kelly corrigan college essay 2022

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Why parents should let their kids take the lead during college application season

Alejandra Marquez Janse

Courtney Dorning

Mary Louise Kelly

NPR's Mary Louise Kelly talks with writer, podcaster and TV Host Kelly Corrigan about her essay on how applying for college provides an opportunity for growth.

Copyright © 2022 NPR. All rights reserved. Visit our website terms of use and permissions pages at www.npr.org for further information.

NPR transcripts are created on a rush deadline by an NPR contractor. This text may not be in its final form and may be updated or revised in the future. Accuracy and availability may vary. The authoritative record of NPR’s programming is the audio record.

Stephen Gallagher’s college essay takes a look at what could have just been a simple summer job but became so much more. It’s often a tough job, a demanding boss or an uncomfortable experience which shapes a person and changes the course of one’s life for the better.

Although this essay recounts a true story, the names of the participants have been changed.

Why parents should let their kids take the lead during college application season

MARY LOUISE KELLY, HOST:

If you have a college bound high school senior or you know one or you are one, then you know this is the time of year that things get intense. College application deadlines are bearing down like a freight train, essays and transcripts and SATs and essays and references. And did I mention more essays?

The dumpster fire that is senior fall - that's how writer, podcaster and TV host Kelly Corrigan puts it. She is the mother of two current college students. She recently wrote, yes, an essay about the process of applying to college and about how somehow something beautiful is being formed in that dumpster fire. Kelly Corrigan, welcome.

KELLY CORRIGAN: Hey. Great to be here.

KELLY: I want to acknowledge up here near the top of the conversation the privilege in having a conversation about the stress of college and applying to college. And you get to that, you know, that for a lot of people, the financial piece of this is stressful, if not more than getting good grades or SAT scores. You write about how your kid is about to be the central figure in a shockingly expensive venture with little visibility into what the family can bear. But you argue that for the kid doing the applying, this also forces growth.

CORRIGAN: I mean, I think these are some of the biggest questions a kid has ever asked of him or herself and of his or her parents. So if you're thinking about, is it kind of greedy to want to go to a private school, is it greedy to want to go to a school that you have to fly to? I don't know what my younger siblings might need. So if I drain the bank account, you know, what's my little sister going to - what options will my little sister have? And I think that might be the first time that many kids are thinking in numbers quite that large. I mean, these are huge, huge numbers.

KELLY: So full disclosure, I have fought in these trenches. My oldest applied to college last year. We will do it all again next year with my second. I read with supreme recognition the section of your essay headlined College Fear Is Based On A Lie. What's the why?

CORRIGAN: The lie is that this is it, that this is a binary moment. And then if you get to the University of Stretch Dream Goal, everything will unfold accordingly, and if you don't, you're kind of screwed. Like, it's just - the world is going to be an uphill battle for you for the rest of your days. And I feel it. I know that that's the idea that's circulating in hallways and classrooms. I know that most parents say the word college way too many times before the fall of their kid's senior year, where you can't just take it back with one statement.

Like, if you've been noting your whole life - and I only say this from experience - who went to what college, and then your kids are starting to look at schools, and you say, it doesn't matter where you go, you'll be successful wherever you go, the kid's thinking, right, but why did you bring it up every time? Why have I been hearing about it for 15 years if it doesn't matter? Like, of course it matters. So I think for the parents of younger children, one thing I would say is make a decision with your co-parent about how many times you're going to say the word college.

KELLY: You got to start early on the self-discipline.

CORRIGAN: Of course, because they're - the children will listen.

KELLY: How - you said, I say all this based on experience. How did these conversations unfold in your house?

CORRIGAN: You know, I really feel like at some level, we blew it, to be totally honest. Because it did come up a lot. It came up too much. I mean, we both really liked college. I felt lucky that my husband got an early decision to his dream school, which is a lot of people's dream school, Yale. And I got rejected by every school except for the one I went to, University of Richmond. And I went with, like, tears in my eyes. And it was awesome. I had the best experience.

