I was sitting on the steps of the Rotunda the other night. I was not naked, running up the steps like my first-year self. I was not garbed in a gown, descending the steps like my fourth-year self will. I was just sitting, actively talking and passively hanging in the balance between my college beginning and ending. My friend asked me: "What would you tell yourself then about what you know now?"\nI think "then" referred to my first day at college. I made up some answers to placate the questioner. In reality I needed a lot more time to ponder what I would write in a letter to myself. "Then," I realized, went back as far as my memory reached. This is what I would tell her:
Fuzzy, formless Connelly of my early, early years, don't fade anymore than you already have. The "dirt and worms" stuff they try to feed you does not warrant tears, for the dirt is not dirt and the worms are candy. The pretty older girls in school will not be in your class next year; they are still older and will keep their distance. Your hair will grow out once Mama stops cutting it "to show your pretty face." The girls you follow around and swing next to and pretend to listen to are, as you already guessed, not really your best friends. Sissy is the best companion you'll ever need.
Shy, scared, smart Connelly of middle school: it will be over soon enough. The girls who whisper about you will stop whispering in a few years, for they'll have nothing left to say. You will grow out, then up. The 'A's' you get in eighth grade geography will stay on your high school report cards, always ranking you at least five places higher than your sister. Hold this over her head when she deserves it. When you finally think you're pretty at 13, don't stop thinking it. You are.
Early high school Connelly: you are not missing out. You might as well keep worrying about your lack of attendance at parties in fields and at houses where parents are out of town because I know I can't stop you. But trust me that things get better when you can drive, even if Mama follows behind in the red jeep, quietly turning around when you've reached your destination. The girls with the older boyfriends and the perfectly flat ironed hair will live at home one day, never experiencing the real "best four years" of their lives. Stop envying them. Keep running with boys at track practice, for once you stop you'll inevitably join the debate team and never be that fast again.
Sixteen-year-old Connelly: one day you will be 17. And that heart that was so full and then so empty slowly will fill up again. A boy will like you, and then another. Keep playing the twin card until it happens.
Connelly before college: don't be afraid to be afraid. You won't lose your sister just because you live in different dorms. You might make new friends, though, and that's something you never really have done; don't worry, there will be enough aggressive friend seekers that you won't have to initiate too many new relationships. Cry a lot on your mother's shoulder because in college you can only cry in the shower - or walking home in the dark, but, really, that's a little dramatic. Don't do too much because you'll be busy soon enough. Just lay out and get tan. Tan looks good in the hundreds of pictures you'll take on the first night in your dorm.
College Connellys, both the scared first year and the scared second year: hold on to the good things. I could tell you to study more for French tests, but you'd still get a 'B-'. I could tell you to stop hanging out with the newly single boy, but you still will text him. I could tell you how not to mess up, but then I wouldn't have any stories to tell.
Instead of telling you to do things differently, I am telling you to stay the same. Fuzzy, formless Connelly and 16-year-old Connelly are one in the same; they both want things that are good and sweet and short-lived and then they want some more. Keep eating too much candy like you have for 19 years. Keep making inappropriate jokes to the dismay of your sister. Keep calling Mama when you need to cry. Keep seeking out people who make you laugh and see if you can make them laugh even harder. Keep wanting to be happy more than you want to be rich or successful or well-rested. Keep writing letters to yourself.
I can write to myself, the younger me, and pretend that I know a lot more now than I once knew then. But as I reach my halfway point in these painfully wonderful four years, I think I could learn a lot from the happy little girl with boy-short hair and Oreo-covered hands. She'll grab the hand of her matching self - the best companion she'll ever have - and confidently walk in the direction of her future, not needing any letters, for she's got everything she needs.
Connelly's column runs weekly Thursdays. She can be reached at c.hardaway@cavalierdaily.com.
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