As the ferocious wave of final exams, presentations and papers quickly builds (its size augmented by the tears and cold sweat of anxious students), we prepare for the deluge in the only way that we know how: by taking on more work. In the face of ominous deadlines and assignments worth 30 percent or more of our final grades (psh, if you have time for five hours of sleep, you are slacking, my friend), we are simultaneously asked to determine our plans for the next semester of overscheduling.
That’s right, it’s time to start book-bagging—electronically selecting the classes that most appeal to us, satisfy our requirements, and hopefully will not destroy our GPAs in the semester to come. In theory, book-bagging is a simple exercise that encourages students to explore the breadth of Duke’s opportunities, ultimately informing our choices on the revered and anticipated Day of Registration. What an outsider to the process—i.e. a hopeful, effervescent, and albeit naive P-Frosh—does not realize, however, is the immense time and skill that book-bagging actually requires.
In truth, registration is a race between students, a pulse-quickening, mind-consuming quest to secure the perfect schedule—one free of 8:30’s and impeccably aligned with our interests. In preparation for this race, we spend hours bent over our computer screens, eyes glued to the enormous promise of DukeHub and scrolling through the endless options. We devote hours to carefully crafting a dream team of classes, while also recruiting some lower profile alternates (courses to play the bench).
Despite all of our training, however, we are never fully prepared for the emotional rollercoaster of Registration Day. Consider my own registration experience from this past semester:
An eager first-semester-freshman (who had paid her second-registration period dues over the summer), I cruised through book-bagging, drunk with the power of priority. After composing an ideal schedule—filled with highly praised professors, class times that fit like pieces in a masterful puzzle and locations that would be easy to move between—I felt ready to play in the registration game.
On the eve of the competition, I set my alarm for 6:40 a.m., allowing myself 20 minutes to wake up, assume my game-face and “validate” my schedule on DukeHub. From 6:58 to precisely 7:00 a.m.—and yes, I had the official government time displayed on my phone—I hovered my computer mouse over the “enroll” button. When the last second ticked by, I moved in for the kill, seamlessly securing all four of my desired classes.
The relief that followed—along with my excitement for the next semester and pride at having emerged from the contest victorious—was short lived, as I learned that DukeHub had crashed in the moments following my triumph and I would have to re-register a few days later. Slightly annoyed but now confident in my ability to beat the registration game, I set my alarm for 6:40 a.m. and went to sleep in contest-mode once more.
This time, however, registration did not go as planned. When I woke up at 8:00 a.m., somewhat disoriented with a pit in my stomach that made me unequivocally certain that something was wrong, I realized that my enrollment window had opened an entire hour before, and most of my classes had probably filled up. In a panic, I leapt out of bed and quickly tried to register for my optimal schedule. Despite being so late to the game, only one of my desired classes was full and I was able to easily replace it with a substitute course from my book-bag.
Months later, my fervent fear of missing registration—the one that chilled my body and accelerated my heartrate to the angry, overbearing beat of a jackhammer—haunts all of my attempts to begin the book-bagging process for next fall. And, as I slowly approach the end of my first year at Duke, I also find myself ushered into the existential crisis part of my college experience, in which I madly obsess over finding a major in time to fulfill the requirements.
However, it is in all of this worrying—the minutes allocated to researching classes and majors, the energy spent preparing for the great sprint that is Duke registration, and the moments of utter uncertainty and stress—that I have come to a realization: it will all work itself out in the end.
As ambitious Duke students, we often crave the satisfaction of control, of watching everything unfold in the exact manner that we predicted, of etching a thoughtful plan into writing and watching it come alive before our eyes. Yet, despite our best efforts to manipulate all aspects of life, sometimes our plans are foiled.
Sometimes life, in all its unpredictability, gets in the way, and we can’t transform our expectations into reality; sometimes we are forced to drop the reigns of control.
In these instances, we must not lose hope. We must be graceful, mindful, and flexible, openly adapting to any challenges that arise, considering unique perspectives, and formulating new plans for action. Whether it’s accepting a different schedule after an emotionally draining registration debacle or simply emulating the wizards and letting the major choose you, we could all benefit from sacrificing a little control.
After all, what’s life without a little uncertainty?
Carley Lerner is a Trinity first-year. Her column runs on alternate Thursdays.
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