Both of my boys had somehow escaped COVID – until now.
Dylan lived in Tennessee for the vast majority of the pandemic, which means he went unmasked and didn’t care. He believed he’d be fine as long as he didn’t bring home the virus to his aging relatives. Two years went by with Dylan regularly spitting into microphones used by other singers, going to concerts and house parties and shows, and Dylan did not get the virus.
Then he went to Italy and came home with COVID. He was the only one in our group who contracted the virus, and we have no idea why, except that he was always the one person who didn’t have a mask when it was required.
Shane took a different approach. After more than a year of online school, he wore a mask at school every day. When the mask requirements were lifted at school, well into his senior year, he still wore a mask. He took it off to eat, far away from other people. He was careful and meticulous.
When he went to concerts, which was rare and recent, he stood in the back of the room away from the crowds. When we got a notification from the state telling him that someone at a concert he’d attended had contracted COVID, Shane was concerned, but not much. He’d spent the evening in front of an open door, wearing a mask.
For graduation, I stupidly bought Shane two tickets to a huge metal festival in Ohio, so that he and Dylan could enjoy four days of unlimited music. They stayed in an Air BnB and drove back and forth to the festival every day, even when it poured down rain on the last day. Because they were outdoors, in spite of the crowds, they didn’t bother masking. No one bothered masking.
Shane got COVID at the festival.
Both boys are doing fine now; they say it’s like a bad cold, but the first two days were pretty rough for both of them. I think back on my first few days with the same virus, different variant, before vaccinations were widespread and when desperation was everywhere, and I think the boys did pretty well.
I’ve spent a lot of time afraid of COVID. I was worried about Dylan, about his reactive airways disease. I was worried about myself because of my autoimmune disorder. I was worried about Shane on the day that he slept for 36 hours. I am still worried about my husband, who is older and hasn’t had it. Yet.
But I am less afraid now than I was before. I am hopeful that those who want to live will be able to be vaccinated, that the severity of the disease will lessen to such an extent that we can live with it, the way we live with a cold and the flu.
I don’t want to live with it; I want it gone. But what choice do we have?
The first time we visited Lawrence University, smack dab in the middle of the pandemic, Shane had a personal interview with an admissions rep. In spite of the barren campus, he was smiling so wide under his mask that it showed in his eyes.
Our tour guide was … interesting. With kind eyes and an almost palpable awkwardness, she was nearly bald, having shaved her head weeks earlier. Students were scarce, so we learned about the music conservatory, the science building, and academia.
At the end of the tour, Shane said, “I like it here.” For Shane, that’s a powerful emotional statement.
So we went back to visit Lawrence when the pandemic had waned. Our second visit offered a more traditional guide, and the campus was alive with busy students. Our guide seemed to know every one of them. The guide somehow hadn’t gotten a key card, so she asked students to help her get into buildings as we walked. She never skipped a beat, and her friends never blinked before helping.
By the end of that open house, Shane loved Lawrence. Everything was on-target with what Shane wanted. Students and professors seemed genuine and solid. They had answers – good answers – for every question. They described an academic experience fueled by its unique, close-knit community.
Lawrence was intuitive. Once I told Shane: “I wish I knew how many students came from other states, other than Wisconsin and Illinois.” Ten minutes later, I found a printed map on a table, detailing exactly how many students came from each of the states; I didn’t even need to ask. Best of all, the student population hailed from everywhere.
There were no mistakes, no issues, no challenges during the open house. And when we left, we were both a little sorry to go.
Shane did a number of informative, helpful Zoom sessions with Lawrence while waiting for his acceptance – which arrived with a hefty scholarship. There were phone sessions for students and parents – also helpful. Every time we did anything with Lawrence, it was good. No red flags.
Shane was concerned, at one point, that Lawrence was too perfect. So he asked the Zoom students, “What do you like least about Lawrence?” The students really considered this. Finally one said, “There’s not enough merch.” Other than the cold weather, they couldn’t think of anything else.
While Shane never wavered in his affection for Lawrence, the pièces de résistance was an email I received from the Director of Financial Aid, reassuring me that he understood what I was feeling. He had two kids in college and truly understood. It was brilliantly written and brought me to tears.
