Deborah Brody Hamilton ’84
- 1980s
I didn’t choose Wellesley so much as leap into it sight unseen, armed with a footlocker of J.C. Penney “preppy” clothes from Colorado Springs and blind optimism. The first weeks were a blur: skinny dips in Lake Waban (busted by campus police), MIT fraternity parties, rocky road ice cream, and Pepperidge Farm Mint Milanos. What was not to love? Then midterms hit, and I got the first “C” of my young life. I cried my eyes out on the hill behind Pendleton Hall. I spent hours in Margaret Clapp Library, and what I learned was mostly about myself.
Our last reunion was a wild party—no men required. Who knew Wellesley was such a party school that the party continued at Logan Airport with groups of raucous alums? I flew home exhausted, sunburned, hoarse, and happy, with “Gloria” stuck in my head for weeks. My younger self would be proud.
