The coqui, Puerto Rico’s native tree frog, is a wonder unto itself. Widely considered one of the crown jewels of the island, its onomatopoeic cry has become a lullaby that rocks the entire archipelago to sleep during many a Caribbean night. This tiny amphibian’s reputation greatly outsizes its petite stature, and the tales of its splendorous cry have reached regions far and wide. It is in such a way that visitors from every nook and cranny of the globe make their way onto its lair in hopes of catching a snippet of the renowned creature’s song. Once displaced from its home however, its call is no longer reminiscent of paradise. The citizens of Hawaii learned this fact quite well after an incidental introduction brought the animal to their shores. There, it has made an unwanted stay that only grows in numbers. With no natural predator in sight, it destroys the local ecosystem and devours valuable endemic insects. Its incessant melody has become a strain in the Polynesian island’s ear—its presence a nuisance onto all its unlucky listeners. By all meanings of the phrase, it is an invasive species.
I never thought I’d find myself relating to the coqui. After all, one can muster up very few similarities between a teenage girl and a two-inch tropical tree frog. Yet, as I hesitated to click on the acceptance form for enrollment to Notre Dame, its cautionary tale was all that I was reminded of.
Who do I think I am? What gives me the entitlement to leave the only home I’ve ever known, and waltz right into another’s for the sake of my own benefit?
My mind had conjured up a rapid surge of unwillingness, and I found myself infected by its seemingly compelling argument. Its skittish voice became a pounding force within the confines of insecurity, and I involuntarily found myself echoing its catchphrase.
You have no right.
Given the seemingly celebratory circumstances, I knew that my turmoil was unwarranted in nature. There was a distinctive stench of ungratefulness to it that sickened the shrinking optimist in me.
This is the opportunity of a lifetime.
Nevertheless, a persistent torrent of self-doubt continued to flood my head. The negativity continued to circle my consciousness like a peering vulture would a carcass.
You would never make it…
Give yourself a chance…
It will never be worth it—remember the frog?
I feared becoming an invader—someone whose existence had long outstayed their welcome in a foreign land.
***
Time waits for no one, especially not the reluctant. By May 1st, I hadn’t mustered up the valor necessary to even glance at the conditions for enrollment.
Tick tock.
The pressure of the passing hours kept pushing against my indecisiveness, letting me know that my final choice was imminent. In the span of what felt like an eternity, I swung wildly like a pendulum—endlessly perusing over every alternative that rose to mind.
The clock is ticking.
I watched as the window of opportunity dawned on me, and its encroaching proximity felt like the final nudge towards what had always been expected of me. My hands involuntarily floated in anticipation of the moment of truth, and so I finally clicked.
Welcome Home.
No turning back now.
Hooray. I was about to become South Bend’s first human invasive species.
***
Summers in Puerto Rico have always been hot, but this time the finality of my choice made the sun feel particularly scorching. As I was subjected to an infinite amount of questions of my nearing departure from well-intentioned family members, the doubt and uncertainty brewing inside my consciousness had almost reached their boiling point. During the span of a whopping two months, I managed to have the same compelling conversation with possibly every individual I crossed paths with:
“How are you feeling?”
“Great!” Feeling quite nauseous, actually.
“You excited about this big step?”
“Oh, you have no idea!” Really.
“Any advice for my son/daughter? He/She’s trying really hard to get into so-and-so…” Is that a trashcan right there in the corner?
Unlike many of my soon-to-be friends and classmates, my college transition experience was largely defined by the realization that I would have to leave the country.
Only 2003 miles. No biggie, right?
Living alone is already no easy feat, but doing so thousands of miles away from everyone close to your heart gives it another layer of difficulty. I knew that as soon as things became difficult or my new life felt slightly overwhelming, I would get the strong urge to pack everything and head back to where I had come from.
I could just turn around. Go back home.
This fact wouldn’t have been so terrifying if it weren’t for the obstacle of an entire ocean. There would be nothing to shield me from hurt, and the distance from everything I’d ever known could only ever magnify that sadness.
I’ll be alone.
***
As the days went with the wind and the months kept progressing, the date of my dreaded departure finally came.
Knock knock, your fate has arrived.
