Moments after taking the last exam of my freshman year — before preparing to head home to Los Angeles — I walked into Lincoln Hall, found an unoccupied music room and cried silently, fiddling aimlessly with piano keys. It wasn’t for the reasons you might expect. I wasn’t crying over the difficulty of the exam or just how “average” of a Cornellian I was. I was crying because I didn’t want to go back home. I sometimes receive sarcastic remarks like “lucky” or a high-pitched “why would you leave?” when I tell other Cornellians I’m from Los Angeles, Calif.