Dear Loyola,

I remember the first time I saw you. I mean, I had seen you before, but I was young then and wasn’t yet interested in institutes of higher learning. But by the time I was 16, I had definitely started to notice universities, and you were on my short list.

As the streetcar rolled slowly by your chiseled façade, I inhaled sharply. You look great by day but better by night, and on this particular evening, you had your Harry Potter-style banners cascading down Marquette. I knew then that you would be mine.

Even though one of your admissions counselors said we would be great together, I skittered away. Fear of rejection is powerful, and I thought maybe I should start out with a university more my speed. But after a dull nine-month affair with the University of Oregon, I found myself looking at pictures of you online (creepy, I know) and decided to apply on a whim. Imagine my surprise when you over-nighted my acceptance back and offered me a hefty scholarship! The girlish giggling went on far into the night.

I’d never been with a private school before and certainly not a Catholic one; I had no idea what to expect. Would angry nuns roam your corridors, meting out punishment with a sharp ruler? Would we recite the rosary before exams? Would every visit to your Health Services entail probing questions about my love life and insinuations of pregnancy? I was pleased to find only one of these assumptions correct.

And when we were finally together, I couldn’t believe how happy I was. You were so good to me: buying me beer and crawfish at university events, introducing me to professors who would change the way I write and letting me live with you in the most interesting city in America. I used to have nightmares that we had broken up. I would find myself back at U of O, and I knew that I had filled out all the forms to transfer but I could never understand why I would leave you.

Yes, I had a brief fling with Georgetown last summer – it meant nothing to me. Georgetown took itself way too seriously and kept me up at night, demanding to know what effect price controls have on supply and demand curves. It was nothing like what we had.

Then last fall, I guess we needed some time apart. I knew that something like this might happen, but I couldn’t believe how much I missed you. UO was good enough to take me back and even let me write for its amazing daily paper, but I couldn’t get my mind off your gothic buildings and curving sidewalks. My friends tried to cheer me up with ice cream and Will Ferrell movies, but it was no use. All I wanted was just one more cigarette in Smoker’s Alley. For memory’s sake.

And then we were back together. It was everything I dreamed and more! Sure, you and New Orleans were different, but I was willing to work through it.

But now, Loyola, it is me leaving you. It’s not by choice, although I am ready for a more adult relationship, perhaps with a medium-sized daily newspaper in the south. I need commitment that you just can’t give me; I want to find an institution that will pay me $30,000 to be there instead of vice versa.

And as I’m leaving, you’re changing, which is maybe the worst part. I wish we could part on better terms, and while I’m not personally mad about the direction you’re heading, I’m worried about you. Remember that I loved you for your people, not your money.

But I wouldn’t change any of it. All the uncertainty that came with leaving my family and friends behind to move across the country now seems ridiculous; the past three years have been perhaps the best of my life. You’ve been wonderful to me, Loyola, and I couldn’t ask for more. I’ll miss you.

Hugs and kisses with a tasteful amount of tongue,

Downtown Kelly Brown