I feel as if it’s very appropriate to write this article. It’s the end of first year. I’m very happy to be at Innis. Many of my precious friends are from orientation. The kind staff and tomato soup from Innis cafe has truly saved some bad days (the jerk chicken is also so good, because some of the jerk mixes with the rice, and then the flavours! The pasta salad is such a nice compliment mmm…). I’m currently taking ENG197, Time Travel and Narrative, which takes place on the third floor. The library’s 4-cent printing got me through the first semester because I like to be able to hold important readings in my hands. The last Herald issue has a bunch of articles done by me and my friends, which I still fangirl about whenever I see the print lying around.

I sound like a poster child for Innis. I could be. Although I didn’t know Harold Innis, the guy our college (and accompanying newspaper) is named after, was a political writer and thinker. The bookkeeper from Seeker’s (if you happen to visit, say hi to Churchill for me!) mentioned it during one of my visits recently, perhaps in February. Still, I’m not terribly fond of the blocky red architecture, the left door leading out of the cafe hates me, I may have forgotten some of the chants, and the basement bathrooms scare me.

But I’m grateful. Innis college has folded into my life, as have the people and the newspaper and the shirt from orientation. It reads: INNISTOGETHER (which, annoyingly, always prompts that one line of that High School Musical song in my mind) and since it’s entered my closet, it’s been around the block. 

Early September:

It sat in my bag as I met some pretty cool people. I can’t express how amazing some of them are and how much I wish I could squish them right now and just scream because I’m so lucky to be their friend. They’ve shown me some funky things: linguistic trees, crushing halved potatoes with a fork to make crispy wedges, the movie Scream, shows in Etobicoke, fried dough rice noodle roll, rugby terminology (honourable mentions: Black Swan, Alison Bechdel, bi lightsabers, what a mosh pit feels like, and old PATD!) …to be loved is to be changed.

Mid-November:

I used to have very healthy and mid-length hair. just above my shoulders. However, I wanted to properly try short hair: not just chin length, or a half-wolf cut, but real short, like a typical guy’s haircut. So I changed into my Innis shirt, put my garbage in my sink, grabbed the only scissors I had—kid scissors my sister and I used for playdough—and got rid of chunks of hair to the best of my ability. My dad was on the phone with me, discussing my family and my sisters as I cut my hair for two hours. It turned out okay, I think. A bit scraggly. I like to think I’ve gotten a bit better at cutting my own hair, but who knows.

Early December:

The dryers at the Chelsea Hotel decided it was snack time. My clothes bear scars. Socks have holes in the top, a bargain t-shirt got its left sleeve chewed up, and one of my favourite jackets has rips in it. I remember leafing through my hamper the day after I got my clothes back, when I realized they had been massacred, and hoping my other jacket and Innis shirt hadn’t been ruined. Thankfully, both of them were unscathed, and I hope to keep it that way.

Late February:

I got sick during both reading weeks. It was subpar. The November sickness was wretched, so many hot flashes and puking and feeling weak. February was not as bad. Everything ached, and I remember getting out of the shower and wanting the specific feeling of the Innis shirt. It’s a bit rougher and coarser than some of my other shirts, but big enough that it’s breathable and comfortable. All clothes have specific textures. The shirt wasn’t in its usual drawer and I wanted to kick something. Eventually, I found it with my socks. I think I slept for 14 hours after I put it on.

I default to Innis. I just made plans to meet one of my friends at the cafe tomorrow. I already spent a good chunk of time at the college today, for ENG197 (although I was, admittedly, late) and to kill time in between my next class with two friends. Nothing has made university more bearable (and even lovely) than the small, artistic college with a chonky red exterior, the kindest cafe, and wonderful people.