Fall at Stanford does not exactly connote changing leaves and pumpkin spice. Rather, fall exists here in small ways: piling on sweaters and scarves as you bike to class only to take them all off by noon, crunching over leaves (that have probably been dead since June) with your bike tires, nearly crashing into red-lanyard bedecked freshmen. It also means NSO. I imagined that when I was no longer “new” here, I would not feel the jittery exploration that characterizes orientation. I was wrong. In these first few weeks of the quarter, I am surrounded by both the relief of being able to somewhat capably navigate the campus mixed with the melancholy of leaving freshman year behind.
In lieu of the overdone “what’s your major?” conversation, I have found myself being asked “what do you do here?” with a disconcertingly high frequency. It is expected that once one leaves Wilbur, they are supposed to know exactly what they are studying, where they are living for the next three years, and bonus points for what they are doing after graduation. The questioner is unaware of the fear this triggers in me, and yet no doubt feels the same way when I rebound the inquiry back to them. I give the expected answer: anticipated major, activities whose email lists I am on, place of residence. But the real question lingers – what do I do here?
In short, I do the regular brainstem functions any college student does. Beyond the ever-distracting minutiae of schoolwork, what I am actually doing here seems unclear. College, in 2016, is not defined as much more than a step on the path to adulthood. Am I being trained to complete a vocation that will ultimately provide for me for the next sixty years? Unlikely, especially since the sentiment that college students do not need know what they want to do runs rampant. Rather, we are participating in an American college experience that has evolved with our nation. With it comes many luxuries, countless idiosyncrasies, ample unfairness, and a lot of pressure.
What are we supposed to be doing here? One can look to the media for representations of faux doric fraternity rows or hallowed halls inhabited by people who seem to have everything just right. The reality looks a little different but is haunted by the same expectations, compounded by Stanford’s rigor. Stanford is not particularly conducive to ambling – wandering about, testing experiences to see which ones fit. Under the conversations and involuntary judgements, however, exists the truth. We are free to take classes which interest us, spend time with people we love, and partake in opportunities that most find elusive. So why do we spend so much time trying to package our lives so nicely that others can immediately be impressed by them?
Contact Ariel Kaufman at [email protected].