When we went back for the Lawrence University Experience – reserved for admitted students and their families – Lawrence had been Shane’s top choice for months. Before the event, Shane met with a student who showed him around for hours. Then, from Sunday through late Monday, Lawrence offered an opportunity for parents to choose their sessions while students attended classes and explored campus with their peers. The “experience” was – like everything else Lawrence did – nearly flawless. (We had some technical issues with one projector, so it wasn’t perfect.)
By the time we left, Shane felt like he belonged there. He’d spent hours and hours with “his people.” Lawrence offered him the perfect combination of intellectual enthusiasm and social inclusion. Still, he took several days to think it through, to decide if Lawrence was the right place for him. After seeing nearly a hundred colleges, he wanted to be sure.
By College Decision Day, Shane was sure. He will attend Lawrence University.
There are two small private colleges named “Wheaton” in this country. Shane and I chose to visit the Wheaton College in Norton, Massachusetts.
We visited Wheaton for the first time while pandemic rules were still strict. We were not allowed to go inside buildings, so we met our tour guide in the freezing cold. While we were waiting, it started to rain. And yet, after listening to the tour guide talk about the classes, clubs and traditions, and wandering around the gorgeous campus, Wheaton was too beautiful and too compelling to dismiss.
We made a return visit when the campus was more fully open. By fall open house, Shane had done a number of Zoom sessions and he liked the students he met online. He just wanted to get a feel for in-person campus life.
Unfortunately, the fall open house was all … adults. There was no student panel. There were no student speakers. There were no students leading other students from place to place. The staff was great, but the campus was empty, other than a few hundred prospective students and parents. Our tour took us through empty hallways, empty rooms, empty buildings. After flying in from Maryland to see “campus life,” the only student we met was our tour guide! And the pandemic rules had nothing to do with it.
That’s when Wheaton started to lose steam. We’d been there twice and seen exactly two students. But the Zoom students continued to impress. So we went back for one final time: admitted students day.
We showed up for the one allotted admitted students day. The campus was swarming with prospectives; parking was dreadful. There were more prospectives on campus than the entire student population. The event was disorganized to the point that they ran out of water during the breakfast, and when I asked about it, everyone seemed surprised. No one mentioned the water fountain 50 feet away.
During Session One, all the students were separated from parents with no instruction on how to reunite. Shane went to sit in on a class – which was not actually a class but a discussion about class – while I sat and listened to more staff. They didn’t say anything unique or special. We’d been to a lot of open houses, but Wheaton was oddly generic.
Wheaton has a spectacularly loose curriculum that should have been the focal point of everything they said and did – but nobody mentioned it, other than our very first tour guide on that cold, rainy day. I had to look it up online to see if it was real. (It is.)
They randomly set loose the entire prospective population with limited options. It took us an hour to see the one dorm room on display for the masses. The only interesting session was so full, we couldn’t sit – or see over the people standing in the aisles. Lunch was a catered meal for prospectives only, so we couldn’t see what “normal” lunch would entail. The only students we saw were those directing traffic, and we were often sent to the wrong places.
At the end of the event – a chaotic mess which screamed for organization and leadership – there was an incredible, fun, exciting spring festival. And there were the students! They manned booths for clubs, smiling and happy, excited to be there, fun, intelligent, interesting. They played frisbee and catch and sang and danced and laughed. Finally! We got to see student life at Wheaton!
But by then – after three visits, three chances, and no other signs of life – it was too late. Wheaton was off the list.
Loki and I were out for a walk when something caught our attention. I heard it hit the pavement. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw it fall.
Loki raced over to see what it was. It looked a bit like a twig from a distance, but the way Loki was running to it, I realized it must be moving.
Assuming it was an errant frog just before the storm that was circling above, I tugged Loki back. He enjoys playing with frogs. But something didn’t feel right to me.
I really thought I’d seen it fall. So I looked up before I looked down. There were no tree branches, nothing above me at all. A car had passed a minute earlier, but there was no car now. In fact there was … nothing.
It fell out of the sky.
Then I looked down and realized it was a bird – a tiny sparrow. It was obviously dying, twitching in ways I don’t want to describe. It took less than a minute before it stopped moving completely.
I prayed for its soul because I didn’t know what else I could do.
Was there anything I could do? Could I have saved this bird? Where did it even come from?
I considered the possibilities. Maybe I hadn’t noticed a bolt of lightning. I hadn’t seen any lightning, but the whole world was black, even though it was only late afternoon. Thunder was rolling; there could have been lightning I hadn’t seen. Maybe the lightning hit the bird instead of hitting me or my dog. Maybe that bird saved my life.
