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Post Convention Blues

Secretary - Sabrina Bong

The view out the car window was blurred when I drove away from the Doubletree; the events of the weekend played in a loop behind my eyes, clouding my vision. Even though all my memories were washed in gold, I couldn’t shake a gaping sense of emptiness. I’d never felt that way upon leaving the convention before -- I was always a lukewarm sort of sad when I unpacked my suitcase, but it always passed and was replaced by a post-convention rush that carried me through the next week. I always missed my friends, of course, but we would text and call afterward and see each other at the next convention. The activities and contests of the weekend were always an exhilarating sea of highs and lows, but in the end, I valued the people I met more than the scores or ribbons I got. And there were always the connections that I regretted not pursuing further, but I could move on from those. This time was different because it truly felt like I’d left a bit of myself behind.

A faithful and clear expression of one’s feelings is a work of art,

and I’ve never been much of an artist; bear with me as I attempt to paint you, dear reader, a crude picture of my heart. I guess my case of post-convention blues stemmed from a sense that this year’s convention had flipped some sort of switch inside of me. To be part of a community is to allow yourself to be fully known, something that frightens most people, and it most definitely frightened me. That’s why making the decision to run for secretary when it was in a state of emergency was actually huge for me. Because as I saw it, some things never change. Like, there’s the sun in the sky, the stars that hang the night, and my inability to step out of my comfort zone. Running for office was something that had to run a red light to cross my mind -- it felt illegal, and incongruous for me to take such a step. But I did it, somehow, and it changed me.

In embracing the OJCL community so fully at this convention, I worried that I’d accidentally left a few pieces of myself behind at the hotel. But I soon realized that I wasn’t at a loss simply because I’d

forgotten a few bits of my soul in the ballroom. No, the emptiness came from a dread that the version of me that had blossomed at the convention was only accessible in that environment, tied to a community that I only have access to a few times a year.

Now, I realize that my paranoia was unfounded and goofy. Convention circa ‘23 was simply a daring exposition of a story yet unwritten. And recently, I’ve realized that the next chapter has already begun. The theme of this year's convention was apt, I suppose. omnium enim rerum principia parva sunt: “For the beginnings of all things are small.”

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