Chelsia Durkee, copywriter & creative

I stood below the gates of Brown University, soaking in the steady stream of students from all over the world. Some were laughing and lounging in the grass, others looked stern and serious–as if pondering their next ingenious invention–and still others were huddled in groups, debating over the latest scientific news and technology. 

Ever since I was a child, I had my life all planned out. Coming from a blue-collar family, I would help run my family’s business while attending night classes at the local college, marry my high school sweetheart, and pump out three children by the ripe age of 30. That entire trajectory changed during my senior year of high school, when my art teacher submitted my portfolio to some of the country’s best ivy leagues.

I never thought of myself as creative, or talented, or clever, but one gold-engraved congratulatory letter later confirmed that my world was about to expand. 

As I organized my two boxes of clothes and textbooks, I scanned my admission package for my roommate’s name. Her name was Francesca and she was a foreign exchange student from Italy. My mind instantly filled with images of Michelangelo, the Coliseum, and gelato. I imagined her to be rich and cultured, with a sharp accent and leather stilettos. 

As I framed my photos of ma mere and mon pere, a gorgeous dark-haired woman entered the room. She bent down to give me a kiss, one fresh on each cheek. I smiled hesitantly, studying her olive-toned complexion. After an initial flurry of Ciao bella, we gleefully traded stories of Italy and rural New Jersey. It was then that I realized that Francesca was going to be much more than an ordinary roommate. We discovered that we were both from working-class backgrounds. Her father worked in a factory while both my parents tended to our blueberry farm. Both our families begged us to stay home for school. And most importantly, art lit our souls on fire more than anything else in this world.

We giggled as Francesca hung up her Sex and the City poster.
I placed the mini replica of David my sister bought me as a going away present on top of my dresser. “Maybe it’ll inspire you to see more than just the art.”, Francesca laughed, grinning mischievously. 

From that first fateful day at Brown, we were inseparable. My more cautious temperament balanced Francesca’s impulsive–and sometimes wild–antics. Always the life of the party, I hovered next to her, trying desperately to absorb some of her glow. If my shyness dimmed her light–which I don’t think anything would have–Francesca didn’t reveal it to me.

One night, after a late-night study session, she convinced me to go to the Alpha Delta Phi (or is it Alpha Beta Omega?) Sorority. “Come on.”, she pleaded, her brown eyes revealing a hint of mirth. “You’re an adult now! The world is your oyster.”

“I’m allergic to oysters.”, I responded dryly. She ignored me while taking her first shot of whiskey. “I don’t know why Americans have to label everything. Why call it a fraternity? In my country, drinking at someone’s house is just another family gathering.”   

“You know what, what the hell.”, I stood up, slamming my Classics textbook. “I’m yours.” I gestured dramatically at my petite frame. “Make me a slut.” Francesca screamed with delight. In a drunken flurry, she grabbed her makeup, body glitter, and a stack of tube tops.

“You look stunning”, Francesca crooned. I admired my reflection in the mirror. For the first time, I didn’t cringe at my crooked teeth or freckles. “Damn, I’ve got curves”, I said, tugging at my tiny barely there skirt. 

Feeling emboldened by the whiskey and my new look, we walked hand in hand, our heels clacking along the cobblestone steps.

Even though it was only 9:30, the row of frat houses were already filled with throngs of students. The steady beat of Aaliyah, crop tops, and saggy jeans were a comically stark contrast against the chestnut-colored bricks. 

“C’mon, let’s dance!” Francesca yelled as she swerved me through the crowds. 

On the dance floor, my self-consciousness faded as I bumped to the rhythm of the music, feeling like I was high on electric sugar. 

Out of the corner of my eye, there he was, in all his blond, blue-eyed, 6 feet 5″ glory. His all-American appearance wasn’t unique in New England. But his swagger, chiseled jaw, and his confidence that almost danced into borderline arrogance made him popular among men and women alike. I often sat behind him in Classics, soaking in his provincial golden, pretty boy vibes. In my thirties, I would find this type of self-assurance and privilege distasteful. But as an impressionable 19 year old, I gravitated toward anything that masqueraded as self-respect. 