Or maybe there was a hawk flying overhead; hawks have been known to grab other birds for dinner. Maybe the hawk got spooked and somehow dropped an injured bird. But I didn’t see a hawk, or even a shadow, and it fell so close to me. It seemed unlikely.
Or maybe the bird just … stopped. Maybe it had some kind of bird ailment, like a human heart attack, and it was just flying along and then – wham – it dropped out of the air in mid-flight. Maybe it was perfectly happy, having a great day, and then suddenly – its life was over.
As much as I didn’t want the bird to be dead, I mostly didn’t want the bird to suffer. And I thought that if it were just flying along – not being carried by a hawk or threatened by a storm – merrily flapping its wings and enjoying its life…. I thought maybe that would be the best way to go.
I thought of my life, much of it spent sitting around staring at a screen, when there’s a whole world to explore. When my last moment comes, I’d rather be flapping my wings and looking around, enjoying the breeze, than worrying about predators and lightning. And since I’m not a bird, I have that option.
I don’t have to just … sit because I don’t know what might happen. I don’t have to be debilitated by my fears, but sometimes I am. I have choices; I can do things.
I don’t have to fly, but I can do something. In fact, I can do virtually anything. I could jump out of a plane, write a love letter, swim in a lake, polish my coin collection, create a new song, take a painting class, travel, go on safari, go on a scavenger hunt, go grocery shopping. I can do anything.
That bird reminded me that any moment might be my last. I’d like my moments to matter.
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I’ll be doing some moment-gathering in the next couple of weeks, so my blog will have to wait. I hope my faithful readers will come back in July for some more installments, even if there is no breathless anticipation for those reading moments to occur.
Yesterday, with Pomp and Circumstance playing, I watched Shane walk to his seat for his high school graduation ceremony. Normally, I would try not to cry – but in this case, I didn’t feel like crying.
At first I thought, I’m just happy for him to be out of that school. I’m not fond of the new high school principal, who treats these nearly full-grown adults like they’re in elementary school. And I was happy that virtual learning appears to be behind us. So I am, indeed, happy for him to be done with high school.
I did cry a little when the commencement speaker – Shane’s favorite teacher – spoke. The teacher is moving to Singapore, and it breaks my heart to see him go.
But as Shane strolled across that stage, I found myself bursting with joy and pride instead of emotionally sobbing. And my calm revolved mostly around Shane just being Shane. I wasn’t crying because … I know that Shane will be completely fine after high school.
Shane has been choosing his own clothes since he was a toddler. He didn’t like all of Dylan’s hand-me-downs; he preferred a more professional attire. In elementary school, while I drove Dylan to private school, Shane got himself up, showered and dressed, made himself breakfast and prepared himself for school every day. He’s been doing his own laundry since middle school. During the pandemic, thanks to my new relationship with food, Shane started making all three meals for himself. And after working through his vision processing therapy in first grade, Shane never needed any help with his school work. He prioritized it, completed his homework on his own, and didn’t even ask for my help with large projects.
In other words, Shane hasn’t needed me to help him with anything for a very long time. He certainly has his share of issues, but Shane is independent in both thought and action.
I read somewhere that when a dog cries at the window as you leave, it’s not because he wants to go with you – although he does want to go. It’s because he thinks he needs to go with you, or you’ll be lost. You won’t know how to find your way back without him. You won’t know what to do while you’re out. Pack animals are big believers in needing the entire pack to be together in order to accomplish things.
I thought about my dog, Xena, yesterday during the ceremony. Xena would watch us drive away with the most perplexed look on her face. Why would you – how could you – leave without me? She thought she was in charge, that we needed her for every moment of every day. So when we left, she would break down and cry.
But with Shane sitting amidst the rows of other black-and-orange caps and gowns in Washington D.C., I knew he was going to be fine without me. He’s going to be out of the madness of immature high school students, and finally in school with like-minded peers. He’s been preparing himself for college since he was old enough to know what it meant.
I will miss Shane like crazy in Wisconsin. I will want to talk to him every single day, to hear how it’s going, to see how he’s doing, to know what he’s thinking. But I’m just so excited for him to go to Lawrence University. He’s going to grow, shine, thrive there.
