The Daily Tar Heel

Since I don't have enough on my plate already, I decided it might be a fun challenge to apply for a columnist position at The Daily Tar Heel.

My application is far from complete, but one question requires that I write an essay on what it means to be a Tar Heel. Gag me, but okay...I'll see what I can do.

What it means to be a Tar Heel:

I’ll give it to you straight—I don’t consider myself a Tar Heel. A part-time UNC student? Yes. A Tar Heel? Absolutely not. I bleed Duke blue, I cheer along with the Crazies, and I worship Coach K. So of course when I saw that the application required an essay on what it means to be a Tar Heel, I was ready to throw in the towel. I mean, Tar Heel? Really? I’d have more success writing an essay on what it means to be a black male (I’m currently listening to country music and last time I checked, I have a vagina). The way I see it, this left me with three options—don’t apply, lie through my teeth, or embrace my Tar Heel family. And, well, I’ve never been good at lying.

You see, I got to Chapel Hill by an unusual route—the road less traveled. I received my acceptance letter to UNC in 2005, and like most people I smiled, jumped around like a maniac, and then eagerly told my parents the good news. But like any good Duke fan, I buried the letter in a junk drawer and confirmed the next day that I would be attending Elon University in the fall. While Elon was a great experience, I often found myself wondering how life would have been different had I chosen Carolina. Five years and one bachelor’s degree later, I am finding out.

 While I don’t consider myself a Tar Heel, I definitely consider myself part of the UNC family. I truly do love the school, the traditions, the campus, and my professors. I have been impressed with the talent and intellect that is evident in every classroom. I am honored to be a part of this family.

I found over ten definitions for “family” in the dictionary, but if I had to define it myself, I’d say that your family consists of the people you (reluctantly) love and (unwillingly) identify yourself with. I mean, who hasn’t ever been extremely embarrassed by their family? Tortured by a brother or sister? Swore they were adopted? That’s what makes a family a family. At times it is a war zone, but love always prevails. So next time I’m watching a Duke game at Cameron, singing the fight song, and chanting “Carolina, go to hell,” I’ll be smiling. Because what would life be without a little family rivalry?