So I felt lucky that I could say to my children, look, you might be me. It might turn out that you're standing in the driveway with rejection letters hanging from both hands. And you may drag yourself to some school that you don't think is right for you. But that's not the end of the story. That's the lie is that the story ends there in the driveway with the rejection letters. The truth is the story unfolds every day and a lot of it's based on what you do.

KELLY: One of the lines from your essay that will stick with me is this - I will quote - if we agree that any one acceptance letter is not the prize, what could the reward be - developing comfort with uncertainty, expanding self-knowledge, building new capacities and a sense of agency? Because that kind of personal growth is not too much to ask of this process and what a grand outcome that would be." That's such a lovely way of thinking about it. What a grand outcome that would be.

CORRIGAN: I know. But, you know, you're fighting a culture that's sending a different message. So sometimes I think about all the voices that are in my kid's head in a given day. So that's everything that the sort of commercial entities are throwing their way, everything they're getting, all those mailers that they get throughout the fall that could fill a recycle bin, all the things you're hearing between classes from friends and whatever their college counselors are telling them. And then I'm just this tiny voice saying, you're growing right now. This is it. What you're doing right now is the stuff of greatness. But, you know, I'm like one person trying to underline one part of their existence. I mean, it's worth trying. But it's also humbling to think about the chorus of voices that's telling them otherwise, that's telling them that it's - this is only about the outcome.

KELLY: Well, and also the temptation, I suppose, for parents to get in there, roll up their sleeves and help. And it sounds like where you landed was the key. The whole point is for both parents and kids to figure out, uh-uh (ph), it's got to be the kid leading. It's not about the parents jumping in to help.

CORRIGAN: You know, it's interesting. We're doing a series on "Kelly Corrigan Wonders" right now called Live From College. And so I'm talking to kids who are all the way into school looking back on this process. And I will tell you that every kid says, my mom thought I should go here. My dad really wanted me to go here. I mean, my dad practically wrote the essay so that I would go here. Like, kids end up in schools they don't want to be in and that they might transfer from because they felt it coming through, the message loud and clear. Your father really wants you to go to such and such. Your mother would be so excited if you ended up at blahdy-blah (ph).

So the more you get involved, the more the blood's on your hands if it doesn't work. The more involved we are in our kids' lives, the less satisfaction they get to take from their achievements. Like, every time we get involved, we steal that sense of satisfaction that's possible in big undertakings like this.

KELLY: It's the writer Kelly Corrigan. She hosts the podcast "Kelly Corrigan Wonders" and the PBS program "Tell Me More." Thank you.

CORRIGAN: Thank you. Transcript provided by NPR, Copyright NPR.

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After a College Applicant Hits ‘Send’

Regardless of outcome, the application process itself forces the kind of growth parents dream of.

By Kelly Corrigan

In the early days of last fall, my daughter was projecting confidence about the college application process. She’d make a spreadsheet, things would be checked off, it’ll all come together, Mom . But right around this point, with classes and sports in full swing, college mutated from something exciting to that-which-shall-not-be-named. To inquire about, say, a 150-word supplemental essay was to provoke a fit of unholy madness.

It was probably no coincidence that her mood crashed just before the Nov. 1 early application deadline, as I bet it is doing in a couple million households across the country right this minute.

What I couldn’t have known then is this: Something beautiful is being formed in the dumpster fire that is senior fall. Regardless of outcome, the college application process itself can force the kind of growth parents dream of. Here’s why:

Making decisions is hard.

Imagine a heap of flea market jewelry where each piece is tangled in some way around another. SAT or ACT? When to take it and how many times? City school or the rolling hills of some rural outpost? Greek, Greek-lite or anti-Greek? Early action or early decision? Our kids decide. Ahh. But then a cool older cousin or trusted teacher points out a new wrinkle and they undecide. They scour College Confidential and rogue Facebook pages looking for some bit of truth they can trust. Decision fatigue is real. How many of us have the patience to separate each chain, bracelet and granny brooch?

Needing a lot of money is stressful.

