The Stacks

Here I am, 11:00 pm on a Monday night, out of breath, heart pounding, palms sweating.
Did I just get chased down by a mugger on Sheridan?
Was I threatened at knifepoint outside my dorm?
Was I followed home by a tall gaunt man in a menacing trench coat?
No.
I had my first experience getting a book in the Cudahy Library Stacks.
The night started innocently enough: I had a paper to write for British Literature on "Utopia" by Sir Thomas More. Procrastinating as usual, I came to the Information Commons at around 6:30 pm with the hopes of finding a quiet corner to concentrate and pound out my five page paper before 3 am.
After slaving away for four hours, brainstorming ideas, finding evidence, and outlining my body paragraphs I overheard a fellow student scoffing at a paper she was reading: "Really Tyler Hughes? Only two sources? This is college," she spat. I looked down at my lonely copy of "Utopia" and the sparknotes pulled up on my screen, and bashfully searched through the online library catalogue for outside references.
With four cryptically numbered titles in my hand, I headed from my safe, warm, brightly lit corner of the IC to the windowless tomb that is Cudahy.
As I traveled from the IC to the library, I began to notice that there were more and more students but the noise level got quieter and quieter. It was like walking into an zombie like society where the farther your nose is into a book the more entranced you are. I finally reached the first part of the stacks.
The silence was thick and tangible. I slowed my pace as I entered what I thought was the reference books section. The ceiling lowered about three feet and the walkway was pinched to two feet between where the zombie-like studiers dutifully read and the cages the books were enclosed. Yes cages. I remember touring through these on orientation week, but I couldn't remember how to get past the black wire that surrounded stacks upon stacks of reference material. Looking confused, disoriented, and fully like a freshman I tiptoed up three flights of stairs, fully circling these literary jail cells before I finally gave up and went to the reference desk for help.
Sitting behind the desk aways was this old man, with a bushy white beard (but no mustache) looking creepily prophetic. "What are the reference numbers to your books?" he asked. "PR, B7, HX, and DA," I replied. "Oh yess..." he paused-I got this strange feeling that he was going to whip out a wand and pull the books from thin air- "The second floor for PR, and third floor for the rest. Take the elevators behind you to get there." I turned around and noticed (for the first time) two decrepit old elevators hidden behind a huge janitor's trash receptacle. "Those elevators?" I gulped. He nodded. I turned around and pushed the up button. A second later the narrow doors violently creaked open, and I stepped in, the doors quickly shutting behind me.
I rattled up to the second floor and stepped out into a silent, endlesss maze of books. "PR99, PR99..." I thought as I searched the small signs at the end of each row. As I walked further and further into the depths of the stacks to the seemingly nonexistant PR99, I came across more and more students at every turn. The deeper I went, the more crazed, stressed, and zombielike they seemed to become. I nearly expected them to look up at me and have no pupils or be chained to their desk or be mouthless, but none of them even looked up to satisfy my curiosity. Finally, I found PR99.0. One book. Not Mine. Frustrated and getting more paranoid by the minute, I hurried out of the rows and pressed the up button to get to the third floor. As I waited for my rickety ride, I glanced to my right, and saw a long row of private stalls, encased in thick glass. The sign on the doors said: Graduate Student Corrals. My heart skipped a beat. Is this where I will end up? Sure as a freshman I start out in the bright and cheery information commons, but slowly over the course of four years I'll deeper and deeper into this pit of information until finally I set up camp, living like an animal with just my laptop, adderal, and reference books to sustain me? I started to panic and rushed into the opening elevator door, pounding on the level 3 button. The door screeched shut, echoing ominously into the second floor stacks.
I reached the third floor and sprint/walked to all the numbers of my books. B7? Jewish social norms? NO! HX? Socialism? Okay closer... DA? "Divulging Utopia"! Finally success! I just had to cross the entirety of the floor to reach the stairs, but every step seemed harder and harder like the zombie studiers were reaching out to me and the stacks were pulling me in with an inhuman force, imploring me, seducing me to just take a seat, study some more, you'll never want to leave, you'll be safe in the depths of the stacks...Ah! My palm pushed open the cool metal of the stairwell doors, and as the door swung behind me, I could have sworn I heard a sob. I dizzily climbed down to the first floor and my tension began to ease as I moved into brighter and noisier rooms. I'm safe! I wanted to cry. The deadly lull of Cudahy didn't get me this time!
However, I have another paper to write next week...
Wish me luck.

(NOTE* The Cudahy Library basement recently caught on fire. This lends to my theory that it is the secret location of hell on earth.)

Repetez si-vous plait?

