What Exit?
This is not one of my usual posts. I won’t be dipping into a federal topic or a behind-the-curtain explanation of that machine. Instead I will be thinking about my journey as a person, as a professional in the federal government, and what I learned inside and outside the conference room. I’ve rarely been accused of sugarcoating things, so expect some unvarnished truth in Dana Unfiltered. This set of posts will focus on different “exits” in my life — what I have lived and what I have learned and sometimes how I got back to the route or went another way.
What Exit?
I’m from New Jersey. Not the north, where folks stick to the Turnpike breathing in the smoke and steam venting from the tank farms and refineries around Elizabeth (exit 13 on the Turnpike). Or the wannabe New Yorkers living just over a bridge (George Washington Bridge, exit 161 on the Parkway) or through a tunnel (Lincoln Tunnel by exit 153 or Holland Tunnel by exit 142) where it is marginally more affordable. I’m not from the tourist traps like Point Pleasant (exit 89) or Wildwood (exit 4), where a native would never go.
I’m from the spot where the coast takes a hard turn toward New York, where Sandy Hook points at Lower Manhattan. Close enough to see the skyline, far enough that nobody ever mistook us for it.
When those of us from NJ meet another native, we often ask, “What exit?” It’s kind of our secret handshake, and it tells us so much.
“What exit?” is like a password or a secret knock that allows us through to the VIP room. We are automatically qualified by being from the same state. It’s common ground. Conversations get more informal because we probably knew somebody who knew somebody. We start dissing New York and Philly (sorry, not sorry), comparing the celebrities in our towns, the concerts we went to at the PNC Bank Arts Center (exit 116, for the record), and whether we root for the Devils or the Rangers or — heaven forbid — the Flyers. We debate the best bagel, pizza, and Italian sub. Note: the bulk of Jersey folks mean the Garden State Parkway or GSP, but every once in a while I meet someone who means the Jersey Turnpike. I often find the question does not land the same way with those folks.
There is a lot of familiarity and predictability in those numbers. The Garden State Parkway begins in Cape May at exit 0 and travels 172 miles north to the NY/NJ state line (after exit 172). I wish I could emulate that level of simplicity and order in my own life.
My Exit 0, Jersey
My story begins at the tip top of the Jersey Shore. The town, which I won’t name, was the only home I remember from my childhood, although I was not born there. The upper-middle-class community was mostly white, Christian, and pretty homogeneous. In fact, kids from other towns often joked about our ZIP code and equated us with the then-hit show Beverly Hills, 90210. I honestly don’t know whether our town was as entitled and arrogant as that show. I mostly drifted through, just on the outside of the social groups, waiting for my exit ramp.
My Exit 1, Poughkeepsie, NY
As I neared the end of high school, I knew I wanted something different. I didn’t want to go to the colleges that resembled the high school I left. I knew that J. Crew and Abercrombie were not my style. I needed to find my way. I wanted to be far enough out of NJ to ensure growth, but not so far that NJ could be a safety net — after all, at 18 we all need one of those.
My parents are smart. They both have advanced degrees and worked at the famous Bell Labs during my childhood. They took me to see colleges that followed a formula: small liberal arts colleges, most with a deep history (I don’t think I saw a single college that was established after 1900). Most of them were indistinguishable from the next. Everything was the same as the vanilla environment I had come from — until that last trip to the Hudson Valley and further upstate.
I remember being exhausted by the cookie-cutter campuses with buildings of red brick or gray stone and no real personality. As we approached our last stop, Poughkeepsie, NY, I begged my father to skip this stop. He said, “No. You have an interview.” I slumped back in the car’s seat and rolled my eyes — or at least I expect I did.
When I finally stopped with the eye rolling, I found myself entering a campus of contradictions. Taylor Hall, the literal gateway to Vassar, struck me with its gothic tone. On one side, I saw the construction of a connected art gallery with a glass-enclosed entryway and on the other, the ultra-gothic Thompson Library. Ahead, down the tree-lined Campus Drive, stood the Main Building, the literal heart of campus. The Main Building contrasted the gothic architecture I had just seen with its red brick, Second Empire styling topped with a copper mansard roof. Nearby, a Georgian Revival building, several quirky Mid-Century Modern dormitories, and both postmodern and brutalist laboratory buildings.
I got out of the car and headed toward the entrance of Main, where a group of students were mingling. As with the unique mix of architecture, I saw a variety of styles among the students: goth, grunge, jock, bohemian, and preppy. I didn’t see any homogeneity. Students were intermingled, none closing themselves off from others, none standing alone. I heard laughter and conversation. I saw nothing but friendship.
This campus, both literally in its architecture and figuratively in its students, was the furthest thing from vanilla I had seen — and from that moment, I felt at home.
Looking back at that day now, I realize how easily I might have missed that exit altogether. Had my father relented to my request, had there been no students mingling outside, had there been a few more buildings that looked the same, I might have drawn a different conclusion, gone a different direction, or returned to the highway. As with so many of the pivotal “exits” in my story, I never planned this one.
Sometimes the exit, the turn, is inconvenient or undesired. It may be someone else’s plan for you. It may not be clearly labeled “exit.” But humor the detour. You never know what you might find along the way.
This exit proved a stop I needed, despite my objections at the time. Vassar is where the first entry in Dana Unfiltered begins. Exit 1 proved to be a huge part of who I became and of the direction (and exits) I took afterward. Stay tuned — there is no TripTik (remember those? Thanks AAA) for this journey.