And so that time of year comes again, when the welcome banners go up, steak is served in the dining halls and Dean Shaw starts shouting “Go Cardinal!” at random. It feels strange watching it happen four years later, since last spring, my friends and I walked across the stage at Commencement and finally got those little binders with those all-important diplomas inside. Alums at last.
Except — there wasn’t a diploma in my binder. That was printer paper with my name typed in sans serif — a placeholder marking me as incomplete. Some of my peers spent this summer starting their new jobs, some of them worked internships before their coterm, some went vacationing in the Greek isles (please excuse my eyeroll). I spent the summer on campus, working, taking a class — my last — and graduating one quarter late from the Leisurely Stanford Junior University.
Don’t get me wrong — I loved my summer and the class, and I’m genuinely thankful to finish strong on what was a much longer road than some of my friends knew. And there are some of you new freshmen who will read this and say to yourselves: “That will never be me.” You’ll probably say that a lot in NSO. Academic tutoring for struggling students: Not me. Graduating late: Not me. Seeking help from mental health counselors: Not me. A hotline for students in crisis: Not. Me.
Not for me, you’ll say, is this Stanford with all its counselors and doctors and advisors — the Stanford I came for is the Stanford I read about, with sunshine and palm trees and free mimosas, probably.
I signed right up for that Stanford: I joined the Band, was an RA, became a tour guide and generally enjoyed all the things that Stanford told me I would. Four years is a long time, and I admit that for around $200 per lecture, I don’t remember some of my classes (my transcript says I took Anthro I and did well. Who knew? Not me, apparently).
But I’ll remember certain moments very well. I’ll remember when I first failed a class (12 out of 57 on the midterm; I still have that test, and say it with me: W stands for wisdom!). I’ll remember when I got a letter telling me I was on academic probation, and how I was so scared of it that I stuffed it in a drawer and archived the email. I remember when my mother discovered that letter a few months later (I knew I should have burnt it) and how when she demanded an explanation, I could feel my insides breaking down. I remember waking up suddenly one morning senior year, thinking — knowing — that I would fail all my finals and break the terms of my probation and get suspended and not be able to graduate, and I ran into the bathroom and retched but nothing came out, so I ran into my car and I screamed and I screamed and I screamed. And I called my residence dean, who sent me to CAPS in crisis mode, and I realized (not me?).
I’m being a little melodramatic. I’ll graduate in nine days. Some of my memories here are of me breaking under failure; others are of me slowly finding my way to small triumphs. I’ll remember when I retook that class, and how my partner and I holed up ’til 3 a.m. for two weeks until we aced it. I’ll remember when I finally unarchived that probationary email and called my academic advisor like it said, and how we made a plan for my return. I’ll remember that when my mother called me, I cried when I realized that she called not because of the grades but because she just wanted to help. I’ll remember that when I called my residence dean, he never questioned how deeply scared I was (and if you don’t know what a residence dean is: Find out. They can be your best friend.) I remember going to CAPS for that first time, realizing “I’m in therapy” and proceeding to enjoy the hell out of it.
Stanford is at its worst when you feel alone in a sea of people who all know what they’re doing next summer and what job they’ll have next year, and it’s at its best when you dig in, reach out and allow yourself the chance to recognize the multitude of resources available to you. None of the people who matter will judge if you need to talk to a therapist, see a tutor or take a quarter off.
Enjoy Stanford — really. But do it at your own pace. That little date on your diploma — who cares? Not me.
— Collin Christner ’17
Contact Collin Christner at collinc3 ‘at’ stanford.edu.