I have been a college graduate for hardly 2 days. Besides consuming my time tagging graduation pictures on Facebook, I have started to dabble in real grown up, old people things.
My overactive bladder woke me up relatively early today. My knee was stiff and I had some cramps, so I took a hot shower to rejuvenate myself. I went downstairs and had some cereal with bananas and walnuts, which are supposed to help alleviate joint pain. I was still a little hungry, so I ate a few prunes.
During the day, I unpacked my trash bags and sorted through heaps of exam booklets and final papers, none of which will ever matter, and tried to integrate my old high school memories, my faded Hawaiian bedspread and prom dresses and baby pictures, with my new ones, the down comforter on which we would have bed parties in the dorms and Beatles posters that had once revived the dead walls of McMahon. It was difficult to impose my new life upon my old one, and I stopped trying, resigned to the fate of stuffing things under my bed.
Kelsey picked me up in the afternoon, so that I could help her clean the apartment before she checked out. Brian and Bianca joined us, and, in between spraying tables and making pasta, we managed to make the apartment finally decent, just in time for no one to live there. It was the last time we would be in 15F; everything was bare and empty, except for the unclaimed black socks under the dining table.
I went to my physical therapy appointment afterward. I sat between a wrinkly old man and a middle aged Asian woman; the doctor once again commented on my young age, and chuckled at how only older women develop my knee condition. He massaged my knee and I was on my way, with my purse and massive bag filled with leftover tupperware, free brown sugar I had stolen from restaurants, and miscellaneous objects I couldn't let Brian or Kelsey throw out. I took the first bus out of Port Authority, and before we had even hit the Lincoln Tunnel, I had fallen asleep on the stranger next to me. It was about 8:30. I woke up 30 minutes later with a jolt, apologized to the poor man on my right, and then talked to Bianca on the phone in order to keep myself awake and to muse about real life. While mine consisted of intimacy with strangers on public transportation, her real life consisted of a starved cat and dreams of moving to DC. We talked for an hour.
When I got home, I ate leftover pad thai and an apple, and then stayed up late to talk to my friends through all forms of media (Facebook, Gmail, text, etc...) My mother was lying down on the couch next to me, and I realized I was just as exhausted as her. The Real World tired both of us out.
I ate two more prunes before finally going to bed. My knee was throbbing, I still had bags to unpack, and my mind was restless with unfinished conversations and incomplete thoughts. I finally drifted off to sleep to the sound of a deafening silence.
Monday, May 24, 2010
Sunday, May 23, 2010
The Graduation Game (by Milton Bradley)
Till we saw our names in the Commencement booklets, Patrick, Bianca, and I weren't even sure if we were set to graduate. With a sigh of relief, we allowed memories of Petit-Hall's mood swings and hidden graduation requirements to recede into the folds of our brains, which were growing numb as arbitrary board members droned on about Fordham's biggest achievements (namely, U2 and Bono.) The only obstacle to graduating was the graduation itself.
We were all barely functional when we woke up Saturday morning. The medley of pasta, string beans, and frozen pizza I had made the night before remained on the stove and Bianca was passed out on the couch under her 101 Dalmations comforter. We managed to look half-way decent, and then, since it was Commencement, I decided to buy my very first bagel, egg and cheese. I decided to save part of it for later, and "later" ended up being 5 minutes after I finished the first half.
Without regard to the notion of public, the three of us loudly discussed the previous night's events, traumatizing not only the unaware parents, but also the Ram Van driver who then retaliated by playing eerie futuristic music that reverberated deep into our marrow. We were stuck in traffic about 5 minutes away from Fordham, and Bianca held the egg sandwich's brown bag close to her face, heaving every so often as the motions of the car conflated with the motions of the music.
We passed the first test (Bianca didn't vomit and Patrick and I didn't reveal ALL of our personal lives to the rest of the van). We then needed to figure out where to go next. We asked a security guard where we should be, and he pointed in the opposite direction, towards the field where all the family and friends were collecting themselves. We realized we looked just like spectators, and then stopped in the middle of the road to put on our caps and gowns, a feat in and of itself. After about 30 minutes of fumbling and cursing and causing traffic jams, we went to find the appropriate location to check-in.
We received our graduation cards and went off to find a bathroom. The lines were out the door, and it was almost 10 o'clock. I decided to hold off on my pee so that I could graduate. The problem was, however, that no one had told us where to go. We ventured into the lawn, but our section was closed off, and we assumed (or hoped) there would be a much more ceremonial entrance. We finally stumbled upon a line of graduates, all of whom seemed to have received some information to which we were not privy. Some decrepit white lady yelled at us for not forming two single file lines, and any time we stepped out of the line to talk to a friend she would suddenly appear, as if from thin air, yelling at us to "get in two by two's." We found out her name was Astrid, and we feared her wrath the rest of the day.