Your kid is about to be the central figure in a shockingly expensive venture — with little visibility into what your family can bear. What percentage of your family’s savings is at stake? What kind of support did or will his siblings need? What are the chances of getting need-based financial aid or a merit scholarship? Is it O.K. to want a private education or is that greedy and unnecessary? And the doozy of all doozies: Is it always worth it?

Self-reflection is a mind-bender.

What are you good at? What was meaningful about your summer experiences? What should the admissions committee know about you? If this doesn’t seem all that dreadful, ask yourself the same questions. Are you shrugging? Grimacing like that toothy emoji? Recently when a friend of my daughter’s asked for help with an essay, I was tempted to suggest he write: “I don’t know anything; that’s why I need to go to college.”

Project managers are made, not born.

Humans are built for many things, but most of us live and die without learning to pilot a process this complex. Just how many items are on the average college application checklist? Let’s see: transcripts, recommendations, biographical info, resume, personal statement, supplemental essays, standardized tests, application fees. Next up, the harrowing process of securing financial aid. What happens if you leave a field blank? Will you ever know? Which brings me to the cloud of anxiety surrounding the whole thing.

College fear is based on a lie.

The lie is about consequences. The lie says this is a binary moment: You’re off to greatness or you’re doomed. The lie says there is no other way to get the life you want than by going to University of Stretch Dream Reach. That’s why they want it so bad.

But in all cases, for as long as we live, it is damn near impossible to know in advance if getting what we want is a good thing or a bad thing. Look at divorce rates. Or job satisfaction ratings. Some people are miserable and uninspired on every campus in America, even those dreamy dream schools, and plenty of people are thriving at schools with acceptance rates near 100 percent. (And here’s a bit of news: the majority of colleges in the United States accept most applicants. )

You couldn’t have convinced me of this in April 1985. I sobbed in my parents’ driveway, a rejection letter dangling from each hand. Four months later, I limped off to the only college that accepted me, and I love my life.

From the bureaucratic minutia to the deep introspection, submitting a college application is possibly the biggest achievement of your kid’s life to date — assuming you are letting them lead. And I’m here to say you should. Of course, executive function varies, and with it, so do the roles parents play. Are you one of the lucky who need only to be available for spot consultations? Or do you feel sure that if you don’t keep the reins tight, your child will grow old at your kitchen table, eating Oodles of Noodles in his underwear?

Deciding where you belong in the process has a lot to do with how you answer these questions: What will happen if you let them lead, and what will happen if you don’t? Another worthwhile thought experiment goes like this: If we decide they’ll find their way one way or another, if we agree that any one acceptance letter is not the prize, what could the reward be? Developing comfort with uncertainty? Expanding self-knowledge? Building new capacities and a sense of agency? Because that kind of personal growth is not too much to ask of this process. And what a grand outcome that would be.

Be warned, when you try to celebrate the litany of achievements a completed application represents, your kid will say the horrible thing they all believe: “None of it matters if I don’t get in.” Celebrate anyway. Leave a card on his pillow. Make a toast. Take her for fro-yo. Tell every high school senior you know this most-encouraging truth: making decisions, weighing fiscal demands, understanding yourself, managing a hundred to-dos, overcoming your worst fears — this is the stuff of greatness. This is, in fact, exactly the way to get the life you want. So, someone, please make the bumper sticker: MY KID APPLIED TO COLLEGE.

Kelly Corrigan is the best-selling author of “Tell Me More: Stories about the 12 Hardest Things I’m Learning to Say,” and a proud graduate of the University of Richmond.

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Kelly Corrigan | Advice to my college freshman

By kelly corrigan | august 13, 2019.

Reprinted with the author’s permission . The essay was originally published in The New York Times on August 13, 2019.

Any parent with an ounce of self-knowledge will agree that parenting is a multi-decade exercise in recalibration. In our house we are either grossly overreacting or, just as unsettling, underreacting. Here’s my question, as another class of kids get very close to leaving home: What if they remember only the worst parts? What version of us will they be taking with them?

