There’s a moment we’ve all experienced. It’s the moment we fall completely head over heels in love with this University. Mine happened in the seventh grade. We were supposed to write a page-long report on a historical figure. Ever the thoughtful scholar, I had narrowed the choices for my topic down to Gandhi and Dean Smith.

And I chose Dean.

That moment wasn’t love though. That was infatuation.

Love was when a few weeks later I received a package from the basketball office. My dad had sent my mediocre seventh-grade essay (complete with clip art illustrations) to Coach Smith who wrote me a letter and included a signed photo as a late 12th birthday present. He said he hoped to see me at carolina one day.

Well, I’m here, Coach.

And I’ve spent the last four years learning that I never want to leave.

I know I’m not alone in this. I don’t know why unc inspires such love in people. I can’t point out Chapel Hill’s distinguishing characteristic that makes people write poems, or songs or rambling columns about this place.

I don’t know what it is that makes us throw around terms like “University of the People,” and “The carolina Way.” Terms that in any other context would be cliched and saccharine, and inspire nothing but eye rolls, somehow not only are justified, but seem like they don’t go far enough in capturing the magic of this place.

I don’t know what it is, but I know where it is.

It’s in the Pit at lunchtime on a sunny day when an a cappella group is singing, Gary is shouting, and you’re sitting on the steps picking out friends in the blur of faces that are rushing by for their afternoon classes.

It’s in the Dean Dome when we’re playing that dark blue school and the air is crackling and every possession is a matter of life and death and you don’t think you’ve ever felt hate like this before.

It’s in that spot on McCorkle between the Old Well and Davie Poplar where you can sit and look at the brick structures of Old East, Old West and South Building and the history of this place really hits you.

When you think about all the other idealistic 20-somethings who have sat in this same spot and been inspired by these same buildings, and your head starts swimming with the though of how many more idealistic 20-somethings will sit here after you.

It’s there when you walk by Hill Hall and hear pianos playing. It’s there when you sit on the steps of South Building and watch the moon come up over Wilson Library.

It’s in the first few bars of “carolina in My Mind” — sung by James Taylor or the Clefs.

It’s in the first day that feels like Spring in the Arboretum and the first day that feels like Fall in Kenan Stadium.

It’s in the Campus Y, and Franklin Street, and HoJo, or wherever you’ve had a moment where you’re taken aback by where you are and who you’re with.

I can’t articulate or even comprehend everything this place has meant to me. Maybe I’ll never be able to. Maybe none of us can.

But it is love.

My dad had sent my mediocre seventh-grade essay (complete with clip art illustrations) to Coach Smith who wrote me a letter and included a signed photo as a late 12th birthday present. He said he hoped to see me at carolina one day.

Well, I’m here, Coach.

Hey. You. Want to know who I am? Behold, the one … the only … 2011’s first Sexual Misconduct Guinea Pig! Yeah, that’s right. It’s me!

Oct. 6, 2010: My freshman year. Went out last night. I was at a sudden-death level, don’t-remember-leaving-the-room-I-drank-in, nowhere-and-everywhere blackout stage. I woke up on a late Thursday morning in my bed, but not as I had left it last night. Sheets covered in streaks of blood, two large red puke stains, my clothes from last night strewn across my room and bruises and scratches across my lower back, thighs and knees. There was an opened condom that had fallen right next to my bed, and Him, sitting on my desk, waiting for me to wake up. Did I mention I was a virgin?

Aug. 31, 2011: Sophomore year. I had only told three people about what happened that night, though many more knew through the rumor-mill. He lived on my floor so there wasn’t much I could do to stop people from talking, so I denied and laughed it off until the questions went away. That year my big (sorority lingo for BEST OLDER FRIEND! However in my case, it was true.) reached out to me and encouraged me to talk to someone about it. So, there I was, sitting across from a social worker, telling my story for the first time in almost a year.

Sep. 28, 2011: I’ve been to counseling three times since Aug. 31. I was a wreck. A week from this day I will realize that I have post-traumatic stress disorder. To make things better, I was just told that the University’s sexual misconduct policy changed.

I had seven days to speak up or shut up. If I didn’t report Him to the University, I could turn to the police, though I had no way of affording this case or any remaining physical evidence to support it. If I did chose to report, I would expect months of questioning from the dean, counselors, a private investigator, as well as my friends and witnesses from that night. And to complete this super-duper sweet package, it would all end in a five-hour-plus Student Conduct hearing in which I got to sit next to Him for the first time in over a year and listen to Him deny Oct. 6! (And for all the guys who said, “Well, you were drunk so you didn’t really know what actually happened,” I’d like to say SUCK my iron duke. If you think anyone enjoys spending their free time doing any or all of the above just for kicks, then by all means I invite you to try it for yourself! See JUST how much fun sexual assault cases can be!)

Oct. 5, 2011: I became the first student to report a sexual misconduct case after the newly changed “one-year limit.” Little did I know exactly what my rush decision would bring over the next four months. The paperwork should have come with a warning label. The depression, panic attacks, close friends who walked out of my life, sudden weight loss, a family that no longer knew how to communicate with me, self abuse and many other things came at a time when I was neither prepared nor willing to cope with the aftermath of sexual abuse. I was nowhere near prepared to repeat my story to investigators, deans, witnesses, the Student Conduct panel, psychotherapists, you name it. If someone was in charge, they had a right to my story.

By the time I hit the ground running with the hearing, my sexual assault wasn’t even my story. The more I retold it, the less I sympathized with it. I was given seven days to hand over my story, my evidence, by Oct. 6, 2011, for which I was only given seven days to have ownership over my sexual assault before it became the test-case for the Office of Student Conduct.

Why did you drink to the black out point, spurt? Anyway, hope your ass healed up!

Why did you drink to the black out point, spurt? Anyway, hope your ass healed up!

So in your closing argument will you conclude that this is a normal Duke date?

Relevant as always, pert.

He did fek up the thread didn't he?

He did fek up the thread didn't he?

Come on guys...his ass was BLEEDING! Take it easy on him. I bet every time he farts now it sounds like " HAHHHH". Poor thing...