My mom graduated from UNC in 1988. Growing up, I heard about UNC like a utopia — the "Southern part of Heaven," the basketball capital of the world, the place that gave my mom the best years of her life.
Now that I’m a senior, the illusion is a little shot. In the three years I’ve spent here, I’ve seen that UNC is far from having it figured out (see: anything that’s happened in the last week). But there’s still a love there, and still an appreciation for the life it’s given my mom and the life it’s helped give me.
There’s a lot of beauty in Carolina, in the traditions that my mom and I share. I can call my mom and talk to her about streakers on LDOC, pint nights at He’s Not, Thursdays at Linda's. Hell, my mom and I have even discussed which (somewhat) clean frat bathrooms to use on nights out with our friends.
This week has shown that some history at Carolina is deserving of a conversation — regardless of the side you’re on. But some history just makes Carolina home.