Bloomington will never feel like home

There are many differences that separate Hoosiers.

Some religiously follow IU basketball, while others are in committed relationships with Netflix accounts.

Some live in campus housing, while others actually have interesting lives.

But in the midst of this dreary holiday season, I’ve come to notice a more distinct difference between Hoosiers.

There are those who consider Bloomington home and count the days until they return from break and those who run home as soon as they can and hide in their parent’s bed until they’re forced to return.

Anyone who knows me personally can tell you I fall into the latter category. Once my last class was finished before Thanksgiving, I bolted home and into bed with my dogs. I’m a homebody, and I’m proud of it.

I absolutely adore Bloomington. For five semesters, I’ve had some really amazing times, but I’ve had some really horrible times, too.

I can say with full confidence that I picked the right University, but a major part of that confidence is enforced by the fact that I’m a brisk 70-minute drive from my front door.

My family is my safe place and, at least for me, my home is where my family is.
So truly, Bloomington has never and will never feel like home.

I know not everyone shares this sentiment. I have plenty of friends who will go home for the holiday break and be ready for B-Town by Dec. 26. Probably sooner.

And that’s great. Truth be told, I might even be a little envious.

I think the root of my disconnect from Bloomington lies with the fact that when I came to IU, not a whole lot changed for me.

Most kids come to college and feel this onslaught of freedom. Freedom from restrictions, freedom from parents, freedom from responsibility. The list goes on.
But I never felt that ambush of freedom, because I’d already had it.

My parents trusted me in high school. I maintained above average grades. I participated in a plethora of activities, which mostly kept me out of trouble.

I was still able to be extremely social, going out with friends and staying out late. I never had a curfew.

But I always let my parents know where I was and that everyone I was with was being responsible.

I wasn’t perfect, but my parents knew I had a good head on my shoulders.

I understand for some kids going home means a return to the days when freedom was merely a collegiate dream.

That’s OK. I respect that, and you’ll be back in Bloomington soon enough.

I’m just going to ask you not to judge me when I’m curled up on the couch with my parents watching my entire Disney DVD collection.

­— wdmcdona@indiana.edu