Will we be the well-meaning but cloying Marion Cunningham, who just wants them to keep being the best Junior Chipmunk they can be? Will we be the confrontational but loving Tami Taylor who follows them around the house asking why their eyes are so red and what the hell that smell is? Or the nit-picking Betty Draper who thinks their hair would look better parted on the side? Will we be some unholy mash up of Peg Bundy and Carmela Soprano, grousing about our husbands while reaching for the chardonnay?

To every child everywhere who is leaving home soon, could we agree that we love each other and that’s what matters? And real quick, before you go, let’s just make sure we covered everything. Like, did we tell you that the THC in edibles is no joke? Did we tell you not to take other people’s Adderall to help you study? Did we tell you about that guy we know who got addicted to heroin after trying it just one time?

Do you understand the basics of nutrition? Or will you learn the hard way? Do you have fiscal sense? Do you know paycheck pride? Did we tell you when you see a soldier in uniform you should say “Thank you for your service,” even if feels corny.

Should we have talked about all the kinds of people there are? How many sagas and surges of ego and remorse each one of us comes with? How profound friendship turns out to be? How long it takes to develop?

Did we explain the critical trade-off between being right and being happy? Oh, the time we lost looking for your retainer.

When you’re in your dorm room, prop your door open so people can lean in. When you’re walking around on campus, put your phone in your backpack. Say hi. Saying hi is really good.

Driving while texting is the new drinking and driving. Uber is the answer but don’t climb in the wrong car. Make the driver say your name and let a friend track your location.

About cornhole. When you toss it, let go sooner. You’re holding on too long. That’s why it’s going straight up.

Don’t let anyone make you a drink. Don’t be afraid to stay home sometimes. I heard some kids really like a board game called the Settlers of Catan.

Don’t leave your laptop plugged in all night; I don’t know why but I heard it’s not good for the battery. Granola bars have a lot of sugar. If you don’t wash your hair after swimming in chlorine, it will turn green. The stamp goes in the upper right-hand corner of the envelope.

Diets are stupid. Don’t obsess over your container. Don’t pose like a swimsuit model on Instagram.

One minute of meditation is the world’s easiest mood reset.

You’ll always get a better grade if you sit in the front and ask questions. And go to the professor’s office hours — not enough people do that.

Vote. Figure out how you feel about things like reparations, universal basic income, gene editing. March. Activism often works. Try not to get arrested. Unless it’s for a really good cause. Go abroad. The guy you’re hoping to play beer pong with will be there when you get back. And anyway, there’s a really nice version of him waiting to play bocce with you in Florence. Get some sleep. Sleep can really put the world back in order.

Be patient. College might end up being “the best four years of your life” but that doesn’t mean there won’t be days where you feel aimless or lonely or maxed out. Be nice. To yourself too.

You’re not listening anymore, are you? You can’t blame us for trying. We know our stupid geyser love is overkill but God help us, we are deluged with feeling.

Your flaws, your breakdowns, your craven hygiene, it’s all faded now and there is only the beginning, scenes from the long-ago days of diaper genies and burp cloths. Your perfect flat feet, sole to sole, in my hand. Your arm around my neck. Your face in the rearview mirror, humming or exploring your nose or passed out, gripping your bottle like a drunk.

And just like that, here you are, shrugging us off, to blow it and fix it, lose it and learn to live without it, break it and put it back together and tell us only half the story, leaving us to ourselves, with only our own lives to manage.

Thank you for indulging us. You are clearly ready. When drop-off day comes, just keep nodding and giving us the thumbs-up as we drive away aching with hope and wonder and mortality and everything going much too fast and  up all night-what do you need-I’m right here  love.

Kelly Corrigan is the author of “ Tell Me More: Stories About the 12 Hardest Things I’m Learning to Say. ” This essay is adapted from a performance the actress Helen Hunt presented with the author at a benefit for UCSF Benioff Children’s Hospital Oakland

One thought on “ Kelly Corrigan | Advice to my college freshman ”

Once again, Kelly encapsulates all of our feelings with humor, pathos, anxiety and love. This hits so close to the bone. BTW, it feels exactly the same as our kids struggle to make the jump into adulthood as well. Don’t they know we’ve already tread that path, written those chapters, made our mistakes, and lived to tell the tales? Blessings to them all and hang in there. It’s tough growing up, but much harder to let go. Thank you, Kelly. Julie Gardner

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Kelly corrigan wonders.

