I often find myself comparing my Davidson experience to that of high school. I attended an all-girls school in Washington, D.C. where, no matter how hard anyone tried, students struggled to find enough time for themselves. We constantly reflected on academics, but rarely reflected on the lives we were leading. Ironically, my AP Human Geography class often served as a refuge for our well-being. The teacher, Mr. Bonner began each class by asking us a deceptively simple question: How’s everyone doing? Rather than settling for the standard “good” and swiftly moving on, he encouraged us to go into detail about the good and the bad in our lives—again, every single class. He fostered a shared humanity, transforming his classroom into what sociologists call “third places”: an environment separate from home or work where people interact and build relationships. Throughout senior year, Mr. Bonner continuously encouraged us to seek third places, especially as our favorite coffee shops turned into silent dungeons for college essay writing.
When we graduated, Mr. Bonner gave us a parting assignment. He requested that we email him at some point and share a glimpse into our new lives, detailing what we were excited about and the friendships we were creating. As I wrote my email to him this year, I began by describing my newfound love for hot yoga and my friend group’s decision to dress up as Smurfs for Halloween. I soon diverged, though, gravitating toward a reflection on a seemingly ordinary thing: a picnic table.
At Davidson, it seems like every place I frequent is multipurpose. I draft papers for my political science course and play cards on Friday afternoons at the same table outside of Nummit. I analyze policy reports and refresh Reformation’s “Recently Added” clothing collection from my dorm desk. Even now, I’m writing this article from the same well-worn couch in the Chidsey lobby where I read about Marie Antoinette’s trials for my French history class with Dr. Tilburg. Despite the duality of many places on Davidson’s campus, the picnic table adjacent to Connor Eating House serves solely as a place for communion, conversation, and laughter.
“Meet at the picnic table in 10?” “Going to put my stuff at the picnic table.” “I’m at the picnic table! Come whenever.” Texts like these flood my phone, capturing just a fraction of its significance in my daily life. There is little that I savor more than these moments—work and phone tucked away, lost in hours of conversation that naturally rejuvenate me. Each conversation carves its own sanctuary in my heart, perhaps more vividly than a lesson on economic elasticity or a paper on vocational education in Finland (though my nerdy side will likely cling to some point from these too).
I also treasure the table’s setting—tucked beneath a tree that changes with the seasons, the proximity to the door that grants us access to Chef K’s famous ranch, and its vast view of Patterson Court which facilitates easy people-watching. I also value its ability to bring together my friends from different eating houses, assuaging the worry I once held that we might drift apart because we’re eating fewer meals together (for context, we had hour-long lunches and dinners in Commons every day last year). The table has deepened my connection with other Connor Jesters too, some of whom have become my closest friends. The table is a “girls’ space,” echoing the similar sisterhood I found in high school.
I have decreed that this table will never see my homework and only serve as a space for serenity. I firmly
believe that everyone needs a space solely for communion and, honestly, laughter. Especially in college, where the lines between home and work blur easily, I urge everyone to seek a place that exists solely to nurture relationships, even if that place happens to be Nummit trivia or F on a Saturday night.
I can already sense that the Connor picnic table will anchor my college memories. I will always remember the first time my roommate and I stumbled upon the table. I will always remember the last lunch before this year’s fall break, when Connor girls filled the table minute by minute. And I will always remember the early November dinners under the slowly darkening sky. Even now, the highlights of my week come from the table, more so than a highly anticipated night out or post-exam exhilaration.
Most importantly, though, this table serves as a living tribute to Mr. Bonner and his devotion to authenticity. Just as his geography class became a symbol of all that mattered most to me in high school, this table has become the cornerstone of my college years, grounding me in community and belonging. Writing this article, I can only hope to transmit a fraction of Mr. Bonner’s energy, but I’m certain that I will always seek places that remind me of his classroom while I continuously encourage others to do the same.
Sophia is an intended Political Science and History double major from Washington, D.C. and can be reached for comment at [email protected].
