Observations on Orientation Thursday

You are now a freshman. 

 

SATs, AP tests and college application essays are history. Required community service hours, science fair projects and the days of saying the pledge of allegiance every morning in homeroom are gone. 

 

This is College.  

 

This is what you've spent your entire summer (and possibly even longer) dreaming about. Eagerly, you've arrived in Durham--personal belongings and parents in tow--to start experiencing the Beginning of the Rest of Your Life.

Now, where's the beer? 

 

Us being Duke students. 

 

This is your first weekend night of college (Thursday nights are now part of the weekend) and you may be expecting beer, or pot, or action or some wanton combination of the three. Many of you will get what you're expecting, but for now, all you'll be receiving from Them is a couple hours of Institutionalized Fun. They have sent you here, to the East Campus lawn, on your first weekend night, to bond with your fellow students--to mingle, to have fun.... Institutionalized Fun.

No beer, no pot, no action. Instead, They have given you Big Inflatable Things to Jump On. 

 

This is it. You've managed to impress someone in the Admissions office and now you're here. You've made it to college and you're ready to show 'em what you've got, you think to yourself. But right now, you look around the East Campus lawn, as the beads of sweat start budding across your hairline, and what have They given you to celebrate the fact that you are now no longer a kid, but a full-fledged college student? Big Inflatable Things to Jump On. 

 

You see they have set up obstacle courses and moon walks for you: Games involving inflatable boxing gloves, belly bumpers and a Durham Bulls booth.

When you walk past the Bulls stand, you hear one girl ask her friend, "Where is that baseball team from? Chicago?" 

 

As will happen to you many times this year, you have no idea what's going on.

You see your classmates--hundreds of them--a giant, nearly homogenous mass of J.Crew and Abercrombie, Sevens and Diesels, Polo and Lacoste, Reefs and Rainbows, Tiffany's and TAG Heuer, Louis Vuitton and Prada. Of course, there are torn jeans and studded accessories and political slogans blasting from tee-shirts as well. There are pierced parts and tattoos, acne and angst, nerves and homesickness.  

 

But that's not what you see.  

 

You see the makeup and the Gucci bags, the strategically placed baseball caps and the tacky, shiny watches. Maybe you feel good right now because you're wearing your favorite blue Polo shirt that you know brings out the color of your eyes, and know you smell good because you're wearing your best cologne. What you see is everything; what you perceive becomes what is, and you start to believe that you've already figured out The System. 

 

Or maybe not. 

 

You are an overachiever, or not; religious, or not; middle-class, or not; athletic, or not. No matter who or what you are, you are more nervous and more excited than you have ever been in your life.  

 

You are from the Carolinas, or from Florida, or (most likely) from New Jersey. You are 18 or 19--old enough to be here but not so old that you have forgotten what it feels like to have pimples and wear braces, and all those awkward moments that go along with being a high school student. 

 

You went to a private school or a public school, but either way you did well. Or well enough. Or maybe you didn't do well enough and took a fifth-year at that prep school in Massachusetts because you are a Smith, and Smiths don't go to mediocre schools, God damn it.  

 

Perhaps you were one of those untouchables: Valedictorian of your class, president of every possible extracurricular activity and varsity athlete in five sports--captain of all of them, of course. When you walked down your school's corridors, the boys nodded to you with reverence and the girls clustered together and whispered in hushed tones. The teachers fawned over you and you were buddy-buddy with the top administrators. 

 

Of course. 

 

You are apolitical or very political. You are what your parents wanted you to be. You are a Democrat who has never been around so many Republicans, or a conservative who has never seen so many liberals. You are a Southerner at a "Northern" school or a Northerner at a "Southern" one, and everything--from the sweet tea and grits to the Yankees hats and Jews--seems foreign.  

 

A thousand questions constantly flash across your freshman brain. You see the curly-haired blond guy wearing a ridiculously orange tee-shirt, drawling with his Tennessee twang to his freshly minted friends, and you wonder, What did he get on the SAT to get in here? 