And when he needs me, and sometimes even when he doesn’t, he will call.
So at graduation, mostly I smiled. It was that kind of moment.
The College of Wooster taught me possibly the most important rule in the college search: it’s not about the college; it’s about student fit.
When we arrived for our tour and admissions session at Wooster, we were greeted by a couple of admissions representatives and one of the college’s deans. They were professional but also very kind. They were enthusiastic without being pushy, happy to see us without being desperate, and friendly without being intrusive. In fact, they were awesome.
Our admissions session was similar. We were welcomed into a room where we could completely social distance, but we were close enough to the student panel to talk to them without yelling. All three of the students were shining examples of the special things about Wooster: amazing social organizations, a strong international population, and research opportunities unlike any in the country.
After the session, which lasted slightly less than an hour and included a lot of laughter, we headed out for our campus tour. If I remember correctly, there was some snow. One of the traditions at Wooster is to fill an enormous archway with snow overnight in order to force a “snow day” cancellation. I enjoyed this idea so much, I took several pictures of the (unfilled) archway.
Our tour guide was sweet and intelligent, the tour filled with information and humor. We walked all over the campus, admiring the architecture and landscaping, until we were led back to the admissions office.
As was always the case with Shane, he did not want to be questioned about his opinion until we were safely away from Wooster students and staff. Excitedly, I closed my car door and asked, “What do you think?”
“No,” he said.
“NO?!” I repeated, incredulous. “Why not?” I didn’t dare add my own opinion: This is one of the best colleges in the country! I love this place!
“Everybody is too friendly,” he said. For a moment, I thought he was kidding.
“Too friendly? What do you mean?”
“I mean the dean came out and talked to us. Everybody talked to us. The tour guide was happy, like, the whole time. Everybody was just too nice.”
This didn’t stop me from forcing him to look at Wooster again. On our way through Ohio on a different trip, we stopped in to see the campus on a hoppin’ Friday night. We found very little to suggest that the campus was “hopping” and when we finally found people having a good time, it was a group of three guys who were blasting bad music and smoking weed in the quad.
It wasn’t until we toured Lawrence University that I understood what Shane was trying to say about Wooster. Shane was looking for “his” people – and they were nowhere to be found at Wooster. In spite of its excellence and an incredible financial aid package, Wooster dropped to the bottom of the list and stayed there for the remainder of his search.
Shane went to his prom with two dates, a girlfriend (who was going with someone else), a bunch of friends, a new blond-highlighted hairstyle and a tuxedo that made him look even more dashing than usual.
But Shane’s prom wasn’t great. Sure, he had fun taking pictures before the dance. Like amateur models, hundreds of students stood outside snapping photos in front of a glorious lake at sunset. The results were breathtakingly beautiful, and the kids had a blast.
The dance, however, was … just a dance. Like all school dances, a mob of kids crammed into a tiny space with no room for anyone to breathe. Given that the mask mandate was lifted for this bunch of teenagers, maybe it was a super-spreader event.
Shane stayed out of the fray and spent much of prom alone. They played exactly one slow song; Shane danced with his girlfriend. That was the end of prom’s romantic side.
The after prom party was worse. Disorganized event coordinators hadn’t counted on how much time it would take for 800 people to write their names and phone numbers on three raffle tickets … each. Shane got in line – again alone – at 11:00, and was ushered inside after midnight. He found a few friends and played some games at Dave & Buster’s – but he was ready to go home two hours later. Most students left before he did.
Dylan’s prom was held elsewhere, but his feelings were identical.
It makes me wonder why they can’t fix the inherent issue with school dances: the fact that so many kids don’t want to be smashed like sardines onto a teeny dance floor full of sweaty bodies. The kids who have it all in high school – the ones who love school dances – are all out there, whooping it up. But the rest of the kids – like my sons, and like me – tend to stand outside. They are literally left out.
Shane could have forced himself into an uncomfortable situation, and maybe he would have had more fun if he had. But why couldn’t they just extend the dance floor so that all the kids could dance without claustrophobia setting in? Why couldn’t they play more than one slow song, so kids would have a chance to talk?
Here’s what I remember from my prom: I wore a beautiful dress, which my mom made. My dad gave me a special pair of earrings to wear. I took my ex-boyfriend with me – even though we were broken up – and my best friend took a virtual stranger for the same reason.
