Very Unexpected Ways by Director of College Counseling Corie McDermott-Fazzino

Very Unexpected Ways

by Director of College Counseling Corie McDermott-Fazzino

We feed the birds. I’m sure our cars would be cleaner if we didn’t – the feeder hangs ten feet away from our driveway – but we enjoy it too much to care. The ritual of it marks the rhythm of the seasons and gives our son, Wyatt, an opportunity to learn about nature.

In the winter, our yard rivals a National Geographic avian documentary. Chickadees flit here-and-there. Woodpeckers (we host three different species) squabble over suet and squawk angrily when I loiter too close while buckling Wyatt into his car seat. The surrounding overgrown yews house at least three cardinal pairs (Crazy fact: One male cardinal has a bald head after surviving being pinned by a hawk against our kitchen window…which I witnessed, mouth agape, while on the phone with a college representative.) The greater landscape surrounding our house might appear dormant in February, but our massive American Linden tree is alive with activity.

During the summer months, bugs and worms replace our feeder food – but our yard is no less busy. Chirping starts around 3:45 AM, and it is loud. Like, so loud that for the first year living in the house, it would wake me, regularly. In mid-May we hang the hummingbird feeder so the ruby-throats have nectar awaiting them after their long flight from Mexico. While tiny, hummingbirds have big personalities. They prefer Domino sugar water – and snub all other mixtures. They are territorial and aggressive, often chasing each other and colliding in mid-flight. They are also particular about feeder maintenance: it must be cleaned and changed often. It took us two years to establish a ruby-throat population– but these days, our feeder usually buzzes with activity.

What does this have to do with college? I’m getting there.

On May 10th, with Wyatt at my heels repeatedly asking “what’s that?”, I hung up our hummingbird feeder for the season. “Just wait,” I told him as he watched me struggle with the feeder clip. “Hummingbirds. They’re so cool.”

“So cool,” Wyatt echoed as he wandered away toward his toys.

After one week of waiting, and pointing it out to Wyatt each time we returned from an estuary outing, we hadn’t seen any activity. Hummers can be slow to reacquaint with a feeder. But the hummers also drank 36 ounces of nectar per week last summer. Surely, they would remember those good times and return.

One morning during breakfast I saw a large bird awkwardly dangling from the hummer feeder, the wrong bird. An oriole! I knew they were nectar drinkers, too, so I wasn’t surprised; but I also wasn’t expecting it. I leaned out of the open window to scare him away.

“What’s that?” Wyatt asked, concerned by my outburst. “An oriole,” I said. “It’s the wrong bird. It’s a big bird.” “Big Bird?” Wyatt asked. It’s amazing how often Sesame Street characters worm their way into our everyday conversation.

Four days later, we still hadn’t seen any hummingbirds. And then, once again during breakfast while Wyatt alternated between eating and smashing blueberries, I saw yet another all-too-big bird at the feeder: a red-bellied woodpecker. What is he doing there? Evolution designed his beak to drill bark for bugs. This isn’t normal. “Hey, shoo!” I yelled leaning out the door.

“Shoo!” Wyatt echoed, finding my reaction hilarious.

At this point, I was worried. Summer was nearly upon us, and we had yet to see a hummingbird. I spent countless mornings chasing away other birds–a rather odd twist given our religious birdfeeder maintenance during the winter months. The woodpecker was particularly insistent and ingenious: during one of his many visits, he removed and discarded a nectar cover to give him better access. I doubted finicky ruby-throats with a sugar preference would frequent a feeder occupied and sullied by other birds. This was not what I was planning for or expecting.

School–and its infinite Zoom sessions–started to wind down. I graded final papers. I juggled work and Wyatt care with my husband. I washed the feeder and replaced the nectar weekly. The sun finally started to feel warm during our family walks. One day, while holed up in the backroom of our house plowing through a final Zoom marathon, I happened to look outside at the hummer feeder–and there it was! A ruby-throat. I hadn’t changed the nectar since the last other bird visited that morning. The formerly finicky ruby-throat adapted to these odd circumstances. His desire to survive won out.

COVID-19 (this spring’s woodpecker) changed everything about the college process. It up-ended the re-decision process for Sixth Formers still choosing between college offers: it moved re-visit days into virtual spaces; reframed how colleges deployed waitlists; pushed back deposit deadlines; disrupted family financial stability; reframed questions of feasibility and safety. Fifth Formers engaging in the early stages of the college process have had to manage seismic shifts in policy and practice. This new reality (which is still fluid) ushered in massive changes in how we conceptualize access to higher education. It has demanded that we all discard our expectations and adapt.

Despite all of this change, I do hope that what lies beyond the admission process stays intact. Sure, higher education has had its woes over the years, and these days call for innovation. But, at its best, college invites students to explore and take good risks while surrounded by resources and experts. It’s both an individual odyssey and an intense community experience, all at once. If we have to adapt–and we will–I hope the university educational model retains certain core principles.

Before the Class of 2020 graduated, the Office of College Counseling asked a few short survey questions about matriculation plans and program experience, including a question about COVID-19’s effect on the college process. The responses were wide-ranging, but one in particular caught my eye: “I know now that no college is perfect and that I will have a great time and get a great education where I am headed. Especially as we all go through COVID-19, I’ve realized that life comes together in very unexpected ways. The future is not entirely up to me.”

These days I don’t chase away the oriole or the woodpecker or the sparrow because a charm of hummers frequent our feeder despite the disruption. Wyatt has yet to catch sight of a hummer–he’s a bit boisterous for birdwatching–but eventually, he will. And in the meantime, we are staying open to the unexpected possibility that an even stranger bird will find his way to our feeder.