by Celeste Seymore ’13

A college freshman – a college landmark. The freshman is daunted, but also amazed by the structure.

Randolph Hall is stoic, unmoving. It’s an integral piece of a magical place that has been here for nearly two centuries, yet the freshman has only just arrived. Her own mother – Cathy Hawkins Seymore – stood here once, a freshman herself, and possibly feeling the same way as the girl who stands here now feels.

Gone with the Class of 1978, she went on to medical school and later became an esteemed doctor. Her daughter and legacy now stands here, almost 31 years later, wondering what footprints she will leave on the College of Charleston. Staring at the building, I am intimidated, but also oddly at home, because the College is a place I have heard about my entire life. As Carl Sagan once said, “You have to know the past to understand the present.” My case is certainly no different.

My earliest memories of the College are in my mother’s 1967 blood-red Mustang, churning up the cobblestone roads of downtown Charleston. I’m very young, and struggle over the car’s old leather interior to see out the window. After we arrive, she leads me by the hand across the brick paths and points out the places she frequented as a student. We pass the weathered but beautiful Sottile House, where she once lived. I’m unable to appreciate its true beauty at that age, but am particularly fascinated by the stained-glass windows. We finally end up at the Cistern, one of the College’s oldest and most sacred locations.

Still grasping tightly to her hand, I’m led to the old steps of Randolph Hall. There she explains the graduation ceremony, the white dresses, the dinner jackets and the roses. In my mind I try to imagine her life here, and all the great things she did. It won’t be until I’m older that I truly start to understand her story.

As I stare now at Randolph Hall, I think about my mother’s own journey to the College.

My mother has always considered Charleston to be her home, though she has not always lived here. Spending her high school years in Batesburg-Leesville, S.C., my mother graduated a year early almost solely to escape the sleepy little place. The youngest of four, my mother knew early on that nothing in life would be given to her. Money was tight, and some days college seemed only a remote possibility. However, she has never let anything stop her from doing what she wants, and this was no different. With her Mustang (affectionately named “Little Red”) packed to the brim, my mother escaped from Batesburg and headed to the College on a full scholarship. She has always told me those four years were the best years of her life, so when it came time to leave, she moved next door to the Medical University of South Carolina to pursue her love of medicine. It was there she met my father, married him and, 10 years later, gave birth to a daughter – me.

As I stand here before Randolph Hall, I think about my own journey. I grew up in Fort Mill, S.C., but Charleston was never far from my mind. We made numerous trips when I was younger to see family, or sometimes just to see the College itself. I knew all about her life in the Lowcountry, but she insisted I make my own, in Fort Mill. I knew from a very early age that I am nothing like my mother.

While she found comfort and ease in academia, I only found mediocrity. I was not the valedictorian she was, and I certainly was not going to be the doctor she is. I grew up with physicians; I knew it was not something I wanted to do. My passion was in two things: music and athletics. I played clarinet all four years of high school, and served as drum major for Fort Mill’s marching band for three. I played volleyball religiously for seven years. No, I was not her doctor, and sometimes I think that made her even prouder of me.

When the time came to look for a college, I looked high and low for a place I could call my own. I applied to numerous schools and visited numerous campuses, each preaching its cheesy slogans, insisting it was the place to be. It stressed me out to think about all the places I could end up, but one night it struck me as clearly as if I had been hit in the head.

I belonged in Charleston, and I always had. My heart has always been by the ocean, and it still is. I applied in November, and was accepted in December. I remember the day the envelope came, and holding it in my hands, terrified and excited at the same time. My mother watched me open it through teary eyes, and I think she saw herself standing there. The esteemed doctor had stood there 31 years ago, a meek high school senior, holding in her hands the key to a new life. And as I tore open the seal and shakily read the letter, she realized that now I was holding the key.

“Doing all the little tricky things it takes to grow up, step by step, into an anxious and unsettling world”: Sylvia Plath’s words had never meant as much as they did the day I moved into my dorm. Moving in was a whirlwind of activities, most of them stressful. Between unpacking and meeting new roommates, I felt anxious and unsettled, to say the least. Was everyone this scared when they went to college? Was my mom this scared? Did she feel fearful as she watched her mother and her older sister unload the boxes that practically contained her whole life? When it came time to say goodbye to my parents, my mom took me by the hand and gave me something I thought I’d never see.

“Here,” she said, placing a small, gold object in my hand. “This is for you.” I looked up, obviously confused.

“But what is it?” I asked.

She smiled, through tears: “My class ring. I want you to keep it until you get your own.” She must’ve seen the blatant fear in my eyes, because then she added, “I was just as scared. I knew no one, and I had no clue if I would be able to survive here. But that ring is proof that I did, and you will, too. Welcome to the first day of the rest of your life.”

I stared into the piercing blue eyes of the woman who had raised me and prayed reverently that I could one day be half the woman she was. She closed my hand around the ring and left with my father.

I stared at the ring, dumbfounded. Perhaps my mother wasn’t the fearless warrior I thought her to be. Maybe she had been unsure as well, and maybe, just maybe, she had wanted to make her mother proud as well. The only thing that went through my mind was, “I will make you proud.”

I stare at Randolph Hall, and feel the warm, salty breeze on the back of my neck. Though my mother is almost 300 miles away, I swear I can feel her here with me now. It’s as if she’s cheering me on, with every breeze and every cricket’s chirp. As the famous lecturer Marianne Williamson once wisely observed, “Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate. Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure. It is our Light, not our Darkness, that most frightens us.”

And as I turn away from Randolph Hall, my mother’s ring on my finger and a smirk on my lips, I realize something: My mother’s story here may be finished, but I only hold the pen in my hand, and with that pen I hold power.

It’s time to put pen to paper, and write my own story.