I remember being bored to tears at prom; I do not remember dancing.
At after-prom, I remember only boredom and exhaustion – on a beautiful river cruise that lasted until sunrise. A lot of my boredom had to do with a severe lack of alcohol; even at 17, I was desperate for a drink. Unsurprisingly, alcohol was not allowed.
I remember the trip home, when my ex-boyfriend fell asleep at the wheel. The car veered off the highway into the jersey wall on the median – which woke up the driver and his passengers, who’d all fallen asleep. We stayed awake after that.
I hope Shane has fonder memories than mine, but it seems as though only those who love school dances will also love the prom. This makes sense, but I wish there were events for those of us who are outcasts, but I guess that would alter the definition of the word “outcast.”
But would that be so awful?
We completely ignored Knox College on our first midwest college tour – during spring break of Shane’s junior year. Visiting Knox would have added five hours of driving to our trip, so I revised my plan to see two schools in Wisconsin instead of one in central Illinois.
Later I regretted my decision. Shane did a Zoom college fair that included Knox and, while he virtually met with five different colleges in about an hour, Knox stood out as the one that suited him best. Their admissions counselor was fun and funny; the students online were bright and interesting.
Knox has some incredible academic opportunities, including specialized trimesters called “rep terms” that allow students to follow their passions for a solid ten weeks. They have a “power of experience” grant that gives each student $2,000 with which to do whatever kind of project or research suits them best. Students work very independently at Knox in order to explore their passions.
At the end of the Zoom meeting, they told Shane to “please come and visit!” And so, eventually, we did. We weren’t able to do an Open House in the fall of Shane’s senior year, but we found a way to visit and tour the school anyway. Of the things that stood out, some were good and some were bad.
The best was having a chance to sit in a chair that Abraham Lincoln used once. Abraham Lincoln! Knox College hosted the Lincoln-Douglas debates and they’ve kept the chair in its original condition. But they allow people to sit in it, which I loved.
Shane was less enthralled with the chair but paid close attention to the flyers hanging on every bulletin board in the entire school, screaming, DO YOU LIKE TO SMOKE? The flyers were seeking volunteers for a student research project, but they gave the impression that there were a lot of pot-smoking students on campus. And maybe there were – which almost turned away Shane completely.
Those flyers were still up six months later when we visited again for Admitted Students Day. Unfortunately for me, I got food poisoning the night before the event and was too sick to leave my bed for three days. But for Shane and Knox College, this was a good thing. Shane went to the event on his own, learning more about Knox without any input or bias from me. He attended lectures and classes and groups all on his own – and he loved it.
Afterward, Shane met with his “mentor,” someone Knox had assigned as a sort of automatic friend. In fact, Shane met with his mentor two days in a row, since I was still in bed – and he was able to meet her cat and get to know the school climate after the other admitted students left.
Shane loved Knox after this visit. It skyrocketed to the top of his list, behind only one school – coincidentally, behind one of the colleges he’d seen in Wisconsin on that first midwest road trip. But Knox was a very solid runner-up, after coming in rather late in the game, and Shane said he thought he would have been happy at Knox, too… except for one thing.
His mentor said Knox wasn’t her first choice, and that she still kind of regretted not going elsewhere.
For Shane, that kind of nagging doubt is unacceptable. He didn’t want to look back and worry that he’d chosen the wrong school. He loved Knox – he really did – but for Shane, Knox was destined to fall into second place.
The Virginia Tech shooting brought me to tears in front of my children. Dylan was six when he asked from the back seat, “What’s wrong, Mommy?”
Using my best little-kid vocabulary, I explained to my babies that someone else’s babies had been killed. And they wanted to know, just like all of us do: Why?
What bothers me today is that I did not cry for the victims in Texas, Buffalo, Milwaukee. I have reached the point of numbness. I can no longer properly process the tragedies; I want to pretend they’re not still happening.
But they’re real.
I hate guns; I see no need for violence, ever. I don’t believe in purposeful hurt. But I don’t think we’re having the right discussions right now. This story didn’t start with guns. It started with a person who decided that it’s perfectly okay to go out and slaughter defenseless strangers for no apparent reason.
Our society promotes violence. Violence draws attention. It gets ratings. Violence is everywhere: movies, books, TV, news. Destruction and death … sell. For many, violence dwells – even thrives – in the community.