 

You got a 1540 on your SATs--will I get good grades here? You didn't drink in high school--can I pull that off here? Do I rush a fraternity? I don't even know what "rush" means. What if no sorority wants me? I heard last year that there were four girls who didn't get any bids from anywhere.... 

 

More than anything else, you are worried. You are worried, worried, worried, and you think you're the only one. You're worried that you won't make friends, or you're worried that you'll make the wrong ones.  

 

You're worried that you're too dumb.  

 

You are worried that you don't look right--that you're too fat, or too skinny or don't have the right jeans. You go to the gym until you get bored with it (or until you become self-conscious because that damn lacrosse player is always working out when you are and you'll never have his body, or his muscles, or his build).  

 

Or you run along Campus Drive every morning--sweating and miserable--but at least not sitting on your ass. Or you stop eating breakfast, or you stop eating lunch, or you just stop eating entirely. You go to the bathroom and throw up that Marketplace pasta and those blazing sea nuggets and that last cup of double-dutch chocolate fro-yo you shouldn't have eaten, until your eyes start to tear and your neck starts to ache and even then, you're convinced that you'll never be good enough. 

 

You are worried you are not rich enough. "Did you see that red 355 Maranello Ferarri zoom down Ninth Street yesterday?" someone asks you. "I had to help one of my FAClets move a Stairmaster into her room!" you overhear a weary FAC complaining. And all the while, you're wondering if you even have enough money to cover the cost of your textbooks for the fall semester.  

 

Or maybe you're one of those legacy kids.  

 

The Annual Fund visits your family personally to solicit money for the University and your parents gave you an M3 when you were 15, but you cried because you didn't get a convertible.  

 

You are worried that you'll be caught getting fucked up. Already baked, you've managed to make it to the East Campus lawn, and start asking people where to get more, without fully comprehending where you are or who you're actually talking to. You start freakin' out when you realize you've been telling your life story to a journalist and stumble away, worried that you'll get written up... or something. 

 

You are worried about sex. You are terribly, ridiculously horny and it worries you. You are a virgin and wonder if you will be one forever. Or you aren't and you wish you were; or you aren't--you really aren't--and if that's the case, it's best you be male, because then you're a player, and not a slut.  

 

Or maybe you simply don't give a shit and you're already sneaking an upperclassman into your freshly decorated new Blackwell dorm room. Giddy about the prospect of getting some on the first Thursday of your first weekend as a college student, you don't care that tomorrow you'll be the subject of someone's bragging.  

 

"Yeah, I definitely hit that," he'll say. 

 

Or maybe you're gay and don't want to be; or gay and don't know what to do about it; or gay and hiding it; or maybe you hate those damn queers and why do I have to go to school with those fags?  

 

You are white and with the white kids, or black and with the black kids, or maybe you're neither and with neither, or are neither and with both. 

 

You are worried you will be lonely.  

 

You're wandering around the East Campus lawn and although you gawk at those crazy kids playing with those Big Inflatable Things, deep down you wish you were One of Them. When someone asks you if you're planning on going out to party after the Playfair, you ask, "Are there parties tonight?" You were just planning to continue unpacking and possibly take a cold shower to get away from this inescapable humidity. Later on you think to yourself, "Am I the only one?" So does that girl down the hall. 

 

At some point you realize, however, that this is all just the Game. Some of you have already learned to Play the Game well, or haven't and Play the Game poorly. Or, if you're really lucky, you have learned not to Play the Game at all. 

 

And if you Play well, then here on the East Campus lawn, at 9:30 p.m., on your first weekend night, you are shaking hands, and smiling and Looking Interested, but you are clearly aware that the real action of the evening will be had elsewhere. Nonetheless, you're perfectly tucked-in and put together and you could go, go, go for hours like that, shaking, and smiling and Looking.  

 

"I'm Mike from Manassas! I went to private school in D.C., too. Georgetown Prep, we played you guys in soccer...."  