We were fortunate to sit next to each other during the Commencement ceremony. The heat furthered our drowsiness, and all we wanted to do was play with water balloons and dance on chairs. We found the speeches to be incomprehensible, delivered by people we didn't care about who only showed face at events where they could promote the Alumni organizations. Senator Schumer taught us it was okay to make bad decisions, and so Patrick and Bianca then wistfully looked on at the kids behind us drinking out of flasks.
After about 64 years, the degrees were finally conferred. We had to herd ourselves over to the library, and once again we were confused about where to go. The three of us walked over the library to say hi to our friends and families, and Petit-Hall swooped down on us in her glittering purple robes, demanding us to stop. "Where do you think you're going? You have to line up there!" She pointed to a line of graduates who, once again, seemed to have received some message no one relayed to us. We lined up, ate our rations (Nature Valley granola bars and water), and waited for the ceremonial entrance.
After about 40 minutes, during which no one could answer my any of my logistical questions, we started to walk, down to the library and through crowds of spectators. I was tired, my knee was throbbing, and didn't want to be in alphabetical order. The next test was dealing with Dean Greif splutter and frustrate the entire procession. He was brilliant at being himself, and his classic confusion and nervousness, while normally cute and endearing, considerably slowed down the diploma reception.
Once we had finally reached the W's, I felt a sense of relief. The anxiety of deciphering arbitrarily indiscernible graduation rules and codes and procedures began to fade, and I realized that everything would soon be over and we could just enjoy the rest of the day. I received many loving text messages from my friends after I received my diploma. My parents then texted me from 10 rows back: "How many and what kind of subway sandwiches". Patrick, Bianca, and I had planned a family picnic in Central Park, so that we could all celebrate together without the confines of a restaurant. For the past week, our parents have been constantly texting, calling, and emailing us, not to see if we were alive, but to see if we had planned the picnic in the park. It was the biggest stress of their lives, and at one point during Senior Week, all three of us were in a bar huddled around Brian's blackberry, and wrote a mass email to our parents through group efforts. When my parents texted me at graduation, I replied curtly, telling them I would see them in 10 minutes and we could discuss then.
The stress of buying Subway sandwiches and coordinating lunch with the Shae and Rodrigues families was enough to dispel any emotions of finishing school, and commencing reality. Once we all finally collected ourselves, and Bianca's family finally found the park and I unnecessarily told Patrick's family that my apartment had no toilet paper, we could enjoy the wine and the hummus and the love and the bare feet. It was the complete release of all of our fears and anxieties and body pains and stress. Besides the fact that we could hardly answer Bianca's sister's question, "What are some of your favorite memories of college?" we had passed all tests. We were graduated. We did it, though we were still not entirely sure what "it" was, and were too tired to figure it out. The game had ended, and all we wanted was sleep.
We were all barely functional when we woke up Saturday morning. The medley of pasta, string beans, and frozen pizza I had made the night before remained on the stove and Bianca was passed out on the couch under her 101 Dalmations comforter. We managed to look half-way decent, and then, since it was Commencement, I decided to buy my very first bagel, egg and cheese. I decided to save part of it for later, and "later" ended up being 5 minutes after I finished the first half.
Without regard to the notion of public, the three of us loudly discussed the previous night's events, traumatizing not only the unaware parents, but also the Ram Van driver who then retaliated by playing eerie futuristic music that reverberated deep into our marrow. We were stuck in traffic about 5 minutes away from Fordham, and Bianca held the egg sandwich's brown bag close to her face, heaving every so often as the motions of the car conflated with the motions of the music.
We passed the first test (Bianca didn't vomit and Patrick and I didn't reveal ALL of our personal lives to the rest of the van). We then needed to figure out where to go next. We asked a security guard where we should be, and he pointed in the opposite direction, towards the field where all the family and friends were collecting themselves. We realized we looked just like spectators, and then stopped in the middle of the road to put on our caps and gowns, a feat in and of itself. After about 30 minutes of fumbling and cursing and causing traffic jams, we went to find the appropriate location to check-in.