Kelly Warm submitted her daughter Emery’s college essay about how much she values her family’s Sunday breakfasts, a tradition which goes back 40 years. Emery outlines all that she’s learned from her large family and what she has taught them. This beautiful essay illustrates the appreciation of connectedness and family traditions that we often think teenagers disdain.

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Welcome to Kelly Corrigan Wonders, a place for people who like to laugh while they think and find it useful to look closely at ourselves and our weird ways in the hopes that knowing more and feeling more will help us do more and be better.  Author of 4 New York Times bestsellers about family life, Kelly wonders about loads of stuff: is knowing more always good? Can we trust our gut? How does change actually happen?  We only book nice people who have a sense of humor and know things worth knowing. Each episode ends with Kelly’s shortlist of takeaways, appropriate for refrigerator doors, bulletin boards and notes to your children.

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The Inquiry: Kelly Corrigan, host of ‘Tell Me More’ on PBS

She grew up in Villanova, attended Radnor High School, and has interviewed everyone from Margaret Atwood to Alec Baldwin

The INQuiry is a conversation with Philly personalties who are making news, chasing dreams, and changing the game.

Philadelphia’s Kelly Corrigan is poised to start the fourth season of Tell Me More With Kelly Corrigan , airing on WHYY and other PBS stations in October. Corrigan grew up in Villanova , attended Radnor High School, and at this point has interviewed poets, scientists, authors, activists, actors — everyone from Margaret Atwood to Alec Baldwin — on subjects from tolerance to perseverance to grief. This season, look for interviews with Penn professor and resilience expert Angela Duckworth and chef Omar Tate.

Corrigan, 55, spoke to The Inquirer about her life, work and some of the issues that engage both television viewers and listeners of her podcast, Kelly Corrigan Wonders . The interview has been edited for length and clarity.

Why ‘grief’ as a topic?

A question that I find always yields fascinating answers is, “Who do you miss?” When you ask [basketball’s] Steve Kerr who do you miss, his eyes fill with tears. He talks about his dad, who he lost when he was 18. Grief is a defining factor in people’s lives. And it cuts right to the heart of who they are, and who they’re trying to be, and when they have felt truly loved.

Who do you miss?

I miss my dad. I’ve never been loved that sincerely and thoroughly before or since. My dad, he thought I could do things. His Magic 8 Ball for me was always saying, “It’s going to be great.” And there was zero pressure in it. It was, “Trust me, you’re special.” And that is a really big thing to communicate consistently and repeatedly to a kid.

What is your favorite Philadelphia memory?

Radnor Middle School. The eighth-grade play. Oklahoma! Every kid in the grade plays some part in the performance. It was such an exciting, culminating event for those three years. I got murdered with mean-girl stuff as a sixth grader. But by eighth grade everybody was together. I played (Gertie) Cummings, I tried to break up the main couple.

What have you learned from the people you’ve interviewed?

I’m not so much a journalist as I am a humanist. I’m not going for the story as much as for the humanity. My kids are both in college now. It’s fascinating to me how significant the parent-child relationships are to people of all walks and professions. There’s no one who doesn’t need and want to talk about their parents, and what they did and did not learn through their childhood. … At this stage in parenting — I’m an empty nester — it can feel like I’ve been let go. It can feel like I’ve been dismissed. But everybody I’m talking to, Jennifer Garner, James Corden, Michael Lewis, Omar Tate in Philly, the only place to start is, “Where did you grow up, and who raised you?”

What did you try to teach your children?

If you ask them, “What are the five things your mom said to you the most?” One is, if you do it nicely, you can ask for anything. I didn’t want them to be cowed. If you wanted to change your seat in a class so you can see the board better, you’re allowed to ask. Also, funny always wins. Be good at friendship. …Look closer. You can get cynical or you can get bored, but if you look closer there’s something fascinating about everyone.