 

Maybe you don't feel perfectly tucked-in and put together; maybe you miss your friends back home, or maybe you're glad to finally be away from your drunken dad or abusive ex. But you can Pass, because you've learned how to hide It and you know how to Get By. So, there you go, shaking, smiling and Looking.  

 

You're safe.  

 

You know how to say, "How are you?" to the professors in the right way--straight in the eye, but not aggressively--and you have exactly the right response to lower other people's defenses and make them feel Special because you know how to Play. Or maybe you never know what is the right thing to say, but you get by because you can smile, and nod and say to that insolent physics professor, "Yes sir. You're the expert. You're right. I know nothing. Teach me more." 

 

So long as you're willing to Play, you're most likely one of those freshmen who left the Big Inflatable Things to Jump On early and went back to your new room to freshen up a bit, and really begin the night. With a fresh coat of lip gloss or a slight readjustment of your cap, you meet up with a gang of newfound friends and throw back a few shots of Aristocrat--or perhaps sip a Smirnoff Ice for the greener types--to loosen up a bit before making the trek to West Campus or an off-campus party. 

 

But if you're one of those who are afraid to Play, you're probably not out there shaking hands, but rather you're aimlessly wandering around the outskirts of the Playfair until you realize you'd be happier in your room playing a video game... or something. 

 

You're waiting until the last possible second, when you know you'll have to go out there and face Them.  

 

Whether you're outside or inside, you feel outside, wondering how you will make it among the future investment bankers and future PPS majors who were all the captains of their speech and field hockey teams in high school and who can drink hard, and screw hard and still hold down that 3.7. 

 

You've had some fun, maybe you've met some people, but you still don't know all the rules. You're still self-conscious when you say, "Hi, I'm Jane. I'm from near Charleston, but it's a small town--You've never heard of it." And you still haven't learned that saying the name of the small town--Mount Pleasant or Goose Creek or Folly Beach--is easier than saying, "you've never heard of it."  

 

Or maybe you have not yet learned that no matter how small your high school was, you will still have to name it because They want to know, and because it's likely that someone who knows someone who knows someone else, knows you. And you can't help the fact that you say, "I'm Jane and I'm from near Charleston, and you've never heard of my high school," as if it were a question, or an apology, because you're uncomfortable, and you're nervous and maybe you're not quite sure who you really are.  

 

And some of you who Play well think you Play poorly, and some of you who Play poorly think you Play well. Regardless of how you Play, nine times out of 10, you might as well have "Freshman" emblazoned in day-glo colors on your forehead, as you realize yourself when you ride the drunk bus over to West.  

  Sequins and heavy eye make-up or booting on the East-West bus are just a few of the glaring faux pas you or your friends will make. 

 

But no matter how well you Play, you're still scared, and excited, and confused because this is College.  

 

But you're Lonely. You see the Vineyard crowd, the few Goths, the Jocks, the Engineers--who look like Engineers--and the Sorority Girls in Training, and you can't tell where you fit. 

 

And so you drink it away, or smoke it away, or just give it up. Or maybe you read, or maybe you write, or maybe you just play your guitar and wait until your roommate is asleep and all the lights are out before you start to cry.  

 

It can be scary, and it can be lonely and it can be depressing: This Gothic Wonderland can be a real bitch.  

 

Maybe you're one of the lucky few who are not Playing because you know that it doesn't matter how well or poorly you shake, or smile, or Look. You've figured out what makes you tick and know what you're passionate about. You are fine with yourself and you know that it doesn't matter how other people will label you.  

 

You've learned that you don't have to Play to have amazing friends and be happy. 

 

Maybe you want to learn not to Play. 

 

If you let yourself, you can find out how to do that now.  

 

But for now, you are nervous and horny, and excited and scared, and, as will happen many times this year--and the next and the next and the next after that--you do not know what's going on. 

 

So the Playfair winds down and you climb onto the West bus, or start a conversation on your dorm's bench, or you go to bed. You take the first step of your next four years. 

 

And it feels good.