Confidence is that thing with feathers

Everyone comes to college an outsider. New to Baltimore, I remember jangling with the nervous desire to belong. I looked for a way in through writing for The News-Letter, and one of my first stories was about a new restaurant opening in Charles Village called Busboys and Poets. Busboys is gone now, which goes to show how a person and a place can change together in less than four years.

I went on a lot of walks through campus in the spring semester of my freshman year, learning the names of buildings and quads without even meaning to. Before I quite felt like a real student at Hopkins, The News-Letter connected me to several incoming students who had just been accepted in the second early decision round. As we talked, I realized that I had the privilege of imparting knowledge and a sense of belonging; I had become part of Hopkins.

Walking back and forth across campus became an increasing necessity as pandemic restrictions were lifted and classes and extracurriculars started meeting in assigned rooms. I could not tell you exactly when the people around campus stopped feeling like non-player characters, but, at some point, they started meeting my gaze and saying, “Hi, Elaine!” I started saying, “Hello!” first.

The pandemic definitely skewed my perception of social norms. Eating meals by myself and talking to random strangers were practices that I continued as I took on the identity of a Resident Advisor (RA). Though the job itself necessitates embracing some awkwardness — as an upperclassman in the dining halls, for example — I learned more about confidence from my residents. I strove to give them the in-person freshman experience that I did not have, and they were upfront with me about everything going on in their lives. In advocating for them, I learned to advocate for myself.

Shedding my reserve to let my confidence shine through took a prerequisite feeling of safety, and I will always remember the people who have made me feel seen and also comfortable while being seen. Their authenticity  has brought out mine.

When I,  having chopped 18 inches off my hair since my freshman spring, returned to campus sophomore year, Kimberly, who worked at Hopkins Cafe at the time and is stationed at CharMar now, actually remembered me when some of my friends did not even recognize me anymore. She made me feel at home here, and I still wear the fuzzy red socks she gave me one Christmas. We would never have connected if she hadn’t told me she liked my hair when it was long and lamented when it was gone.

Larry, who works with RAs, remembered me as an AMR II Hollander resident when I became an RA myself. That might seem weird, but it means so much for me to be remembered when my biggest fear is being forgotten. I made an impact just by existing, which signified to me that I truly belong.

Taking American Sign Language has introduced me to another mode of expression in a way that has pushed me to genuinely find comfort in myself even when I make mistakes. Nobody is judging my personhood on the basis that I can never remember the difference between the sign for “funeral” and the sign for “visit.” I strive for constant improvement and would much rather be corrected than continue making an embarrassing mistake for the rest of my life.

Receiving compliments is hard for many of us, and I am still waiting for those people who say my writing “slays” during workshops to double back and berate me for the middle-of-the-night scribbles I forced them to assess. I am still counting the days until people who say I am an eloquent speaker turn around and tell me that my word vomit is meaningless to them. But, then again, when have I ever told someone I liked something of theirs and did not mean it? Never.

The impostor syndrome is still with me. And yet, I have had the privilege of being surrounded by people who unconditionally support me. I remember asking a Charm City STEM League volunteer for help, and I barely said, “Would you—” when he responded, “I would love to.” My most loyal PILOT student, Noah, announced once that he would follow me anywhere. My mindset is a little slower to change, but, whenever something goes well, I can hear the voice of Jillayne, one of my sophomore-year roommates, telling me that I am not simply lucky; I work hard. People are so kind, and I strive to be more like them every day.

Quite possibly the best compliment I have ever been given came from my best friend Kahea. “You got balls,” she said. That is not to say that I somehow grew a pair in college. People sometimes mistake me for being shy because I can be quiet. But, if I were a book, I would have a transparent cover; I say what I mean. And I learned that from her throwing around the most out-of-pocket Midwest phrases, because she is not afraid of being herself in the face of questioning looks.

Everyone comes to college to learn, from professors and from each other. Other people’s successes do not detract from my own. As I move forward into the real, adult world, I have confidence that I have learned something from the Hopkins community about being myself. I have a voice that people want to hear. This has been the case all along.

Elaine Yang is from San Ramon, Calif. and is graduating with a degree in Neuroscience and Medicine, Science, and the Humanities with a minor in Writing Seminars.