the rustic setting of Gambier, leaves change color before they vanish for the winter, and green farmland surrounds the horizon. Still, there is a long bridge of experience that must be passed to enter into reality from the shores of theory.
During my first two months at Kenyon, I indulged in all the freshman rites of passage. I yelped if my friends accidentally almost split at the Gates of Hell and I avoided the Peirce seal like the plague. I met new friends, acquaintances and strangers. My roles transformed constantly; I was a college student, I was a friend, a colleague, a partner and so much more. Everybody tells you about that; all the wonderful new experiences you’re going to have in college. Yet, there is a nuance often left unsaid to all this. I didn’t understand that until my very first step into snow.
It had been a really pleasant fall my freshman year. Halloween night, my friends and I roamed the campus in our frills and fancies, without a care in the world. I walked to classes (even the 8 a.m. ones) breathing in the clean air with a decided sense of pleasure. August rolled into September, and before I knew it, November had begun, unleashing a thick mist of sorts that quietened the hum of our excited chatter, quickened our pace and added warmer layers to our wardrobes. Then, I woke up on a lazy Sunday morning and the world outside seemed more still than it had before.
I peeked out the blinds of my McBride room and witnessed a thick white blanket of snow on the ground. It was my first ever look at real snow — not the silly snow sprays I used to terrorize my siblings with, the snow machine at my friend’s sixteenth birthday, or the fake snow in an indoor ice-skating rink. This was real Ohio snow, in all its magnificence. I know it’s cliche to say it was mesmerizing, beautiful and so pristine. It was. But I also felt trepidation at the unknown, so I closed the blinds and buried myself in my blankets. Still, the snow beckoned me. How could I turn away from something so fresh to me? I spent some hours staring out the window, contemplating if I should go and officially greet the winter. Finally, a friend knocked on my door and asked, eagerly. “Have you seen the snow?”
“Yes,” I replied, with a half-hearted smile. He was amused to learn that I was being quite literal. I had only just seen the snow. After some coaxing, I was ready to face the snow.
I suppose it's pointless to try to describe what it felt like to touch snow for the first time. The sensation of snow, after all, is as special and unique as the individual who engages with it. I’m a senior now and sometimes my friends still reminisce about that day.