In high school, teachers used to tell us that once we got to college we would have to learn how to study or fail miserably. It was a standard lecture that we all heard from the time our 14-year-old selves entered the world of secondary school until we graduated four years later.
I never paid much attention to it. But when I got to the University, it became clear that more effort would be required to excel here than back in high school.
Last week, as I attempted to study for a midterm on the Romantics, I realized that my struggle in college wasn't developing an effective study method so much as it was finding a location to productively learn and review material.
Spring fever took over my life in early March and proved detrimental to my note-taking abilities. As a result, I found myself ill-prepared 24 hours before a big exam and in need of a major study session.
I collected all my books, notes, and highlighters and set myself up on my bed intending to settle in for a long night of studying.
No sooner had I begun to renew my association with Wordsworth than my roommate returned home and proceeded to fill the room with the sounds of
'N Sync, a group that has been known to cause me physical pain.
"Hey Jen, I have a test tomorrow," I informed her politely.
"Really? I'm sure you'll do great," she replied.
I tried to concentrate but couldn't, so I packed up my materials and decided to head to the library.
What better place to study than the library, I asked myself. In a building devoted to books and the pursuit of knowledge - with volume guidelines - how could one possibly be unproductive?
Clearly, I don't spend much time at the library. Well, not Clemons anyway.
Whenever I decide to actually visit the library I head to the Alderman stacks where I can lose myself (literally) in my books. On this occasion, however, I needed a space that I could occupy beyond midnight, so I ventured into new territory. I went to Clemons.
Right away I found myself a little cubby on the fourth floor and began to unload my bag. Being new to Clemons culture, I didn't realize that when one sits down on this level they are just asking for people to approach them and talk their ear off for at least a half hour. Two minutes after I resumed my study of Wordsworth I heard someone greet me. I turned to see my friend Mary, armed with a Pepsi, approaching my space.
"How are you doing?" she asked while pulling up an empty chair so that she could sit next to me.
"I'm studying for a test," I told her worriedly.
"Oh yeah? Have you seen Lisa lately?" She began to give me the latest gossip on a mutual acquaintance of ours, oblivious to my desire to be left alone.
As she droned on and on I realized that I would have been doomed on this level anyway, since everyone was talking and this one guy was holding a conversation with two tables of girls and someone on the other end of his cell phone.
"Is it always this busy and loud?" I interrupted Mary.
She smiled at me, "Welcome to Club Clemons."
When Mary moved on I decided to seek refuge on another Clemons level. The Quiet Zone on floor one seemed a guarantee that I would be productive.
I opened the door. It squeaked a bit and I was rewarded with glares from the floor's residents.
I smiled apologetically and closed the door carefully behind me.
After a little searching, I discovered an empty desk along a wall that I could inhabit. Hopeful that I would soon understand the Romantic literary formation, I unzipped my bag to retrieve my books. The sound of my zipper seemed to echo throughout the room and the boy next to me shot me a disapproving look.
Flipping through my texts searching for the correct page seemed to likewise antagonize him along with my attempts at highlighting.
I had been in my chair for no more than five minutes and already I was hated by the folks around me. They were making me feel guilty for breathing, let alone for studying.
I cracked under the pressure and gathered up my things in search of a less stressful work environment.
Floor two claimed it was for group study and quiet talking. It was my last hope for passing my exam.
I took it as a good sign that no one seemed offended when I entered the room with an accidental bang (I let the door slam shut behind me), and when the girls in the desks around me were unfazed by my unpacking and highlighting. Finally I had found a place conducive to studying.
However, I was soon to learn that quiet study does not preclude the occasional hysterical outburst of a group of students, or unreasonably loud debates on the merits of chunky versus creamy peanut butter.
I decided that I would simply have to ignore the noise and concentrate on Byron, Shelley and Keats.
"Mind over matter," I told myself. "Just pretend that there's no one around."
I immersed myself in my work.
Hours later, when I stood up to leave, I realized that instead of picking up the gist of the Romantic poets, I had learned that last weekend Jill hooked up with Mike and now Hillary's pissed.
Rather than paying attention to my notes, I had been eavesdropping on the conversation of some girls around me.
I actually thought I was diligently studying for my exam, and yet I had been picking up gossip about people I don't even know. I had spent nearly all night at the library and had accomplished nothing.
It was then that it hit me.
There are two types at the University: Clemons people and Alderman people. Clemons people are library veterans who know on which floor they belong and how to be productive. Alderman people like a little quiet and a feeling of solitude.
It's become painfully clear to me that I'm simply just an Alderman person.
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