Suddenly, I found myself partaking in late-night debates on Nietzsche's Amor Fati,
laughing to childish piano ditties, and even demonstrating my silly attempts at dancing Halay.
But strangely, here, there were no “my people.” Integration didn't exist here,
and in that sense, I no longer had anyone to chase or a label to hide behind.
On my birthday, I visited a small cafe in nearby Selçuk, wearing a mom-prescribed plaid polo shirt and a slightly kitschy floral cap I'd bought as a memento.
After summoning up my courage to ask for a birthday discount, I was suddenly surrounded by friends and strangers alike as the café owner brought out a chocolate cake, leading a spontaneous “Happy Birthday,” two elderly women from the next table joining in before my new friends even did.
I felt as embarrassed, and as truly seen, as I ever had before.
Since that summer, whenever someone asks me what I want college to be like, I tell them of that week in rural Turkey.
It was there that I learned superficialities stop mattering when we throw ourselves into spaces that force us to live identity authentically, instead of performing it.
I want college packed with these intellectually chaotic moments where everyone's gleefully in over their heads.
Oh, and in case you're wondering: Pizza Hawaii and Gossip Girl.
This works. The polo and the floral cap make the moment easy to see without overselling it.