Tag Archives: freshman

Secretly a Suitcase Campus

By the middle of Welcome Week, my desire to whine to Mark had dwindled. I was by no means happy in Rome, but my feelings of misery turned into a numb acceptance. The sorority girls were friendly to us and the feelings of newly found freedom were sinking in. One night Rachel and I stayed with the off campus boys until 3 AM. When we drove back to school and the only repercussion was the judgmental look of the night guard. I felt exhilarated for a moment. I was at college.

Sometime that week we went to lunch with one of the off campus boys and his friend. A town favorite was Harvest Moon Cafe on Broad Street. I think the fraternity President waited tables there and they served salads that vaguely resembled something from California Pizza Kitchen. For some, Harvest Moon was the hippest.

I’ll never forget that lunch because it was the first time I felt The Numbness. That afternoon at Harvest Moon, Off Campus and his friend (who I’d later learn was Austin’s roommate) sat across the table from Rachel and me and discussed hunting.

My mind wandered for a moment, and I realized I was no longer hearing their words. I’m from the South, but I’m not so southern that twang is immediately comprehensible. As they drawled at one another the words blurred together.

“So, lay-ust Wednesday we were hunting’ and ah saw the cahrayziest thang, it wuz lahk a durdurdurduhduh….” 

“Aw, Hay-uhl naw! Sheeeee-ut!”

I do love the South. I love rednecks, BBQ and I have the letters ‘ATL’ tattooed to my wrist. I have a lot of Southern pride, but, in this moment, the South felt alien.

It got worse. “Say-uh, Tiff-nay. What’d ew git on your S-Ay-Tee-uhs?” One quick note about me at 18 – I was an intellectual snob. I didn’t have any luck in other areas of my life so I clung to the idea that, at the very least, I was smart. I used this to justify my being incredibly judgmental towards anyone who wasn’t. I told Austin’s roommate my SAT score. I knew by intellectual snob standards that it was just OK. It may have been the reason Harvard didn’t welcome me with open arms.

Austin’s roommate’s jaw dropped,

“Shee-yut. Why are yew here?” His score was roughly half mine. I was under the impression that’s the amount you got for filling out the Scantron form. I paused briefly, I had come up with a lot of answers to that question in my first week at Shorter; I got a full scholarship; I’m going to be a musician; It’s God’s Will. Usually one of them would pop out of my mouth before I had a chance to consider whether or not I believed it. This time it didn’t.

“I have no idea.”

…….

On Friday night, Rachel and I decided to go to our first Welcome Week activity, which happened to be the last activity scheduled for Welcome Week – the Fitton Student Union party. Why, you ask, did we finally want to go to Welcome Week activity? Boys. Definitely just for boys. Earlier in the week I’d seen this boy walking with a group of Freshman participating in a scavenger hunt. He was tall, and wearing a cross t-shirt. Because I went to the International School, I’d rarely found a Christian boy to have a crush on. I daydreamed about meeting a Christian boy with a Jeep Wrangler who liked DC Talk and would take me on picnics and pray before our meal. Christian boyfriend would stop at second base and maybe one day he’d wash my feet before telling me he loved me like I’d read about in True Love Waits books. This boy looked like my imagined Christian boyfriend, and I pointed him out to Rachel.

He also had a cool name. I’ll mention at this point that I’ve changed the names of anyone with whom I’m no longer close who might not want stories of what they were like in college on the internet. So I’ve changed them, but only slightly.

“Do you know what his name is?” Rachel asked me while we picked tank tops to match our denim mini skirts.

“Ok, so either his name is Amsterdam or he lived in Amsterdam and now his nickname is Amsterdam. Whatever, he’s tall.”

“That’s cool. Some of the baseball players are cute.”

