Well, welcome back, everybody. Great to see you all again. I missed Grounds profoundly when I was back in the wilds of Cleveland or in the more literal wilds of the American West whilst crossing the country with my older brother, of which I will tell much more in future columns. Today, though, I want to talk about the first years. It's so affirming to see them all cramming themselves forcibly into the structures of our world here, scrambling to lay a rough path to their new lives and find people to walk down the road with them. It is much more amusing to see them try to find their way around the place we've all come to know so well.
For example, I was sitting on a 14th street curb a few nights ago when a gentleman who was clearly a first year approached me.
"Hey man," quoth the first year.
"How ya doing?" quoth I.
"Hey," quoth he, "I'm looking for a fraternity party. It's in a big red brick house somewhere around here. Can you tell me where I could find it?"
A big red brick house -- at the University of Virginia. Honestly.
Nowhere, however, did I find more of this sort of amusement than at the Student Activities Fair, seeing the first years trying to hide their acute existential dilemmas as they struggled to find that one table that could define their lives and make their worlds worthwhile while I strode around and mocked them. A large part of my amusement came from how closely all this angst I saw aligned with my own experience at the Activities Fair last year. The thing was, I was so well-intentioned. This time last year I had the best of intentions. I was going to contribute to this community. I was going to get involved. I was going to help out, to make a difference. I was pumped, I was stoked, I was charged -- I was, in a word, ready to sign away my life to a thousand CIOs.
As I approached the Fair that fateful day, I was excited to see the hundreds of stands set up on the floor of the Amphitheater and even stretching up to the rim. It was so exciting, I thought, to be part of so vibrant and dynamic a place. I was delighted at the opportunities that presented themselves.
So I pulled out my pen. This is where I made my fundamental mistake. A pen is a perilous instrument. When Voltaire took out his pen, the monarchs of Europe cringed for fear of his mockery. When Shakespeare took out his pen, all of London leaned forward, fascinated. When I took out my pen ... well, you'll see.
The Student Activities Fair is a pretty ludicrous event as it is. Its express purpose is to pack as many people as possible into the small sunken space in the height of the heat of the day and force them to writhe through tiny little aisles surrounded on every side by shrieking madmen and lunatic women. From every table hands shot out and seized the clothes of the passersby as those grinning cavorting CIO reps bellowed their harangue.
And don't even get me started on the water issue. The women's lacrosse team offered water, but only to women (Great job on the diversity there, guys -- or gals, I guess. My RA would have been disappointed in you.) Critical Mass offered water, but everyone was too afraid to stop. One of its reps was yelling at everyone who walked past that they didn't have to sign up, they didn't even have to make eye contact, they should just drink some water on account of the heat. Of course, no one stopped -- then again, no one made eye contact, either.
I was also wearing pants, which was a bad idea. Very bad. The long and short of it is that I was suffering severe heat exhaustion by the time I stumbled up to the Alumni Association tent and discovered the incredible quantities of free water there. This, however, was also a severe mistake. When I got away from the table I discovered that I had joined the Alumni Association and pledged to pay them several hundred dollars after I graduate. In exchange for this, I received a baby Nalgene -- and the water that saved my life, of course.
But as I crawled slowly and torturously through this den of madness, I found myself irresistibly attracted to table after table after table, my writing hand twitching with my addict's need to sign, to sign, to sign. I felt like an opium eater. I just couldn't stop. It only took me about fifteen minutes to sign up for all the groups I had intended to sign up for. I stayed in the Amphitheater, baking and slowly losing my higher reasoning powers, for almost an hour. You do the math.
For the next two weeks, my e-mail box stood silent and accusing witness to my hour of debauchery. I received, for example, 15 e-mails from some group of Law students dedicated to some labor issue. They apparently held a bake sale and spent the following weeks mocking each other for the poor quality of their baked goods. This was all very stimulating, I'm sure, but I'm virtually certain that I was not eligible for membership in this particular organization. Then, of course, there were the messages from the Declaration. I have no objection to the Dec; it seems like an excellent publication. I, however, had no intention of joining. Imagine my surprise, then, when the Dec table snatched me out of the stream of pilgrims and literally forced me to sign its interest sheet. It was terrifying. I still get the shakes when I see it being carried around Grounds.
The point, though, is that I was so willing and eager to sign away far more free time than an occupant of our planet could ever have in one day. We're always so willing to do these things. I saw a year and three days ago this massive portion of the student body cheerfully giving up their capacity to enjoy themselves outside of an organizational context. God knows I think we should all join things and do things and do them well, but nonetheless, I've started to think that we need to re-examine this whole deal we have going here.
To put a point on it: my new first-year friends, have a really great four years. You're attending one of the finest educational institutions in existence. Just be careful of the decisions that you make on a hot day.
Connor's column runs bi-weekly on Fridays. He may be reached at sullivan@cavalierdaily.com.
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