Introduction
I have a kid in high school, which around this parts means I’m
in earshot of a never-ending litany of worry, most of it about the near
impossibility of getting into a good college (and sometimes about the near
impossibility of ever getting a good job).
The latest fear is that even the second-tier, “backup” schools like UCSB are becoming too competitive for all but the very brightest
students, blah blah blah.
If all of this is true, a good college is bound to be a
pretty dull place by the time my daughters get there. Nobody will know how to enjoy life, because
they’ll have spent their teen years taking six AP classes per semester,
studying like fiends, doing extracurriculars like cleaning public latrines “to
look good on their applications,” and spending what little spare time they have
worrying.
But then I look back at my own college years and think, nah,
students will never change. When I was a
teen my mom assured me that college had been much easier, and less selective, when she was a
student, but I can’t imagine it. There
was nothing especially elite about my generation of students; we were your
basic run-of-the-mill hedonists. For some this took the form of partying; for others, sports; and for many, excessive sleeping. (Yes,
when I transferred to Berkeley I encountered a stronger work ethic, but we were
still basically hedonists.) And isn’t
that part of the point of college? To be hedonists for four years while earning an accreditation that will last a
lifetime?
To celebrate this, and because I don’t have time to write
this week, I’m posting another essay from my archives, chronicling my first
week as a UCSB student.
First week of college
– September 19, 1988
The line streamed up the block and disappeared into a
building.
“You know, like, I’m already starting to miss people at
home. Not like my parents or anything,
but you know, the people I’m close to,”
said an attractive girl.
A girl with green eyeshadow said, “Like, our living room is
nice, but it just isn’t that fun, you
know? Like, it’s kind of boring.”
A short guy in a Top Gun type jacket, sporting aviator
sunglasses against the overcast morning glare, looked on, literally too cool to
speak. I stood by, tuning into various
conversations taking place around me, trying not to look like Nipper, the RCA
dog craning to hear the Victrola.
“You know, I’ve worked hard in school and I think I deserve a nicer car, you know?”
“I hate dorm food.
Let’s get Chinese for lunch.”
“I’m majoring in Psychology.
I don’t know why; maybe I’ll be a psychiatrist.”
Inside the building, I received a number, like at
Baskin-Robbins. I got number 31, and they were
helping 37 … so I had 94 students ahead of me, all of us waiting to sign up for
phone service. Once through this line,
we had to line up again in front of one or another card table to sign up for a long
distance carrier. Why only one rep from
each phone company? I had no idea which one
to choose and a shorter line would have totally carried the day.
I made myself comfortable—as comfortable as you can be just
standing there in cheap shoes on a hard floor.
Not far off, a guy was having an enthusiastic conversation with a pretty
young thing about absolutely nothing.
God I envied him. I don’t know a
soul in this college town of Isla Vista, unless you count my new roommates, who
have somehow talked me into getting the phone bill in my name—something my old
friends in San Luis Obispo had expressly warned me not to do.
A girl in a Coors Classic t-shirt said, “You think we should
ride our bikes there? I don’t know, I
might fall off. I haven’t ridden a bike
since 6th grade.”
“You know, it was like, right before the prom, and I looked
in the mirror and said, ‘Oh my god, I have got
to do something.’ So I ran to my hairdresser and said, ‘Just do
something, please!’”
“You know, you should just take it easy until you’re all
settled in. Just take a minimum load, 12
units. You’ll see. At least, that’s what my counselor says.”
I drifted in and out of oblivion, stirring slightly to
witness an MCI representative harassing a Sprint representative for making up
facts, which to the best of my knowledge he had
been doing.
“It used to be, like, really perm-y. Now it’s just sort of curly, not
curly-curly.”
I envisioned myself on a date with one of these girls. “Just don’t open your mouth, and we’ll get
along fine,” I imagined saying. Then it
dawned on me that the girl might do well to give me the same advice. I stifled a shudder. At least, I think I did. Can you stifle a shudder? Did anyone see?
By the time it was my turn to get a phone number, I felt as
though I knew everybody in the room personally.
I held for each and every one of them the same respect reserved normally
for McDonald’s associates and the operator when you dial 411. I once again became acutely aware that I was
at one of the finest learning institutions in the country, in some very sharp
company. I began to feel
intimidated. I was nowhere nearly as
outgoing and poised as my fellow students.
What could I talk about? The
dramatic turn of events at the recent road cycling World Championships? The fact that I live in La Loma, the
lowest-rent building in I.V., a place so cheap that I’m among the only students
there, the rest being factory workers who—based on how early in the morning I
hear them revving their engines in the parking lot outside my window—must
commute a great distance?