Anyone else feel like they're repeating themselves?
Throughout this first month of college (the official anniversary was the 19th) I feel like I have had the same conversation with the vast majority of people I've met. Most go something like this:
Karis: Hey nice to meet you.
(Random Other Student): Nice to meet you too! My name is (Lizzie/Colin/Frederick/etc).
Karis: My name is Karis.
ROS: What?
Karis: Karis
ROS: Kare-iss/Karissa?
Karis: No, Karis like Car (makes steering wheel motions) iss.
ROS: Ohh Kar-is. Got it.(Cocks head, pretends to be interested) How is that spelled?
Karis: K-A-R-I-S
ROS: Oh. Thats a very unique name. Is that from anywhere?
Karis: Its the greek word for grace.
ROS: (failing to notice my pale skin, blonde hair, blue eyes) Are you greek?
Karis: No not at all.
ROS: Ohhh okay haha cool. So where are you from?
Karis: Minnesota.
ROS: OOOHHHHH MinnesOOOOOOOta YAAAAHHH you betcha!
Karis: Ha ha.
ROS: Y'know I don't even think I know where Minnesota is.

Yes. I'm serious. I have literally met 4 people (who were admitted to college) who don't know a state 300 miles away. Did they miss all of second grade? Just coast through with what their coloring grade got them?
Its a bit embarassing. Not going to lie.
But I'll be honest some state stereotypes are true. For one, I do speak with long O's and I am from Minnesota. Also, people from Wisconsin really do enjoy cheese. And people from California actually wear Hollister!
Speaking of clothing stores and conversations that lower my IQ...
I recently had an interview at a certain prominent teen clothing store that may or may not have been mentioned above. And it was slightly frustrating.
First of all, I already know I'm qualified for the job (and thats not bragging). The position I'm applying for requires me to fold clothes according to rigid corporate standards and greet every customer that walks through the door, saying: "Hey, what's up?"
Its not rocket science.
However, they take this role very seriously. After going through the usual interview questions (why would you be successful here? what do you think our main goal is? why do you want to work here?) me and the other five job-hungry 17-21 year olds were asked to pretend our interviewer was a customer and we should greet them with the tagline "Hey, what's up?". We went down the line.
The first girl (bless her soul) was a high school senior, never had a job before. Flustered at being the first put on the spot, she began laughing and burst out a loud and exaggerated "HEYYY WHATS UP?!?!?!?!" that echoed awkaredly down the cavernous mall hallway. The interviewer paused, smiled tightly and turned to the next person. The next one illicited a simple "Hey, what's up?" with a smile. Classic, simple, not bad. I did the same, but better (at least I thought). I just hope that my radiant smile didn't somehow give away the screams of my mind: THIS IS STUPID. I ONLY HAVE10,000,000,000,000,000 NEURONS AND SYNAPSES. DON'T WASTE THEM ON THIS. But I simply continued to grin and look friendly while silently shoving my intelligence into a dark locked corner of my mind. The next three got all fancy: "Hey whats up? My name is Tony/Ramona/Freddy and if you need any help finding what you're lookin for or got questions about clothes, life or whatever, don't hesitate to give me a yell okay? Oh and be sure to check everything out we have these new jeans in and they are really great so don't miss them, and make sure you check out our bodycare it smells real good. Oh and welcome to our store." By the time they finished that greeting the angsty-too-cool-for-you teen would have sent them a firy stink eye and moved onto the clearance section. And that was the end of our interview.
Its slightly frustrating to me that that is a seriously considered question, like really? My employment status is dependent on how well I can say three words and smile at the same time? Of course it is important in retail to make the customer feel immediately welcomed but can't it just be assumed that I'm capable of this simple task?
However, I really can't complain. I can lampoon and satirize this company as much as I want but they are the ones holding my future paycheck just out of my desperate reach. So hopefully my greeting was good enough to impress their Mighty Corporateness and the job requirement doesn't require knowing where Minnesota is. Oh wait. I would be fine, but I know some people who would be out of a job...

(NOTE* I got the job)

Goodbyes and Hellos

For a place I've been ready to leave for the last six or so years, it was heartbreaking to finally part ways with The Ville. Most moments in the last few days were like cracked and dog-eared photos you keep forever: drive in under a sky splattered with bright Minnesota stars, random but essential trip to ikea to shop for dorm furnishings and spend some time with a boy I could spend time with anywhere, volleyball under the blistering midafternoon sun, and cheap bowling with everyone in sepia-toned Saxon Lanes. Everything felt centered and perfect: it seemed crazy I was actually leaving and not coming back. As my parents and I pulled out of our driveway and slowly eased away, I looked back at my four best friends and nearly lost it right there. Why, oh why am I leaving here?

