As kids we were taught what colors, in combination, to love and to hate; whether that was blue and maize, green and white, or red and grey. Whatever sport our parents loved, we often inherit that love unintentionally.

Maybe it was from all of the time and effort put into cheering along with the rest of the family that made such a strong bond last well into adulthood.

The same goes for colleges: our mothers and fathers inadvertently, although sometimes quite bluntly, favored one over the other. Paired with their love for the colors, the teams, and the place, any child would grow up knowing they wanted to be a Spartan, a Wolverine, or some other random thing, person, or animal.

My first love was University of Michigan, believing that the school was the only one for me simply because yellow and blue look pretty darn good together (I mean, complimentary colors will do that, ya know). A few short years later I dumped the idea, hoping that I would find another more sophisticated love. Duke: the decision was sparked by a random conversation, and after hearing the name, my heart had already attached itself. $55,000 a year? Of what, again? I had plenty of Monopoly money saved, and I doubted that, even if handed swiftly and smoothly enough, no one could tell the difference.

By the age of 14, I laughed at the short, naïve romances that I had previously become entangled with. I was now in love, really in love, with green and white. Sure, the colors did not look wonderful on me, but people who went to U of M were snobs, and people who went to Duke flew to have tea with the queen. I like modesty and I dislike tea. At the time, that was all that I needed to know not to want to go to either wonderfully accredited school.

Looking back, I can never remember wanting to be a Laker. What is a Laker? I mean, I get sea-sick, and God love Louie, but there’s something different about his face. I think the reason that I chose to come to Grand Valley was precisely because I didn’t hear things about it. There was no stereotyped, I would not be labeled, and I could seek an education without much reaction from anyone asking “so where do you go to school?”

There are so many schools in Michigan, let alone the U.S., so why is it that when we hear Stanford or Harvard, we go crazy? I had a friend that went to Samford, a private Southern Baptist institution located in Homewood, a suburb of Birmingham, Alabama. After asking where she would attend college, her answer was often met with wide eyes and an enthusiastic “oh!” But after so many of her corrections, the initial pronunciation grew louder and louder as she got tired of the lessening of enthusiasm. After all, going to college is a feat itself.

A name is always associated with something. The brain reaches back into its memories and pulls past experience up to the front of the class to declare what happened. It is why picking names can be such a challenge: anyone named Ashton is good looking and stupid, and if you name a child Katniss, you can bet that she’ll be independent and tough. After experiencing this place, what comes to mind when you hear Grand Valley? It differs from person to person. It might be homework, piles of snow or the people. Or maybe it’s even The Lanthorn.

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