“Tell us about a place or community you call home. How has it shaped your perspective? (250 words)”
ORDER SUMMARY:
Burrito: Rice, Black Beans, Tofu, Sauteed Veggies, Roasted Corn Salsa, Hot Tomatillo Salsa
Chips and Guac
Total: $11.38
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A solid Chipotle order, right? Not quite. Ever heard of Pancheros?
Although their fresh-pressed tortillas are legendary, what draws me to Pancheros is not the food but the dining experience. The table in the bottom-right corner has become more than just an eatery for me and my friends. It’s a place for us to discuss the meaning of astrological signs, grind through chemistry labs and calculus problem sets, cry over the ending of Call Me by Your Name, and gush over passing teenage boys (12:30 p.m. on Wednesdays is the prime time).
At Pancheros, I’m enveloped in a comfort and camaraderie that allows me to fully be myself. I enter a mystical world where nothing else exists. Just me, my friends, and my burrito…
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This prompt from when I applied to Brown still resonates with me four years later. The section above is a snippet of the response I wrote back then. It was senior year of high school, as I was preparing to leave everything I had ever known behind. My concept of home was shaped solely by the neighborhood I had grown up in. I have lived in the same house since I was born. I followed the typical public school education path in my hometown, graduating high school with peers from my kindergarten class. In the second half of my essay, I described the feeling of bonding with childhood friends and pouring out laughter for hours, a time to simply be free as a teenager. Pancheros was our safe spot. Early dismissal? Pancheros. Post-Model-UN-meeting? Pancheros. How innocent life was.
Now, I’m a senior once again.
The garland-covered walls of my house in Providence hear a different form of laughter, one that’s lighter, richer, and deeper. This place has invited me in, fervently and unashamed. I accept its imperfections while it embraces mine. It holds space for enriching and vulnerable conversations, the most intimate moments spent in both silence and chatter. I don’t go to Pancheros as often as I used to. After May, I won’t return be at Brown every day. When I do return, it won’t be quite as full of everyone who has made it worth loving. Winter break signifies the official beginning of the end, the last great returning to campus. The last opportunity for a gathering and reunion of all the people who’ve changed us and touched our souls in this community that has become all of our homes.
Over the past three months, day by day, week by week, this house has revealed more and more of its greatest unspoken secrets. I know that to avoid stepping on the one crack beneath the floorboard down the hallway that leads to my bedroom, I have to place my foot at least three inches outside its perimeter. There’s another part of the floor by the sink that pokes out a little. It feels like stepping on a small stone, but I know it’s just a natural part of the woodwork because I’ve traced the grooves and ridges of each tile countless times. Earthquakes are rare in Rhode Island, but I’m lucky enough to experience one any time the laundry is running. I’ve learned the correct precautions to take, to remove delicate items from the counter of the bathroom next door (otherwise a glass toner bottle might shatter), and to expect the clanking of the rails around the windows (it’s okay, no one is trying to break in). I know that the dryer will never fully dry my clothes in the first two and a half hours and to always plan my time around a second cycle.
I refer to my roommates and friends in conversation not by their names but by waving my hand toward the direction of spaces around the house they typically occupy. I know that he likes the corner of the couch closer to the window, opposite the sinkhole corner. I know I’ll come home to her sprawled out across the length of the couch parallel to the TV. If it’s been a really long day, she might be asleep, so I’m careful to not let the soles of my slippers wake her up. I know she likes to sit in the middle chair at the kitchen table, on the side closer to the fridge. She helps herself to a cup of hot chocolate, pouring milk from a bottle she brought over on her own. She labels it with a sticky note and pen and puts it back in the fridge for the next time she visits. I know the jar of nitro cold brew is hers, the carton of Oatly too, both of which she stole from Andrews. The ice tray in the freezer is also hers, so I know to only scoop a single cube for myself in the morning. My mug only fits one anyway. I know if I hear Maggie Rogers playing from the shower, it’s one roommate; if I hear Billie Eilish, then it’s the other. But more recently, I’ve been hearing more Maggie Rogers from her, too.
I know that our weekly Market Shares bread will always be the centerpiece of our kitchen table, complemented by a communal bread-cutting knife on the side. I know that the New York Times poster will probably fall off again soon. Its frame is chipped around the edges, and the backs of its rims are covered with mounds of tape and putty from reusing it in my dorm rooms the past few years. I know the corner of the couch that sinks an extra amount, imprinted by us and the owners before us and the ones before them and the ones before them.
We started accumulating festive Christmas decor immediately after Halloween. Since then, we’ve transformed our house into a wonderland. Step inside and your eyes will first land upon the tree, adorned with red, green, and gold ornaments, LED lights, candy canes, and three large bows. Glance to the right and you’ll notice a garland with pinecones and berries, hung against the front of the pony wall that divides the living room and kitchen. On the ledge, what were once mini Trader Joe’s pumpkins have been replaced by ceramic light-up Christmas trees from Target. To the left of the tree, three stockings dangle above the TV. Throw pillows embroidered with Christmas trees and Christmas-colored plaid plead for attention against the grey couch covers, only for a scarlet red throw blanket to outshine them all. A red candle fills the room with subtle notes of cinnamon. On the kitchen table, a pink candle unleashes wisps of peppermint. Their scents mingle and twirl as the faint crackling of their wicks plays a soothing rhythm. It drifts across the mini red bows that cling to the cabinets and fridge, brushes past the mistletoe hung above the bedroom doors, and weaves through the petals of holly and poinsettias.
House decorations change with each occasion. Poinsettias are known as the Christmas flower. Chrysanthemums for Thanksgiving, roses for Valentine’s Day, lilies for Easter—a joyous time for an annual reunion. Some flowers are meant to last for merely a season or two. The excitement is transient, as peak bloom sees its glory in the span of a few short weeks. Then the petals wither, the roots shrivel, until there is no foundation to support its stature. The last remnants of hope die in anguish, never to be revived again. A debilitating but pivotal learning experience. A blessing in disguise. Sometimes endings are simply part of the natural cycle of life—changing climates, terrains, and nutrients. Yet, the imprints are forever etched into the dirt where its roots once laid. On a random afternoon during a quiet neighborhood stroll, there’s a sprinkle of familiarity in the sidewalk garden. A distant cousin or a crossbred variety reemerging a few generations later. A warm glow illuminates its silhouette, a comforting reminder of the past.
Only a select few are perennials. Patient and persistent, they cling to the promise of return every year. Their roots are strong, able to endure times when life’s trajectory plunges us into turmoil, offering to navigate the challenges together.
Before going to bed, I stop for a few extra minutes. Two sources of light guide me from the living room to the kitchen. Soft beams pour out from within the ceramic trees. Twinkling candle flames cast flamboyant dances against the walls. I take in the peppermint-cinnamon scent and blow them out with a gentle breath. I want these moments to last forever. This place, this community, is somewhere only we know.
