There’s a dream from a few weeks ago that I keep replaying in my mind.
I’m back in Bloomington, the town I grew up in, visiting Indiana University, my alma mater. (Yes, Cutters are real.) It’s an unseasonably warm fall afternoon. The students are out. The leaves are changing colors. The campus looks beautiful. I stroll down Kirkwood, past the buildings and bars that made me. I walk through Dunn Meadow into the media school, where I meet a freshman looking for career advice, except he has no idea what he wants his career to be. He’s a blank canvas of an 18-year-old: quiet, shy, his whole future in front of him. Peculiarly, he’s from upstate New York. He could have gone to college anywhere. How in the world did he end up in southern Indiana?
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