Its college, I kept saying. COLLEGE. "The best years of your life" as they say. Everytime I felt those pesky little doubts sneaking up on my common sense I would will myself into the same mantra: new friends, independence, chicago, college, etc etc. I would gain control of my insecurities when I would get a text from someone that mentioned an inside joke, or a song from a cd that someone just burned for me would start playing and I would lose it. However, as the miles rolled on, we passed less cows and cornfields and more tollbooths and suburbs, and by the time our highway broke the skyline of chicago I was able to hold down most of the ache I felt. I refocused my mind on the most looming reality in my life: moving into my new home.

While most people are most concerned about the size of their room, the quality of the beds, and the best living arrangement, the part I was most focused upon on my move in day was if I had brought too much stuff. I made my parents wait ten minutes while I consolidated and rearranged my trunkload of luggage until I thought it looked the least likely to garner annoyed looks from the move in staff and my fellow freshmen. Nonetheless, I still believed I was going to arrive on campus with a reputation as an unneccesarily overpacked diva. As the block count went down, my side effects of nervousness went up. Sweaty palms (shit I have two overstuffed suitcases), dry mouth (why did I bring that extra mug??), heart pounding (was the fourth sweatshirt really necessary?!). As we pulled into the move in driveway I was brainstorming clever replies to the grumblings of the movers and the stares of my peers. After greetings from the dean and the priest on campus (my first experiences as a student at a private school...quite odd), we stopped next to the inevitably neon-shirt clad move in crew and popped the trunk. I immediately sprinted out of my car to the slowly rising door and said "Okay you really have to watch out because there is a soccer ball and volley ball that is about to fall out of the bags here so I should really catch those before they fall because I brought too many suitcases (imagine continuous babble)" and braced myself for a disgusted look and an exasperated sigh as I fumbled around with my hordes of luggage. However they simply said, "Don't worry! We'll take care of it, just go over to the registration table and your stuff will be in your room in about 15 minutes." Wait what? My obviously irrational fear of dejection because of my overpreparedness became self aware and bashfully excused itself from my mind.

After checking into my room with an equally friendly and helpful move in assistant, I got on the elevator and was shipped up to the 8th floor. "818, 819...820," and I was at my door. I smoothly turned the key, opened the metal door and stepped into my home for the next year. Plain white walls, flat neutral carpeting, and sturdy wooden furniture decorated the small room, but a huge window opened it up to the city I now inhabited. A minute later my roommate knocked on the door, we hugged, met each other's parents, filled the room with luggage, brainstormed countless ways to arrange the beds, and unpacked all in a fashion worthy of a fast forward montage that always seems to accompany move-in scenes in Hollywood. And that was it. I was moved into my home for the next 8 months

That night I ate dinner with my parents at a local Thai restaurant- a last family meal before they headed back to the Cities. This summer it seemed we had a bit of a push and pull relationship, but usually when there is a major change in a family's daily life its hard to make it through without a little friction. That being said, the last few days were a good send off. The goodbye was short and sweet, we exchanged hugs and I-love-you-keep-in-touch-s in the pull through usually reserved for shuttles to downtown. Again, in true Hollywood fashion it started raining harder and harder as they drove away and I hurried back to my dorm, a cliche but genuine mixture of tears and raindrops on my cheeks.

And with that I was officially a college student. The next few days were like a constant meet-and-greet where any location goes. Elevator rides, random floors, the ashtray, the el, looking for pop at one in the morning, simpson dining hall, and a trip to the hookah bar just to name a few. Every day warranted another couple learned and forgotten names and a few friends who have stuck for at least the week and a half I've been here. The one thing I've noticed is it is extremely hard to be alone here and not feel like you should be out being social. Everytime you would just love to crawl into bed with an episode of Flight of The Conchords (by the way- my new favorite show. Every time I see some indie/hipster kid on campus I can't help but imagine them with New Zealand accents and it makes their obnoxious I'm-too-cool-for-this attitude so much more tolerable) you can't help but wonder what friends are being made without you. Eventually I'm sure this feeling will die down, but for now my extrovertism is on overdrive.

And with that, my college experience has officially begun. Aside from daily texts/skypes with Ville kids, I've said au revoir to life in the Twin Cities and have exclaimed salut! to new friends and adventures in the Windy City. Though its only been a little over a week I feel like I'm just about acclimated to this new life. But that being said, its only been a little over a week. Who knows what the rest of this year will bring? Ooh the intrigue...