Breaking the BU Bubble Written by Caitlin Haviland | Designed by Thalia Lauzon | Photographed by Chika Okoye
Boston is widely regarded as one of the most historic, idyllic cities in the country, especially when concerning collegiate prospects. Home to more than 150,000 college students, academia is ingrained into the essence of Boston. When I first visited the city, I was enamored with the brutalist architecture, the picturesque college lawns, and the urban streets sprawling with students and young professionals alike. Boston seemed like the perfect college town, a scene straight from my beloved “coming-of-age” movies. After only one weekend in town, I eagerly applied to as many universities in the area as possible, certain that I couldn’t go wrong in such a perfect place. Two years later, I found myself a freshman at Boston University, determined to conquer the city that I had so deeply romanticized. I began exploring any chance I could get, often walking aimlessly, breathing in my newfound freedom. Every time I hopped on the T, I felt an immense sense of independence and pride, navigating the city like a true Bostonian. While my love for the city has never faded, I now realize how deafeningly naive I was. I thought that dark academia and brownstone mansions were all that Boston had to offer, or at least, it didn’t occur to me to even consider what might be beyond my idealistic vision. I was a true victim to the BU Bubble, and I had no idea. I thought I had been everywhere to be, and my experience (limited, in retrospect) only reaffirmed the picturesque ideal I had when I first visited nearly four years prior.
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The truth was, while I thought I was being adventurous and enlightened, I had spent two years only investing in the romanticized version of the city I had created. My sophomore year, I spent the summer in Boston and began dating a city native. Nearly immediately, he identified my inexperience and made it his mission to show me all of Boston. Day by day, he stripped me away from my Commonwealth Avenue bubble, showing me the city, good and bad. Over the course of the summer, one thing became abundantly clear: Boston is not an academic oasis. There is so much more to the city than bouncing from classes on campus to parties in Allston; so much more than sipping Dunkin’ on my stroll to Back Bay to hit the Prudential Center. Ubering to brunch in Seaport is not “exploring.” Walking to shop on Newbury Street did not make me a “city girl.” Living in a Brookline apartment as a nineteen-year-old did not make me “experienced.” I was living in a collegiate illusion, naive to the harsh realities laying right around the corner. Throughout those three months, I learned more about Boston than I had over the course of two years. Suddenly, I was seeing the city for what it really was: a beautiful place with an effervescent spirit, but also harboring an abundance of flaws. While the experience was enlightening, much of what I learned was both shocking and depressing. While I was moved by everything I learned, one area of the city truly opened my eyes like no other. Boston’s Methadone Mile, the epicenter of Boston’s indigent, is a one-mile stretch filled with struggling addicts, veterans, and the disabled, and it’s only 20 minutes from campus.