We pranced across campus to the student union, ready for our first weekend at college. As we walked through the parking lots, we noticed a suspiciously low number of cars and several students loading laundry bags into the trunks of their cars. The student union was practically deserted, save for a DJ playing edited rap songs and a couple of the foreign exchange students. That was the moment we learned that Shorter was a ‘suitcase campus,’ meaning that most of the students would leave each Friday afternoon and return each Sunday evening. Rachel and I sighed for a second and talked about all the fun things we could be doing if we were back in Atlanta.

Then it hit us… home was only an hour and a half away. We were on the road by 10 PM. We drove down highway 411, through Cartersville and over Lake Allatoona for only the third time. I was about to develop a very close relationship with that country highway.

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Welcome Week

The summer was nowhere close to over when I moved up to Rome. Georgia summers start mid-spring and end mid-fall, and I was about to learn that in Rome it was always 10 degrees hotter or 10 degrees cooler than any temperature one would consider comfortable. I wasn’t excited about going to college. I’d grown attached to Atlanta over the summer, and our orientation didn’t psych us up to move in. The one upside was that I’d be living with my childhood best friend, Rachel. On orientation night we played a game that I think was Baptist-risque; the title was Sex on the Couch. It was so awkward and not fun that we skipped the rest of the get to know you activities and sat on the tiny bed in our dorm.

We stared at the walls of our future room. Some type of fabric had been pressed into the cement, probably in the 70s… that’s when textured walls were cool, right? Some of the burlapy strings were sticking out; they poked through our tank tops as we slouched against the wall. Rachel teared up and I stared blankly. I thought to myself that God was in control but I was also suspicious of God because His Will really seemed to be fucking up my life lately.

On move in day, I arrived at Shorter an 18-year-old in an Abercrombie denim mini skirt and a neon church t-shirt. I had an orange corduroy purse from Old Navy that I’d soon attach a John Kerry 2004 button to because I was a recently-converted liberal. Earlier that year I’d gone on a school trip to New York, and Nina and I fell in love with Soho. We decided that once we became employed entertainers we’d share a loft there. I didn’t know when that would happen, but 26 sounded about right. As a kid I’d decided the age of 26 was a definitive point in the process of aging. I figured everything I wanted would happen by age 26, and then I’d be good. There was no rush, I still had eight years to figure it out.

We skipped all of the Welcome Week activities out of fear that they’d be other versions of Sex on the Couch or, even worse, more Sex on the Couch. We bought decorations for our dorm room, groceries and big gaudy rings. We did all of this at the Walmart… it turned out we were going to be doing everything at the Walmart. Rachel worked diligently on her scheme to make her mark on the Shorter social scene. She identified the ‘hot’ sorority and befriended the president of its brother fraternity. This gained us an immediate invite to an off campus house. A couple fifth year seniors were old enough to move off even though they were unmarried. Off campus houses were one of the few locations the Shorter party kids gathered to drink.

I drank twice my senior year of high school, which I chalked up to wild-oat-sewing and planned to never drink again. I did’t consume a drop of alcohol my freshman year of college. I wanted to spend weekends in dorm rooms and talk about how good the Daily Show was or listen to Modest Mouse, but that didn’t happen. For lack of anything better to do, I found myself at the off campus house sitting on an old recliner clutching a Dixie cup full of diet coke every night that week. I spent a lot of nights outside talking on the phone with Mark. He was my ex-boyfriend with whom I’d become close (but would proceed to be a little in love with for the duration of my Shorter years) who, like Nina, moved to New York to go to Columbia.

I whined to Mark that I already knew I didn’t fit. Classes hadn’t even started. He asked if was thinking about transferring. I was.

Each night a tall, skinny boy sat in the corner at the off campus house. He was one of the other ones who didn’t drink, and he only wore Abercrombie and Fitch. He seemed different too, but he never spoke and scowled always. I disliked him until the night he perked up at my mention of the nice mall in Atlanta.

“You shop at Lenox?” This was the first time the corners of his mouth turned up from the scowl.

“Oh yeah, I’m from Atlanta. I went to high school right there so we used to take our lunch break and free periods to walk around.”

Even though we didn’t have another conversation for at least several weeks, Austin never scowled at me again.

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