"Ew, freshmen,” I say passing by Wolman — My RA friend Nebuchadnezzar’s heart shatters into billions of minuscule sharp-edged pieces.
But then again, I say that I hate humans, I hate air and even *gasp* I hate writing on a regular basis and, yet, here we are, back, like a phoenix from the ashes or like Slim Shady ... But I digress.
Later that day I met Nebuchadnezzar’s tiny little residents and in fact, freshmen are so incredibly “aw.”
They friended Nebuchadnezzar’s grandmother on Facebook. Hell, I’m not even friends with my grandma. They go to Maxie’s on Thursdays, whereas my old bones rot wrapped in blankets and movies on Friday nights and maybe shake a little thanks to cheap white wine on Saturdays.
They wear short skirts. I wear free T-shirts with “JHU Something 2012” written on them. They make friends. I bid mine farewell. Of course, freshman year is the hoarding year. — “I was a hoarder, but, girl, that was back then.” Does anyone even get Vampire Weekend references? Or is it all about butts now?
You hoard people, memories, duties, clubs, classes and experiences. It takes some time to pick and choose from the pile of things that are important.
But enough with the preaching, let’s get to the story.
A few days ago a blue jay knocked on my window with its beak and delivered a letter.
Foretelling your question about whether Actual Real Blue Jay Post is a service available to everyone who goes here, let me be sure to clarify: absolutely not. It is only available to True Blue Jays, one of this school’s well kept secrets by the way.
Anyway, Blue Jay Post is not my preferred method of communication, so I was slightly taken aback, but also flattered. Hereby I disclose the letter’s full content with slightly altered names for the sake of anonymity:
Dear Aunt Katie,
I am a freshman in desperation. My life is too perfect. I have too many cool friends. I manage my time perfectly. I get enough sleep, protein and fiber. I’m in a long term committed blablabla with this other freshman. Any advice on how to fix this?
Sincerely,
Nefertiti Smith
Well, friend, here is my reply:
Dear Nefertiti,
That sounds just dreadful. Luckily, I know how to fix it. The first thing you need to do is go to Gilman and step on the JHU crest on the floor. According to an old legend those who do that will be stuck at this school ad infinitum.
Once your chances of leaving are successfully nullified, I suggest you cause some mischief in Hopkins masses. Do whatever, go crazy. Meet someone right there in Gilman and say that even though you enjoyed reading Derrida, listening to Katy Perry was a more fulfilling experience.
Take Intro to Business and call everyone capitalist pigs in every business memo. Professor Aronhime will love it and I’m not even joking. Secretly replace all the Charmar coffee with decaf, make observations and publish a paper about placebo effect.
Get famous, probably. Go to Calc II, raise your hand, and convince Professor Jesus Garcia to say he loves you. Proceed to declare “Checkmate, atheists.” Climb Gilman’s roof for the upcoming Lightning of the Quad for a better view. Don’t worry; it has been done before by another student.
Go, go, go.
All humor aside, what I would advise is not to take anyone’s advice.
When you do something an unusual way or get excited about something mundane, causing the upperclassmen to roll their eyes, neglect those dinosaurs. You’ll have time to be jaded by experience.
Know that when we get drunk the adult way, — not too much or too little — but just the right amount, or when we walk the familiar routes again and again without ever stopping to look around, we are all slightly jealous of you. We are comfortable, but you have the alluring luxury of excitement.
Maybe it is the only true way living, the touristy way: making an effort to remember, to try and to transition. The eureka moment is the search for the eureka moment.
There are no tricks, treats and shortcuts. There is only you and your Hopkins story to live.
There’s a Kurt Vonnegut quote I love: “Hello, babies. Welcome to Earth. It’s hot in the summer and cold in the winter. It’s round and wet and crowded. On the outside, babies, you’ve got a hundred years here.
There’s only one rule that I know of, babies- ‘God damn it, you’ve got to be kind.’”
Hello, Baby Jays. Welcome to Hopkins, where the weather’s too unpredictable for its own good. Hopkins is red brick and marble and lots of overachievers.
On the outside, babies, you’ve got four years here. There’s only one rule that I know of, babies — “God damn it, you’ve got to figure it out.”
Good luck and best wishes.
Love,
Aunt Katie
