In Binghamton, there is a carcass of a Spine and literature for teeth. Most days spent crouched on linen bedsheets and writing, in poet Diane Suess’ words, what’s “abominable, unquenchable by touch,” Binghamton hasn’t always been my favorite place. But, it is where I’ve spent four years approaching myself — growing into her — amassing books for a collection that could never rival Bartle’s and sinking into the Chenango River.

Admittedly, I’ve spent too much time in Binghamton alone in tired habits to satisfyingly account for all it has to offer; the most notable memories include exposed wood ceiling beams that perhaps I’d pretend I wouldn’t get to see every night, sticky coffee tables and indulgent smells — lavender, coconut, vanilla. It wasn’t in service of the coveted self-reflection but, rather truthfully, an indifference to — a discomfort in — what was outside “me.”

I’d always grown up isolated, hearing the most extreme stories and the importance of blood. Being alone, or “hanging out,” has brought immense joys, an aptitude for listening and a promise for closure, literally.

But, despite only ever trusting what was closest to me, what I had to lug around every day, no amount of running down the Spine at 2 a.m., screaming at the top of my lungs and betting whether my throat or legs would give out first — on my indefinite survival besides — could prepare me for my lack, or rather excess, of movement in my community — how I’ve almost failed the most genuine in the world, and myself.

There was no turning point for me in college, but I’ve learned that no matter how much you read, how much you enjoy being alone or how grossly educated you become, you simply do not matter without the care of others. There is community everywhere, and everything is intertwined in a neat, intimate web of earnestly drawn arms, stretching and stretching beyond bodily comfort. Have faith in people; there’s good, and there’s good in being susceptible to close encounters — to change.

Still, I can’t pretend that I have newfound wisdom to offer, nor can I say I’ve come out of college a better, more determined person, because suddenly the mechanisms of the world have let up on strewing precariousness as casualty, on masquerading hatred under a thin veil of ignorance. Really, I’ve never been more terrified.

Doxxing attempts, misconstrued words, threats to higher education, attacks on trans rights, indiscriminate terror in Palestine, devaluation of undocumented (and documented) immigrants and students, living in an ongoing settler colonialist system — all the things I cannot, or refuse to, comment on for fear of regurgitating what I believe everyone should already be thinking.

In these times, writing can be more alienating than anything; writing about these material issues often just feels like an attempt to blanket the mass of meaninglessness with more weight, more warmth, as if being compacted meant it could then be swallowed whole.

Then, I think about my parents, English language learners who never felt secure enough to express themselves in any tongue, and how lucky I am to share in language’s mystifying world at the foot of my mouth, the exile’s pen or the tender clicks of a projector.

No matter the week or how long I went without speaking, I knew that, every Sunday and Wednesday, I’d walk into Pipe Dream’s box of an office with hi’s ready, and I’d spend hours tinkling with rhetoric, choreographing letters on a page, surrounded by people dedicated to keeping the word alive — and I don’t think there’s anything meaningless about that.

I’m not sure where writing stands for me at the moment — poetry won’t save you and neither will passivity — but I’m so thankful I’m not where I wanted to be. I can only treat being dislodged so severely as a treasure and being in limbo as the blessed, exploding consumption of all that I am.

So, to the people I’ve reached for:

Antonia and Jordan, the most decided, honest and humble people I know. Opinions needed more of that. You two will be amazing editors. To incoming staff, Pipe Dream is in good hands (long live print).

Staff, grad students and faculty at Binghamton: your dedication to students, invisible labor and enthusiasm for your craft does not go unnoticed. Thank you, Dr. Wall, for introducing me to some of my favorite films — you have impeccable taste — discussing Benjamin with me and changing the trajectory of my college career. Thank you, Professor Sorenson, for the realness, guidance and — from theory to grad school applications — always making me feel like I belong. Thank you, Jeffner and Professor Gerrits, for your patience in working on my honors thesis with me — I could not have produced something I am proud of without you both (plus, you two always seem to have the coolest syllabi).

Joe, “working-class poet,” thank you for being human. For teaching with compassion, lending me your library and consistently reminding me of how to be a better community member and lifelong student. You’ve encouraged me to experiment with my poetry and take the untold off the pages — white space will seem boring to me for far too long. I hope that pickup truck serves you well.

Reina and Kayla, thank you for seeing me as I am. More rave, more dance, more song, more trauma — friendship is ecstasy!

Nathan, you are my rock. Thank you for always pushing me outside my comfort zone and teaching me vulnerability. Thank you for believing in me — for the history crash courses in the early mornings and raw passion; your meticulous effort and knowledge will serve the world in more ways than I ever could. The world is not only a better place with you in it, but a cruel splendor.

To my family — thank you for the totality of my tangled being. Mom, for teaching me how to read and write in English in that tiny multifunctional room when you didn’t know any of the words. For laundry trips and gumball rewards, redefining femininity and making sure we never went hungry. Dad, “Leon,” my first purveyor of the arts. I hope we can paint together someday and watch your old friend on “Kung Fu Hustle,” or just the lone tumbleweed you blew on that obscure film set. Nail art is nothing like that, but you do make my favorite florals.

Joyce, my best friend, thank you for showing me graduating from college was possible and making me laugh in life’s pitiful face. Aaron, you wear your empathy on your sleeve — you’ll fit right in here.

Grandpa, thank you for raising me and being the epitome of cultural pride. I’m indebted to opera DVDs and still live with my back against smoke-stained walls — I hope I make you proud.

It’s been a slow journey toward an ethics of care, sitting with the feeling of being on edge and unending expanse. This feast could only end in love.

Julie Ha, a senior majoring in English, is Pipe Dream’s opinions editor.