Who are some of the people you’ll interview this season?

I interviewed Dave Eggers, the great writer. His philanthropy and activism is so impressive, because it doesn’t seem to be slowing his creative output. As a person who writes books and other things, I can’t figure out how he’s getting it done. I also talked to [activist] Cecile Richards. And [lawyer] Neal Katyal. He has argued in front of the Supreme Court 45 times. The Supreme Court has never loomed larger in American society. He felt like the person to talk to at this moment.

The new season of “Tell Me More With Kelly Corrigan” starts 7:30 p.m. on Wednesday, Oct. 12, on WHYY.

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When home is a person who has passed: Kelly Corrigan reflects on relationship with father

While the comforting feeling of being at home can come from visiting a quaint house, a familiar town or experiencing a nostalgic, tingling feeling, home can also be a person. 

Kelly Corrigan, best-selling author, successful journalist and host of the PBS series “Tell Me More with Kelly Corrigan,” spoke on Tuesday, Aug. 9 in the Hall of Philosophy. Her lecture, “Homes: Places that Come to Inhabit Us,” served as a continuation of Week Seven’s Interfaith Lecture Series theme, “Home: A Place for Human Thriving.”

Corrigan was diagnosed with stage three breast cancer in 2004, and three months later, her father was diagnosed with late stage cancer. This led her to write her first memoir, The Middle Place , which focused on her being both a daughter and a mother during this time.

“My background is as a storyteller, but I’ve also been interviewing people for PBS and my podcast for two years now, which involves an enormous amount of reading and highlighting and synthesizing,” Corrigan said. “For each guest, I have become a student for a few weeks.”

Corrigan is often curious about what her subjects’ first homes were like and how the people who made up those homes exist in her subjects’ minds. 

Neuroscientist Lisa Feldman Barrett was a recent guest on Corrigan’s show. She said Barrett taught her that humans are contextual beings and develop in response to their environment. 

“Our brains receive all of this sensory data in singular ways particular to our physiology, like what we see is defined by the width of the set of our eyes; what we hear is defined by the particular curve of our ears,” Corrigan said. “… Then our brains make predictions which determine our actions, which we then categorize into great, terrible, dumb, brilliant, hysterical, drab. The brain decides what the sensory data means.”

While one’s environment has an innate impact on one’s being, so does the media one consumes. Books, music, social media posts, advertisements — all of these impact a person’s reality. 

As a child, Corrigan read Mandy, by Julie Andrews Edwards, which tells a story of an orphaned girl. Edwards is one of many creatives who has written about the struggles of being in an orphanage, as the idea of being lost and alone is palpable and easy to empathize with. 

“What we feel, at least until we decide to unfeel it, is effectively what is,” Corrigan said. “There are so many coming-of-age stories, so many odysseys, that you might start to wonder if … each of us will, or does, or has had our own memoir-worthy version of a coming-of-age story.”

Corrigan began to read a short chapter of her memoir, The Middle Place . The chapter described her childhood home and fond memories with her father. It began with depicting the very beginning of Corrigan’s life. After her older brother, Booker, was born via cesarean section, the hospital advised her parents against having another baby. 

“But the lore goes, my dad wanted a girl so much, they snuck me in,” Corrigan read. “I suppose it’s possible they could have had another boy, but it never seems like that when my dad tells the story.”

Corrigan then read about her childhood memories. While her brothers and their friends would play sports in the backyard, her dad would often return home with armfuls of supplies for his tomato garden. The young boys would offer her dad help, but he would refuse; he would never interrupt a game. 

As Corrigan continued to read, she emulated her father’s voice with a raspy, Southern twang. George Corrigan would often refer to himself in the third person as ‘Greenie’ or ‘the green man,’ which was a nickname he was given by his brothers long before Corrigan was born. 

“(He was given the name) after a long, cramped car ride when a case of gas reputedly turned the air around my dad green,” Corrigan read. “My mom hates (the nickname).” 