The drive to the airport felt excruciating, and every minute spent inside a car felt like only a delay of the inevitable. I stared out the window for what felt like the last time, making sure to record every single detail of the scene before me. The leaves in the trees were blowing softly with the fading summer wind. At that moment, it felt like they were bidding their final goodbyes. Even with that seemingly emotional gesture, I didn’t find the strength to wave back.
Coward.
My mind didn’t feel like a deserter had the right to conjure a final statement. The only option that was reserved for the likes of me was to hopelessly watch as I abandoned the island that watched me grow.
It is said that the coqui first arrived in Hawaii through the most unexpected of means. Its propagation through the shores of the islands began with infested flowers that carried the frog towards invasion. As the car came to a sudden halt, my brain resorted to making inane comparisons.
Would an aircraft transporting the likes of me also become a medium for infection?
It felt like a very real possibility. I imagined that my arrival would become a sort of catalyst, one that would set off a chain of despair across campus as everyone took notice of my not belonging.
She doesn’t fit in.
I would have occupied a sacred space without the consent of those who had already been there. My presence would only amount to a disturbance—an interference in an environment that had long prospered before I came into the picture.
Don’t leave the car.
For the slightest second, I resolved to oblige.
My sole comfort in traveling had been the company of my family, who assured me that no journey is ever taken alone. I missed the echoing whisper that my mother would croon into my ear once she noticed the unease etched into my face. “Just breathe,” she would say.
I’m trying.
No source of relaxation could offer me strength this time. Here I was making the most audacious decision I’d taken in my short life, and there was no one to shield me from the unspeakable horrors of international travel.
Now I’m truly alone.
To travel solo for the first time feels akin to running blindfolded. The bustling scene before me felt overwhelming in every sense, and I was not a confident navigator to begin with. I watched as the masses of people moved in a sort of discordant unison, and I wondered how they could bear the sense of isolation.
Can they feel it too?
My mind was aware that I wasn’t the first solo traveler to cross the pond, but my heart was unfortunately unable to assimilate that fact at the time. As I dragged my multitude of suitcases along, I attempted to join the assembly of travelers who marched towards the security checkpoint.
It’s just you now.
***
Thump.
The plane landed, and we had arrived. For some reason, I had imagined there to be some sort of crisis within me the moment we’d reached our destination.
Why aren’t the sirens going off?
Much like the coqui, I saw myself going down in my own stupor of ineffable cries. What instead resulted was to be the complete opposite. There was a stark radio silence that surprised the pessimist in me. Here I was in a foreign land, and my mind did not bring forward any speck of resistance.
The city of Chicago shines brightly at night. Though you can’t see the stars, the skyscrapers adorn the sky in a way that vaguely resembles an array of constellations.
Maybe the lights are showing me the way, I thought to myself, as I left the airport.
As I stared into the window of the van that would take me to South Bend, I recalled the last few hours of my long feared journey. My arrival into O’Hare was largely unremarkable. The cascades of travelers rushed through the halls in what felt like a stride of unison. Their gazes were held strictly forward, and their focus was never held back by their disgust of my presence. I had previously imagined that they would identify my foreignness, and their demeanor would signal a rejection of my being there.
An other. She can never belong.
I was instead greeted by the distinct sense of indifference.
I’m just another.
The feeling of anonymity was a breath of fresh air, as all my trepidation towards not fitting in was melted away by the uneventfulness of it all.
Is it just… not that deep?
There were no complaints about my being there, and no concerns about how my presence could contaminate the ecosystem. In the strangest way, realizing the insignificance of it all in a grand scheme brought me comfort.
A blank slate.
The conclusion of such a journey was creeping up my neck, but I wasn’t yet sure what to make of it.
Maybe teenage girls aren’t similar to tropical tree frogs after all.
I stared at the canvas of the bustling city before me, and resolved to close my eyes. In my mind, I envisioned a window opening up at the end of a long corridor. To this day, I can’t explain exactly why, but I found myself running towards its grasp. When I reached the end, I looked down and saw nothing but my own reflection. There was no trace of any kind of dreaded tree frog, and I was only greeted by the mirroring image of my own self.
So I went after it.
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