We received our graduation cards and went off to find a bathroom. The lines were out the door, and it was almost 10 o'clock. I decided to hold off on my pee so that I could graduate. The problem was, however, that no one had told us where to go. We ventured into the lawn, but our section was closed off, and we assumed (or hoped) there would be a much more ceremonial entrance. We finally stumbled upon a line of graduates, all of whom seemed to have received some information to which we were not privy. Some decrepit white lady yelled at us for not forming two single file lines, and any time we stepped out of the line to talk to a friend she would suddenly appear, as if from thin air, yelling at us to "get in two by two's." We found out her name was Astrid, and we feared her wrath the rest of the day.
We were fortunate to sit next to each other during the Commencement ceremony. The heat furthered our drowsiness, and all we wanted to do was play with water balloons and dance on chairs. We found the speeches to be incomprehensible, delivered by people we didn't care about who only showed face at events where they could promote the Alumni organizations. Senator Schumer taught us it was okay to make bad decisions, and so Patrick and Bianca then wistfully looked on at the kids behind us drinking out of flasks.
After about 64 years, the degrees were finally conferred. We had to herd ourselves over to the library, and once again we were confused about where to go. The three of us walked over the library to say hi to our friends and families, and Petit-Hall swooped down on us in her glittering purple robes, demanding us to stop. "Where do you think you're going? You have to line up there!" She pointed to a line of graduates who, once again, seemed to have received some message no one relayed to us. We lined up, ate our rations (Nature Valley granola bars and water), and waited for the ceremonial entrance.
After about 40 minutes, during which no one could answer my any of my logistical questions, we started to walk, down to the library and through crowds of spectators. I was tired, my knee was throbbing, and didn't want to be in alphabetical order. The next test was dealing with Dean Greif splutter and frustrate the entire procession. He was brilliant at being himself, and his classic confusion and nervousness, while normally cute and endearing, considerably slowed down the diploma reception.
Once we had finally reached the W's, I felt a sense of relief. The anxiety of deciphering arbitrarily indiscernible graduation rules and codes and procedures began to fade, and I realized that everything would soon be over and we could just enjoy the rest of the day. I received many loving text messages from my friends after I received my diploma. My parents then texted me from 10 rows back: "How many and what kind of subway sandwiches". Patrick, Bianca, and I had planned a family picnic in Central Park, so that we could all celebrate together without the confines of a restaurant. For the past week, our parents have been constantly texting, calling, and emailing us, not to see if we were alive, but to see if we had planned the picnic in the park. It was the biggest stress of their lives, and at one point during Senior Week, all three of us were in a bar huddled around Brian's blackberry, and wrote a mass email to our parents through group efforts. When my parents texted me at graduation, I replied curtly, telling them I would see them in 10 minutes and we could discuss then.
The stress of buying Subway sandwiches and coordinating lunch with the Shae and Rodrigues families was enough to dispel any emotions of finishing school, and commencing reality. Once we all finally collected ourselves, and Bianca's family finally found the park and I unnecessarily told Patrick's family that my apartment had no toilet paper, we could enjoy the wine and the hummus and the love and the bare feet. It was the complete release of all of our fears and anxieties and body pains and stress. Besides the fact that we could hardly answer Bianca's sister's question, "What are some of your favorite memories of college?" we had passed all tests. We were graduated. We did it, though we were still not entirely sure what "it" was, and were too tired to figure it out. The game had ended, and all we wanted was sleep.
Sunday, May 2, 2010
My First and Last Spring Weekend
The only thing stopping me from having another veggie burger yesterday, at the Spring Weekend concert, was the anomalous bounty of straight guys surrounding me; I was shaken by the high levels of testosterone and Old Spice, and decided that drawing attention to myself through mass consumption of food would not necessarily help me find Prince Charming.
I never truly embraced Rose Hill till this past semester. I used to encourage the racial hatred, the segregation of our two campuses. Now that I am finally leaving, and the word "last" constantly finds itself in my daily lexicon, I have come to love what each campus offers: Lincoln Center has an abundance of falafel restaurants and beautiful people and novelty, and Rose Hill has an abundance of grass and kegs and polo tees.
Yesterday, in an explosion of youth and sweat and actual and spiritual inebriation, Fordham celebrated the beginning of Spring at the MGMT concert. My friends and I got to Rose Hill around noon; Eddie's Parade, which is usually teeming with kids, was strangely empty. I heard indiscriminate noise from elsewhere, and we all walked to a party off campus to start the day. The apartments were overflowing with kids. I knew no one and knew everyone at the same time.
We walked onto the field, and set up our blanket amid hundreds of others. There were girls in bikinis not even pretending to care about the music, there were kids from Lincoln Center wearing fedoras, determined to stand apart, there were guys throwing around water on the bathroom line. People were yelling and shrieking for no reason. It was as if everyone just found their own voice, and needed to express themselves before it was too late, before the sun set and it became Sunday.