And how do we raise our kids? We throw them in front of a TV or a computer as soon as they’re able to sit up without assistance. We use screens as a babysitter; we use video games as a reward. Video games are rife with gun violence – kids grow up immune to it. (Or do they?) And parents ignore the warnings on the labels, paying little attention to what their kids watch or do. By middle school, even good parents trade in time with their kids for screen time because they’re tired of actually parenting. They don’t want to be bothered by those incessant questions.
I lived for those questions. I loved answering whatever my kids asked, because it helped me to make sense of the world myself – and it helped me to get to know my kids a little better. And when they reached their preteen years and started questioning the existence of God, I allowed them to question. I gave them my perspective; I told them what I know and what I believe. And they found their own answers.
But some kids are ignored. They form their own answers amidst violence, negativity and destruction. Their parents are bullies, predators, alcoholics, gamblers, addicts and abusers. Thousands, if not millions of kids flail unprotected because there is nowhere for them to turn for help.
Time passes; these kids grow up.
There’s only so much that can be handled by volunteers – who are just people – answering phones for the Suicide Prevention Hotline. To say that we need a Homicide Prevention Hotline would be an understatement. But the government agencies put into place to help people who really need help and can’t afford it…? They are mired in paperwork, understaffed, and helping few.
People are hurting. They are screaming for help. They are begging – starting at a very young age – to be loved, nurtured, protected, saved. And teachers can’t always be saviors.
There’s no one to trust; no one to tell them that it’s going to be okay. So after years of believing that it’s not going to be okay, believing there’s nowhere else to turn, they pick up a gun and start shooting.
Yes, we need to do more to stop gun violence. But we need to do more to save the shooters before they become shooters. Mass shootings won’t stop no matter how loudly we argue about gun laws.
Shootings will stop when love overrides fear. It’s literally that simple.
Ithaca College was Shane’s number one choice of colleges for a long time, especially during the pandemic. Ithaca had a great film program, a screenwriting program, and alumni who work on TV shows ranging from Cheers to WandaVision. Their Zoom events were some of the most impressive I had ever seen, and I even attended one without Shane (with the school’s permission) because the theme was Super Bowl commercials – one of my very favorite things!
With Ithaca being so close to home, I happily envisioned Shane only four hours from home and still working on the next WandaVision (although there will never be another show like WandaVision). But after Shane’s visit in Fall of his senior year, his interest started to wane.
As we were leaving Ithaca’s Open House, my excitement level was off the charts. We had just toured film studios, recording booths, radio studios, and at least one session that discussed Park School majors including Integrated Marketing Communications. As a Communications major with long-ago dreams of working in television, I could hardly contain myself.
“So, what do you think of Ithaca?” I asked Shane breathlessly – partly because we’d just climbed a big hill to the parking lot.
“It reminded me why I don’t want to major in film,” Shane said without a hint of enthusiasm. His initial interest in film had been waning since 8th grade, but I was still surprised. Ithaca College had everything I loved. But I didn’t get to go there.
Shane’s acceptance from Ithaca came with a huge scholarship – but not quite as big as some other offers. Fortunately, Shane was accepted into the highly selective Leadership Scholars program and would get an additional $7,000 per year for his participation. In addition, he would find ready-made friends in the program and get paid for joining clubs on campus that he would have joined anyway.
Shane considered this program “work” and wasn’t thrilled – so Ithaca dropped a bit further on his list.
Over the winter, Shane did a little more research and found some disturbing comments online. Ithaca’s own students were expressing their disappointment in, and frustration with, the college. None of us – least of all me – understood their dissatisfaction. But … several programs had recently been cut by the administration. Their president left after only four years. And a new president – one who may have been at least partially responsible for the cuts – had begun a new reign. Morale was pretty low.
The final nail in the coffin for Shane happened right after Admitted Students Day. Since he makes Tik Tok videos as a hobby, Shane created a video with a current Ithaca student. It was a funny video and it got thousands of views. The viewers left comments – but the comments weren’t all positive. Ithaca students recognized the campus and said things like, “Is that Ithaca? I am so glad I’m out of there!” and “Park School sucks!”
We still don’t know why a perfectly good school has made enemies of so many students. And I still think Shane would have been a great Leadership Scholar; plus it would have been super nice to have him so close to home. But even though I loved Ithaca, it was definitely not the place for Shane.