Oh shit. He’s coming this way, and did he just flash me his perfectly aligned pearly whites? 

“Hey”, he slurred, his hot breath clearly reeking of one too many BudLights.   

“I’m Brad. What’s your name?”, he asked. 

He clearly didn’t recognize me underneath my ruby red lips and straightened locks. In that moment, I was no longer the gawking nerd who could craft an impromptu argument against Plato in 30 seconds flat.  

Now’s my chance to craft my persona–to be the woman I always wanted to be. 

“I’m Mila”, I lied, blurting out the first name I could remember from the latest romance novel I was absorbed in. 

“Cool. You’re hot. Let’s dance.”, he replied nonchalantly. 

We started out dancing to Notorious BIG, and my arms wrapped around his broad shoulders. It was somewhere between the lust in his eyes and the sounds of Fatman Scoop that his hands hovered below my waist. Heat flushed my face. I liked this feeling, this dizzying intoxication from both the alcohol and my newly acquired power thanks to my assets.

His touch drove me wild in ways I couldn’t comprehend—much less expect. I glanced over at Francesca, who was effortlessly standing on her hands. Her eyes rolled back as she eagerly sipped from the line of keggers, students cheering her on. That’s why when Brad revealed two oblong shaped pills, I clumsily downed it with another shot of whiskey. The room spun before I finished my last gulp.

It felt so freeing to finally lose control, to feel desirable, to be seen as sexy–and actually believe it. 

From then on, Brad and I started taking our relationship to the next level. And by next level, I mean I sat behind him in Classics and pretended nothing happened. We occasionally said “Hey, what’s up?” and acknowledged each other (at this point, he knew my name wasn’t Mila), but without the swirl of booze or pills, I quickly grew bored of him and realized that we had nothing in common beyond that fateful night. 

You probably wanted to hear that my interactions with Brad become more and more titillating. That the party was the first of many classic–will they or won’t they–dances.

But this story ends doesn’t end with Brad, or any particular man. Instead, it’s about my newfound confidence that translated well outside of the dance floor. 

The next week, as Francesca and I made our way down the cobbled steps to our sculpture class, a frat boy named Chad sneered at us. “Guess all the affirmative action kids stick together”, he taunted, his eyes black with disgust. 

“Guess all the trust fund yuppies had their parents cry to the dean to get them in.”, I retorted, surprising myself.

“Think what you want, but I belong here fair and square, until like you two.” His face hardened in pure disgust.

“Let’s go.”, Francesca said, grabbing my arm and glaring at him. “His tiny brain cells aren’t worth our energy.” 

From my freshman year, I learned that discrimination can come in all shapes and forms. A sneer, a backhanded comment, the way some clubs asserted that their capacity was full.

But I also learned from Francesca, and all the other students deemed different, that humanity is a work of art, if only you allow yourself to see it.  

With Francesca’s guidance, I no longer saw myself as the ugly duckling or the sassy best friend in the rom-com. I didn’t identify as the dispassionate observer of someone else’s story. Slowly, I started speaking my mind.

When I went out on dates, I went in with the expectation of having fun, rather than making the other person across the table fill out an application to be my life partner. 

I only said yes to men I was attracted to physically and emotionally. I no longer wasted my time on unrequited crushes. I called the shots in my life in and outside of the bedroom. And when I was ready to explore a connection, I no longer remained hardened against the possibility of love.

I learned that love can come in all shapes and forms. Laughter in the grass on the quad, passionate discussions on art, and unexpected connections from strangers transformed into best friends.

The next summer I saved all my internship money and jetted to Florence to see the real David with Francesca.

Not too bad for a working-class kid from New Jersey, right?