Corrigan then shared a story about a dentist trip she took with her dad. After neglecting to get a partial plate on a front tooth, the tooth flew out of George’s mouth, requiring the visit to the dentist. When he was told it would be an hour wait, George and his daughter ventured into the farmer’s market, as George didn’t seem to care if he was missing a tooth in front of others. 

“My dad’s relationship with the world (showed) that he paid more attention to the good stuff than the bad stuff, and effortlessly forgave almost all,” Corrigan read.

When her father would get her and her siblings ready for school, Corrigan felt a shift of attitude toward the morning. 

“Cupping his hands around his mouth, he would call out, ‘Hello world!’ And then, playing back to himself in a one-man show, he would flip to the role of the world, ‘Hello, Georgie,’ ” Corrigan read. “ ‘I’m coming out there to get you, world.’ To which world would respond, as of course the world would, ‘I’m waiting for you, Georgie.’ ”

With this morning routine, Corrigan began to understand that not only was the world a safe place, but it had a sense of humor.

“(The world) knew your name, and it was waiting for you,” Corrigan read. “Hell, it was even rooting for you.”

Corrigan shared that while her childhood home made her feel at home, her father made her feel the most at home. 

She also felt at home at her maternal grandmother Libby’s house, but not as much at her paternal grandmother’s house. At Libby’s, Corrigan felt special, as if her presence was yearned for, as if it was needed.

“Looking back at these early homes and homes away from home,” she said, “there are stages I’m starting to think about: You are allowed here, you are welcome here, you belong here, this is yours.”

This is how America should feel to all who live here, but Corrigan explained why it doesn’t feel that way for everyone.

“I think about taking their country away from the people who already lived here, saying, ‘This is not yours,’ ” Corrigan said. “I think about slavery here and around the world for thousands of years, pulling people from their homes and forcing them to live in other homes.”

Since Corrigan left her first home, she has traveled to 29 places where she had a bed to claim as her own — from various college dorms, apartments and friends’ homes.

“I travel about 50 or 60 nights a year, for 15 to 20 years now,” she said. “I feel anxious and lonely in hotel rooms, so I stay with friends who say, ‘Make yourself at home.’ But that is a skill, that is a privilege, that is a progression.”

After reflecting on times when she felt at home, Corrigan came to her final conclusion, her eyes filling with tears: Sometimes, home is a person.

“My home was my dad,” Corrigan said. “And for a long time … he was the nurturer that shaped my nature.”

Corrigan then began to read a letter she wrote to her father five years after his death, with the first words being “Dear Greenie.” She began by updating her father about her children, but eventually admitted her struggles with surviving after his passing.

“My future is blank, and it scares me,” Corrigan read. “I have no ideas and no energy, and grief has made me a pessimist.”

Corrigan wrote about a trip she took back home, during the first year without her father, to visit her mother and her childhood home on a street called Wooded Lane.

“I was staying in my old room, the room where you finished your 48-year run at Wooded Lane,” Corrigan read. “… Somehow, there in the dark, pushing around to get comfortable, I got a whiff of you. I did not like it.”

While Corrigan and her mother both handled George’s death differently, they agreed not to judge each other. She recognized how strong her mother is, as she kept to-do lists of tasks that her husband would normally take care of for her.

The two attempted to play a round of Rummikub, as the family used to do prior to George’s death, with drinks and a platter of Triscuits nearby. 

“With just the two of us, we ended up going to the boneyard over and over again,” Corrigan read. “… I turned on some music, but it was poor compensation for your wide-mouthed frog joy. … Your absence was so glaring, I had to leave (for a walk).”

When Corrigan returned home to California, she brought back George’s coaching jacket and wore it proudly to her daughter’s practice. Her daughter’s coach assumed Corrigan had coached as her father had, and even after finding out that she didn’t, asked if Corrigan would like to volunteer with the junior varsity team. She accepted the proposal.

“I get it, Greenie, I get it. The only way to keep you is to be you,” Corrigan read. “… A couple times a year, someone will stop and ask me my favorite question: ‘Are you George Corrigan’s daughter?’ I am.”

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