Lacking my own car cut my conversational topics in half, so
considered describing some of the interesting rental cars I drove this past
summer, or the ’52 Ford pickup I drove while working at a clothing
factory. As I left the building, my
phone number receipt clutched firmly in my hand, I resolved to brush up on my
social skills. My worldly roommate
speaks fondly of his success with the ladies, which he attributes to lying
about his age. Perhaps I shall consider
this technique.
So began my first week in I.V. When my mom and the landlord (that is, her
husband, not my real landlord) came to see me off, I gave them the full tour of
my quaint little apartment. Imagine my
shame when my own mom accused my happy home of being “a pit.” Surely the thin layer of protective scum left
by the previous tenants would wash right off, and the black widow hanging from
the ceiling could be considered a pet. I
admit that I was initially slightly dismayed by the poor condition of the
apartment, but that was before the landlord (the real one, my landlord) assured me that the previous tenants had lost their
entire damage deposit.
The place did come equipped with quick-release window
screens, as well as a somewhat stocked kitchen.
The refrigerator is sporting some well-aged pickles, and some
organic-looking sprouts I have yet to identify.
Dried seaweed and brown rice, along with over ten varieties of ramen,
comprise only a fraction of the delicacies lining the cabinets. And the aspirin! This place is replete! Every cabinet in the house has its own jar,
so I’ll never have to walk more than ten feet for aspirin again. I feel baffled by my mom’s apprehensions. I’m very excited about my new home and I
can’t wait to meet all the neighbors, especially the children, who seem so
energetic and vocal. I’m sure their
parent will have great stories to tell.
And I’m looking forward to chatting up the maintenance woman to find out
how our apartment complex got its very own golf cart.
And yet, ever since I got here I felt that something was
missing from the college life I’d expected.
I just felt kind of empty inside.
And then, on the third day, it hit me:
classes! That’s right, a college
institution as old and venerable as overpriced textbooks and frequent
intoxication. For some reason, UCSB
decided to start classes on a Thursday.
Perhaps this was to give new students a chance to hit their stride, and
balance all these new responsibilities:
freedom, housekeeping, hangovers, and operating the local Automated
Teller Machines, which in many cases differ from what students used in their
hometowns. (Fortunately, these students
will have plenty of opportunities to practice with these ATMs, and believe me,
they will.)
I showed up for my first-ever college class five minutes
ahead of time like a good boy, and immediately panicked because nobody else
seemed to be around. I automatically
assumed that the temporary, unofficial schedule I was using (after losing my
final, official schedule) was incorrect, and my college career would begin with
a humiliating screw-up. But to my
surprise, the Teacher’s Aide (or whatever TA stands for, if anything) arrived
with about ten seconds to spare, headed to the front of the room, sat down, and
proceeded to stare blankly into space, seemingly on the brink of delirium. The six other students who had arrived sat
patiently in their seats, being careful not to slouch, and behaving perfectly,
perhaps for the last time in their lives.
Looking at the TA, all I could think was, “She looks like she could use
a cup of coffee.” As if on cue she said,
“I need coffee,” and left the room. She
returned a moment later sipping coffee from a Styrofoam cup. Did I mention this was my Environmental
Studies TA?
She had prepared well for this first class. She delivered her lecture with the poise and
polish that indicate she’s given it many times before: “Well, it looks like almost nobody is here,
so there’s no point in going into anything.
But I want to say this is a great class, and I’m sure that’s why it’s so
full this quarter. I think.”
French class didn’t go so well. I’d tested into French 4 but wasn’t nearly up
to the level of the others, and right after class the professor demoted me to
French 3. I won’t miss her. I will, however, miss this really cute girl with
a hairdo like a tumbleweed.
On the way biking home I was accosted by a gentleman who
came running out into the road holding out a piece of paper. Instinctively I grabbed it, and it turned out
to be a flyer. It seemed a local chapter
of a Greek leadership society was putting on a free event designed to broaden
students’ social horizons. The event was
described in a touching free-verse poem:
“It’s not that far/ And they’ve got open bar/ You won’t have to drive a
car/ To go see the party czar/ The liquor king/ The master of malice/ The hero
of hedonism/ It’s EVIL EDDIE!/ At the original house of fun.” Ah, the Delta House at 6515 Pardall, a
building almost as elegant as La Loma.
Apparently, the fraternity would be hosting this event as a display of
its benevolent leadership in the community.
After reading a list of the activities and hospitality planned
(“beverages, snacks, sex, drugs, and rock & roll”), I was disappointed at
having to miss it. Laundry Night with my
roommates had already been planned and I wasn’t going to let the guys down.
Well, I should wrap up this report. I’m about to acquaint myself with the final puzzle
piece of my college experience:
studying! This is another
collegiate tradition I’m hoping to keep alive, if only in my own tiny
realm. Wish me luck!
--~--~--~--~--~--~--~---~--
For a complete index of albertnet posts, click here.
No comments:
Post a Comment