During the concert, I was thrown into the air a few times, only to see a bunch of other kids throwing their friends around, too. I don't even remember how good the actual music was; I just remember the incessant beat to which we all pumped our fists in unison, a display of solidarity, of collective youth and illusions and hope.
Afterwards, I met up with one of my friends on my Global Outreach team. The MGMT tour bus was parked outside her dorm, so everyone gathered around the band to get shirts and arms and hats and scraps of paper signed. Everyone was high and tired and drained from the sun, and we sat out on the lawn for an hour, eating chocolate and drinking Powerade, waiting for the breeze to revive us. I took the next ram van back to Lincoln Center, and realized that if I were to stay in Manhattan, if I were to stay anywhere near my desk and my laptop and my list of things to do, then I would never be able to enjoy the rest of the night. I couldn't stay in the same borough as my responsibilities, so I took procrastination to new levels and got on a ram van.
We traveled from house to house, peppered our journey with pizza and skeevy bars, and ultimately ended up at an apartment covered in sand with an inflatable pool. We danced for hours and watched a girl on ecstasy fall into the mud. And then we headed back to Lincoln Center, for the second time that day, and got an early breakfast (at 4 in the morning). We toasted our eggs and grilled cheese sandwiches to the last weekend of our college careers. And to the speedy service.
I went to bed around 5, about an hour before the sun rose. I woke up in a few hours, unable to sleep beneath my down comforter, and ate some caramels. Sounds of Saturday's celebrations echoed in my head, as I flipped through my planner to try to focus on the tasks ahead. I skimmed over deadlines, and then flipped to the 3rd week in May. Less than three weeks till graduation. I ate another caramel and hummed "Kids," wishing only for something that lasted forever.
I never truly embraced Rose Hill till this past semester. I used to encourage the racial hatred, the segregation of our two campuses. Now that I am finally leaving, and the word "last" constantly finds itself in my daily lexicon, I have come to love what each campus offers: Lincoln Center has an abundance of falafel restaurants and beautiful people and novelty, and Rose Hill has an abundance of grass and kegs and polo tees.
Yesterday, in an explosion of youth and sweat and actual and spiritual inebriation, Fordham celebrated the beginning of Spring at the MGMT concert. My friends and I got to Rose Hill around noon; Eddie's Parade, which is usually teeming with kids, was strangely empty. I heard indiscriminate noise from elsewhere, and we all walked to a party off campus to start the day. The apartments were overflowing with kids. I knew no one and knew everyone at the same time.
We walked onto the field, and set up our blanket amid hundreds of others. There were girls in bikinis not even pretending to care about the music, there were kids from Lincoln Center wearing fedoras, determined to stand apart, there were guys throwing around water on the bathroom line. People were yelling and shrieking for no reason. It was as if everyone just found their own voice, and needed to express themselves before it was too late, before the sun set and it became Sunday.
During the concert, I was thrown into the air a few times, only to see a bunch of other kids throwing their friends around, too. I don't even remember how good the actual music was; I just remember the incessant beat to which we all pumped our fists in unison, a display of solidarity, of collective youth and illusions and hope.
Afterwards, I met up with one of my friends on my Global Outreach team. The MGMT tour bus was parked outside her dorm, so everyone gathered around the band to get shirts and arms and hats and scraps of paper signed. Everyone was high and tired and drained from the sun, and we sat out on the lawn for an hour, eating chocolate and drinking Powerade, waiting for the breeze to revive us. I took the next ram van back to Lincoln Center, and realized that if I were to stay in Manhattan, if I were to stay anywhere near my desk and my laptop and my list of things to do, then I would never be able to enjoy the rest of the night. I couldn't stay in the same borough as my responsibilities, so I took procrastination to new levels and got on a ram van.
We traveled from house to house, peppered our journey with pizza and skeevy bars, and ultimately ended up at an apartment covered in sand with an inflatable pool. We danced for hours and watched a girl on ecstasy fall into the mud. And then we headed back to Lincoln Center, for the second time that day, and got an early breakfast (at 4 in the morning). We toasted our eggs and grilled cheese sandwiches to the last weekend of our college careers. And to the speedy service.
I went to bed around 5, about an hour before the sun rose. I woke up in a few hours, unable to sleep beneath my down comforter, and ate some caramels. Sounds of Saturday's celebrations echoed in my head, as I flipped through my planner to try to focus on the tasks ahead. I skimmed over deadlines, and then flipped to the 3rd week in May. Less than three weeks till graduation. I ate another caramel and hummed "Kids," wishing only for something that lasted forever.
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