My life in recent years leaves me feeling somewhat isolated, without a sense of community. I imagine many students feel this during their college years. I guess this column is an attempt to examine that feeling.

In the fall of 2000, I moved from the rather sparsely populated state of Wyoming to Ames, Iowa. This move brought me several thousand feet closer to sea level, from a dry to rather humid climate, and far away from any familiar face.

Last fall, I asked a faculty member if he knew how many students at Iowa State were from Wyoming. He happened to have a handy folder that contained this sort of information, and I learned that there were five current students from my home state, and I was the only one from the town of Sheridan.

I’ve met lots of students at Iowa State that traveled just as far, and a lot farther, to get there. I know you know what I’m talking about. This is the kind of move that serves to separate you from those expectations your home community sets up for you.

I went through school with teachers that knew both of my older siblings. There was never too much pressure for me to handle, and most of the time it was nonexistent, but occasionally it would get annoying.

My senior year of high school, the calculus teacher thought it was somehow fitting to inform the entire class that my older brother had been one of his best students three years prior.

He would be handing out corrected tests, and I would receive my paper, usually a B, and he would look up from his desk. “Galloway, did I ever tell you how well your brother did in this class? He aced three of the tests. He was a great student.” I don’t know if this was meant to be motivation, but it didn’t work.

It was a good reason to leave. The fifteen-hour drive is worth it.

But now I’ve been gone long enough that my hometown isn’t really mine anymore. I go downtown, and people recognize me, but it’s not the same. The conversations are always about why I’m in town and how long I’m going to be in town. No one remembers where I go to school.

No offense to you Iowa Staters, I’m right there with you, but for some reason the Wyomingites don’t seem to know where you are, or what the name of your sports team is.

They say Idaho. They say Ohio. Occasionally, they get real close with the sports team, and say Hawkeyes.

Everyone assumes I attend the University of Wyoming, which isn’t completely false. I did take two summer classes there, but my degree is coming from Iowa State. Most of my classmates who went on to college went to the University of Wyoming, so if anyone had to guess, that would be a good choice.

Now, after five semesters of getting accustomed to Iowa State, I’ve gone and done it again. And this time, I’m getting serious. The only way this move could be any bigger would be if I inserted a language barrier.

I’m attending Curtin University in Perth, Western Australia, this spring. As my departure date approaches, I find both my excitement and fears growing. I’ve played a minor version of this game with my move from Wyoming to Iowa, but nothing can prepare me for this.

The people I meet will not be American. These people hold pretty strong prejudices concerning Americans.

Originating in an Australian film, the common slang referring to one of us is the “ugly American.” This person is loud, pushy, insanely patriotic and generally without tact.

I’ve managed to escape the shadow of my older siblings, but I’m stepping into a much larger, darker shadow.

After I step onto that plane in Montana, I leave behind all of the safety of numbers, of home, of being known by anyone. These are the times when I believe we find ourselves.

Gail Sheehy said, “If we don’t change, we don’t grow. If we don’t grow, we aren’t really living.”

So I set out to find myself. I think that might just be the American dream.

Before I leave, I’m trying to fill my mind with all of the things that strike me about Wyoming. Recently I made my way through the mountains, something I miss about my birthplace while I’m away at school. I stood under towering pines, and listened to the silent fall of the snowflakes bringing up the rear of the storm.

I heard the trickle of a stream nearly hidden under ice and blankets of white. I guess I’m saying goodbye to these places. I’m trying to capture in my mind’s eye what they feel like.

The stars, dimmed at lower elevations, step out to shake your hand here. I don’t imagine I will hear a rooster crow in the city of Perth like I can in my backyard on cool winter mornings, the sound carrying over the foggy valley.

Out of the social city streets, this place feels like home. It’s the people I meet who take that away. I feel very little for them.

This is what must be learned: You are the only one who will always be there to listen. But because of this, talk to someone, love someone. Realize how brief it all is. It is more beautiful for that very reason.

Nathan Galloway is a senior in biology from Sheridan, Wyo.